I have injured the inside of my mouth to the point where I am drooling a copious amount of blood. I text my parents telling them what’s happening before I head to the emergency room. While I wait, I text back and forth with my mother until I’m seen by the doctor.

Due to the current global health crisis, the emergency room is practically empty and I am admitted almost ten minutes later.

Doctor: “Your name is [My Name], and your birthdate is [date], correct?”

I nod, as it’s hard for me to speak.

Doctor: “All right, I’m going to have a look at your mouth here.”

She begins my exam and chuckles slightly.

Doctor: “You know, you share the same last name as one of the doctors here. What a small world, huh?”

My last name, though somewhat common, is uncommon in the area we live in. I type on my phone so she can see.

My Text: “My dad is the chief of emergency medicine; [Father]. Please treat me like a normal patient and just let him know what your action plan is, or he’ll worry.”

Doctor: *Reading* “Oh! I thought your mouth looked familiar!”

I try my best not to smile as she finishes her exam, which ends with me gaining seven stitches at the back of my mouth. The doctor disappears for a few minutes, returning with a lollipop for me for being “such a brave boy.”

Doctor: “Well, since you were such a good boy, I got you a lollipop, and there is a surprise waiting for you at the front door. Have a good night and take care of yourself, [My Name]!”

I thanked her and began to leave, walking through the deserted lobby. I suddenly heard my name being called from behind one of the doors to the emergency department, and there was my father, who I hadn’t seen in three weeks due to the crisis.

This story was included in our May 2020 Inspirational Roundup.

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CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

I have a medical condition that makes colds and the flu very dangerous for me. I could die from either. I catch the flu despite having gotten vaccinated; the shot doesn’t always work 100%. I am prescribed antiviral medication and actually start feeling better.

But then, I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I am trying to breathe through Jello. The flu has triggered bronchitis, so I pack a bag and go to the ER.

The doctor there isn’t taking it seriously at all but I know I am in no shape to go home with oral antibiotics. The ER doc has been on the phone with my specialist. 

ER Doctor: “Doctor [Specialist] said to send you home with oral antibiotics.”

Me: “Absolutely not. This is probably the sickest I’ve ever been. You never even listened to my lungs, so how can you give my doctor an accurate picture of what’s going on? I’ve had doctors listen to my lungs when I come in for a sprained ankle!”

ER Doctor: “Well, the hospital is pretty full right now, so we’re not going to admit you.”

Me: “Yes, you are! Figure it out, because I’m not going home!”

ER Doctor: “Uh, well… I’ll see what I can do.”

He had a nurse come in and put a pulse-ox monitor on me to measure my pulse and oxygen level and then had me walk. I didn’t make it twenty feet before my oxygen tanked. The doctor was shocked. He thought that everything would be fine and it would prove to me that I was healthy enough to go home. But I obviously wasn’t fine, so they admitted me.

I had a room upstairs about an hour later. He never did listen to my lungs which infuriated my specialist. I spent a week in the hospital and another month recovering at home. I also filed a grievance against that ER doc.

Even though this incident had me briefly worried, I really love it in retrospect simply because of what it meant about the young man involved. His heart was in the right place, and I have to say, he had a good world view.

I’m in the hospital for what the doctor tells me is major surgery. As often happens in these hospital jaunts, I meet the entire staff of people who will be attending my operation.

Just before surgery, the anesthesiologist and his — rather new and green and eager — assistant come in to bid me a good day. They are in masks, scrubs, and caps.

Anesthesiologist: “Hi, [My Name]. My name is [Anesthesiologist] and this is my assistant, [Assistant]. We will be taking care of the anesthesia for you this morning.”

We chat, and I ask questions. [Assistant] desperately wants to prove to the two of us that he knows what is going on and makes a couple of comments that are really gauche and a little stupid, but since it has nothing to do with anesthesia or surgery, I am not concerned. His boss occasionally rolls his eyes, and he tells me, “He really knows his stuff but he’s a little awkward socially,” when [Assistant] leaves the room.

I’m not concerned; I trust my doctor, the anesthesiologist has been very reassuring, and I figure it’s a little late to turn back now.

The surgery goes fine and I wake up a few hours later. Eventually, two handsome young men walk into my room.

Anesthesiologist: “Hi, [My Name]! Do you remember us?”

Me: “I sure do.” *Pointing* “You’re [Anesthesiologist] and you’re [Assistant].”

Anesthesiologist: “Wow. You’re really sharp. You remembered our names!”

Assistant: *In awe* “And, hey. She got us right, too. You couldn’t even see us when we first met. We were in masks! She was still able to tell us apart!”

[Anesthesiologist] and I look at each other and [Anesthesiologist] cheerfully smacks [Assistant] in the shoulder.

Anesthesiologist: *To me* “Tell him how you could tell us apart! Go on. Tell him.”

[Assistant] looks at me expectantly.

Me: “I could tell you apart because [Anesthesiologist] is black and you are not.”

[Assistant] stares at us for a few minutes as if just noticing that he and his mentor look nothing alike, even down to the fact that [Anesthesiologist] is small and compact and [Assistant] is tall and lanky.

It is the cutest moment ever. And I just love the fact that [Assistant] never considered it. When I speak with my doctor later, I mention the incident. She bursts out laughing.

Doctor: “Yeah, [Assistant]’s a little ditzy, but I have to say we should all have his world view.”

(I have had headaches all my life, but they suddenly become chronic, so I visit the doctor.)

Me: “I have a headache about five days of the week, and I have sleeping problems. I’m not sure which one is causing the other, though.”

(I proceed to give the doctor a list of things I’ve tried and checked, such as diet, climate, schedule, workout regimes, etc.)

Doctor: “I usually recommend a headache diary, but it seems you know pretty well what you’re doing. I suggest reading an hour before going to bed, instead of looking at a screen; that will help.”

Me: “No, that’s not it. I have gone screenless for three weeks but still had headaches. Also, reading before going to bed makes me have trouble falling asleep.”

Doctor: “Oh. Well, I still recommend reading an hour before bed instead of screen time.”

Me: “I am an avid reader, and I assure you that this is not the solution.”

(After going back and forth a few times…)

Doctor: “Well, I still recommend you try it.”

(She then proceeded to walk me to the door, indicating that the consultation was over. When I was back at home fuming, my husband suggested going to get my eyes checked. It turns out, I needed glasses! I could still see sharply, but the strain on my eyes caused the headaches. They were mostly strained by… reading. I’m glad I didn’t listen to the doctor, because more reading would have worsened the headaches. I have a new doctor now.)

I was born prematurely and at low birth weight. I was four pounds, five ounces at birth. I had none of the typical newborn baby fat; my cheeks were flat and my head was bulging, while the rest of me was skinny and angular. To be blunt, I looked like an alien. Other than that, however, I was perfectly healthy and was discharged a day later. My mother took me for my first doctor’s appointment to a well-known, established pediatrician in town, who was known for being rather coarse in mannerisms but otherwise knowledgeable. 

He went through all the usual tasks of a newborn check-up including checking normal infant reflexes. One of them was the step reflex, in which a newborn appears to walk or step when they are held upright and their feet touch a flat surface. The doctor, for some reason, used his hand as the flat surface, and this procedure ended with him supporting my neck and back with one hand and my feet with the other. He looked at me, looked at my mother, and then mimed — with me — a jaunty little dance through the air. To my mother, he remarked, “Look, it’s E.T. riding a bike!”

He honestly couldn’t understand why my mother didn’t find that nearly as amusing as he did. Or why my mother found a new pediatrician.

And she gets annoyed when I point out that, in his defense, I did look like a tiny, baby alien dressed in doll’s clothes.