(I am twelve weeks pregnant. I have already seen one doctor who left the medical practice and I am seeing a new doctor. He goes through my test results, which the previous doctor had already spoken to me about.)

Doctor: “It says here that these numbers are fine, but the other doctor had you on an iron supplement. You don’t need that.”

Me: “Are you sure? The other doctor was quite worried about my numbers.”

Doctor: “I’m sure. And you are taking antibiotics for a UTI, but you don’t have one.”

Me: “The other doctor said I had proteins in my urine which indicated a UTI.” 

Doctor: “No, definitely not.”

Me: “Okay, I need a referral for a twelve-week scan.”

Doctor: “You don’t need that.”

Me: “My daughter had a congenital heart defect; I’d prefer to get all scans.”

Doctor: “The only reason they want to diagnose in the womb is to do surgery in the womb.”

My Husband: “They needed us at a bigger hospital when she was born, in order to give her surgery.”

Me: “Can you just write the referral, please?”

Doctor: “You don’t need it, but if you insist.”

(We left the office and quickly realised he had written a referral for a twenty-week scan which the ultrasound place can’t take. I organised an appointment with another doctor who also checked my blood. She immediately pointed out that I had a UTI and should be taking antibiotics, and that I had low iron and should take a supplement.)

(Whenever I start coming down with any sort of respiratory infection, my voice gets deeper. The deeper the voice, the worse the illness is. I am stationed overseas in the nineties when a couple of coworkers notice that my voice is getting deeper. I go to Sick Call the next morning, and the corpsman, familiar with my history of pneumonia, sends me to the nearest US military hospital about 100 kilometers south to get seen by actual doctors.)

Doctor: “What brings you in today?”

Me: “I’m coming down with some sort of chest bug. Every time my voice gets deep, I get sick a few days later.”

Doctor: “What sort of symptoms are you having?”

Me: “At the moment, just the deep voice.”

Doctor: “That could mean anything. It’s probably acid reflux.”

(So far, the doctor has not examined me in any way.)

Me: “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Sir?”

Doctor: “I’ll prescribe you an antacid for a week or so. You should also prop up the head of your bed just a bit, to help control the reflux.”

Me: “First, I’m not here for acid reflux. I’m coming down with some sort of twitching awfuls, because my voice is getting deep. When I start sounding like James Earl Jones, I always get pneumonia or bronchitis or some other chest ailment within a couple of days. Every time. Since the deep voice just started being noticeable, I’m trying to get ahead of the disease. Second, I have a waterbed. Propping up the head of the bed will have no effect.”

Doctor: *frowning* “Sure, it will work. Just put a boot under the corners of your headboard. This will raise your upper body slightly and help prevent acid reflux from irritating your larynx.”

Me: *sighing internally* “With all due respect, sir, you cannot tilt water. It always stays level.”

Doctor: “Just raise your headboard a couple of inches. You’ll see.”

Me: *sighing out loud this time* “Sir, it’s a waterbed. Here’s a demonstration: run a little bit of water into that portable basin next to the sink.” *pointing at the small metal basin*

Doctor: “Okay.” *runs water into the basin*

Me: “Now, tilt the basin up on one end.”

Doctor: *lifts one end of the basin slightly*

Me: “Notice that the water stays level, no matter how high you raise either end of the basin? That’s why raising the head of my waterbed will be less than useless.”

Doctor: “Oh. I guess you’re right. I suppose we’ll have to get you an appointment with the gastroenterology clinic to cure your reflux.”

Me: *facepalm* “Sir, I don’t have reflux. Could you please listen to my chest?”

(I was given a prescription for antacid and told to go back to work, all without the doctor conducting an examination. Three days later, I was back in the hospital as an inpatient… with pneumonia.)

(On the morning of my son’s two-year-old “well-child” checkup, he wakes up unusually grumpy. Shockingly, the news that he has to go to see the pediatrician does not improve his mood, so in an effort to get him to stop whining in the back of the car, I make an absolute rookie mistake. I promise him that after his appointment, I will take him on a trip to his favorite place. I then discover that I have the kind of two-year-old who neither understands nor accepts the concept of “after,” and as such, the following interaction happens at least six times in the next 45 minutes:)

Son: *wordlessly bawling at the top of his lungs*

Nurse: “Oh, no, what’s the matter?”

Son: “I WANT TO GO TO TARGET.”

Nurse: “Me, too, honey. Me, too.”

(At least he did not scream at the doctor. Instead, he gently wept and whispered, “Please. Target.”)

Our English Setter has had surgery to repair an ACL injury. She chews on her stitches and manages to pop one. We load her in the car to make the 45-minute drive to the vet, calling ahead to make sure they know we’re coming, as we know we’ll be pushing closing time for them.

We get there a few minutes before close and our vet comes into the waiting room to greet us. He picks up our girl and proclaims dramatically, “What did you do that for, you b****?!”

His vet tech (and we) totally lost it.

And he replaced the stitches with staples for us!

(I trip and somehow my foot doubles up under me. At the ER, though, the doctor tells me the acute pain is not from the fall but a consequence of me being overweight — which, admittedly, I am. However, the pain persists with no show of diminishing and I decide to go back to my GP. He acknowledges that the x-ray taken at the ER was not conclusive and decides I need another kind of picture, one with radioactive isotopes. Note: I’m thirtyish at the time and I’m with my parents as, clearly, I’m unable to drive. Waiting for my turn, I overhear the following:)

Doctor: “I don’t care what she says. She is sixteen and she is here with her mother. Of course, she is not going to admit to being pregnant. I’m not going to inject her–” *with the isotopes* “–without a negative pregnancy test.”

Me: *quietly, to my mother* “They didn’t force me to do a test and I’m here with my mum, too.”

(I didn’t find out whether the teenager was pregnant or not. When reviewing my pictures, the doctor told me, “Ma’am, one thing is sure: you are in pain.” As it turned out, I had injured my foot during the fall and had to wear a cast for six weeks.)