My mother is one of the most hardworking, responsible people I know — to a fault. After decades in the medical malpractice legal world, she finally retired and was looking forward to her very well-deserved future of relaxation and self-care. However, just two months after she retired, her parents (my grandparents) were stricken with so many collective health problems that they were moved into an assisted living facility, and from that point on, my mom essentially became their full-time caretaker.

Why did she need to be, you may be wondering, if they were in a facility that should already be providing care? Well, between my basically blind grandmother’s dialysis requirements (transport needed to another location three times a week), all of their major logistical, medical, and financial needs, and the fact that both of my grandparents are quite comfortable getting my mom to do everything instead of asking the staff for help, the woman basically never stops. She does their laundry, handles their doctor’s appointments, files their taxes, fetches and carries for them, and spends a ton of time just staying on top of all the staff at the various facilities they’re in and out of, triple-checking that everyone involved is doing their job and picking up the slack or raising her voice when they don’t.

It seems excessive, right? She’s constantly burnt out by it all. I’ve tried to insist on her setting some healthier boundaries for herself and getting her brother to help out more, but she insists that if she doesn’t constantly handle everything, then things just won’t get done. She despairs to me that “no one knows how to think anymore” and “no one knows how to do their jobs”, and she worries constantly that something important will be missed and that whatever medical catastrophe that follows will be all her fault. 

Knowing my mother as I do, and living several states away as all this is going on, it’s hard not to think that everyone else’s alleged incompetence is mostly in her head, or that she’s just so quick to do things herself that she never gives anyone a chance to prove that she doesn’t need to. However, I’ve recently spent a week with her, following her around and witnessing all her interactions with staff, all her phone calls with doctors and nurses and receptionists ad nauseam, and I was saddened to learn just how right she might be.

There were several examples I witnessed of staff being unobservant, clueless, or seemingly incapable of thinking past the exact parameters of their job description. These were not cut-rate facilities, by the way! Everything looked very nice, and the people were always very pleasant, but that did not mean they necessarily used their brains for anything else. I came to see that Mom’s terrible luck with systems or employees functioning as they should was really not her imagination after all. Here’s just one example.

Three weeks before, my grandfather had been tested for a UTI (urinary tract infection). These can be extremely worrying, as we found out last year when he suffered a major one. For those who don’t know, UTIs (in elderly men especially) can cause alarming symptoms that mimic dementia. These symptoms can also include auditory hallucinations, and my grandfather was reporting to us — in the present day — that he was beginning to hear women singing in the style of the 1940s, as if in the next room — the EXACT auditory hallucination he’d had the last time — so, clearly, we were concerned about the possible UTI! But only in the week I was visiting did the doctor finally call my mother, telling her he’d prescribed an antibiotic for my grandfather and suddenly being very insistent that he begin taking it right away! As my mother pointed out, it was obvious that no one had looked at the results of the test until just now, and the UTI was sure to be worse after three weeks. But some relief at last, right? The prescription had been ordered!

Not exactly. A day later, my mom got a call from the assisted living facility.

Facility: “Hi, Ms. [Mom]. We have these antibiotics here. For your father?”

Yes, a lot of these people spoke in a questioning tone, as if unsure of what they were saying. Mom keeps her phone volume loud, and I could always hear every word.

Mom: “Yes, those should be for his UTI. [Doctor] just prescribed them.”

Facility: “Oh, well… we can’t give them to him without an order from the doctor.”

Mom: *Briefly stumped* “What do you mean? The doctor prescribed them.”

Facility: “Yes, but we can’t administer them without an order. You’re going to need to call the doctor and have him give us the order.”

Mom: “Okay, but why do I have to call him? Can’t you call him yourself? He’ll tell you—”

Facility: “No, we can’t do that. We don’t call doctors. You have to call him and tell him to give us an order.”

Mom: “I don’t understand. Why can’t you just—”

Facility: “That’s not what we do.”

My mother said, “Fine,” did as instructed, and called the doctor. 

Doctor: “What do you mean, they haven’t given it to him yet? He needs to be on those antibiotics!”

Mom: “Yes, I’m well aware! They need an order from you. They said you have to call them and—”

Doctor: “He’s at [Facility], right?”

Mom: “Right—”

Doctor: “Don’t they have their own doctors there?!”

Mom: “Yes, they do.”

Doctor: “They should know how these things work! This is ridiculous! Your father should have been on medication weeks ago! Why do I have to call them and tell them how to do their jobs?!”

I’m sure my mother was wondering the same thing — but with the added bonus of having the doctor yell at her, too.

A day later, she confirmed that the order had been sent. Another day later, we learned that the antibiotics had still not been given. I think it was another two days of similar nonsense after that before the pills finally, actually changed hands and made it to my grandfather. If my mom hadn’t been on top of it — or any of the thousand other things she handles — I honestly don’t know what would have happened.

I used to think many of my mother’s problems were something she brought upon herself, but I’ve seen enough to believe her now. I only wish there was something to be done about it!

I have taken my one-and-a-half-year-old to a pediatric dentist for a routine checkup. This is her second time going to the dentist but her first time at this practice. She is being wiggly during her cleaning, and I am trying to distract her.  

Me: “She can be a little resistant for us, too.”

Hygienist: *Shooting me a look* “You’re the parent.”

Once the hygienist is done, the dentist comes in and starts doing his exam. She is curious about what he is doing, so I try to distract her again by singing to her. He is not patient at all with her. 

Dentist: “You need to stop making this fun. And I want you to use a minty toothpaste so she doesn’t like it.”

Me: *Scooping up her up* “We’re done here.”

The dentist mumbles under his breath, most of which I can’t make out, but I catch something about “teen parents”.

Me: “First of all, even if I was a teen parent, you shouldn’t be treating your patients or their parents this way. And second of all, I’m twenty-five, but thank you for thinking I look that young, I guess?”

The hygienist, who has overheard the entire conversation, follows me. 

Hygienist: “You can schedule your next appointment at the front desk.”

Me: “You are out of your mind if you think we’re coming back here.”

At least the receptionist was apologetic. Apparently, the dentist we saw was filling in for the regular dentist, but we decided to go back to the previous practice we had gone to, which was twice the distance but worth the drive.

My daughter is five now and loves brushing her teeth and the fun prizes she gets at the dentist.

For several years after college, I didn’t have a primary care physician. I was working, and I had insurance, but finding a doctor was a big hassle I didn’t feel like dealing with.

This all came to a head in 2009 when I was about to get married. My husband-to-be and I had not been sexually active, and I wasn’t on birth control. I needed birth control. I called the local “find a doctor” line, and they assigned me to a doctor. (She became the primary care physician for both of us until her retirement. This story isn’t about her; she’s wonderful.) But the soonest I could make an appointment was literally during our wedding.

So, I went to the local walk-in clinic. I was in good health and younger than thirty, and all I needed was a prescription for hormonal birth control.

I was upfront about what I was looking for. The doctor who saw me grilled me about my sexual history. (Virtually none.) He grilled me about my relationship with my fiancé. How long, was there any abuse, etc. (No. My husband of now fourteen years is the sweetest man.)

He insisted I take a pregnancy test, despite the fact that I told him I couldn’t possibly be pregnant.

And then, after this very embarrassing, intrusive visit… he told me he couldn’t prescribe me birth control. Why? No reason was given. He knew the whole reason for the visit was to get birth control, and rather than just say up front that he thought birth control was for, I don’t know, women with loose morals or something, he put me through an hour of irrelevant questioning just to tell me no.

And then he charged me for the visit.

(Happy ending, other than the misery of the visit: I found a family planning clinic that got me in within a couple of days, and they did want to do a pap smear since I’d never done one, but they didn’t ask me any extraneous questions or demand I pee in a cup when I told them I couldn’t be pregnant, and I got my birth control in time for it to be working before the wedding.)

I once worked for a telephone service that took calls for a number of private doctor’s offices. We would take calls that came in outside of office hours and send a message to the doctor, who could then prioritize. We were also instructed to tell anyone calling in with an emergency to call emergency services for immediate help. 

We have public healthcare in Sweden, which is available for everyone to use, but you can also choose to pay for private healthcare if you can afford it. This caller definitely had the money and the self-entitlement that came with it.

Caller: “Hello, I need the doctor to come right away. it’s an emergency.”

Me: “The doctor doesn’t make house calls. If it’s a medical emergency, you need to go to the emergency room or call 112 (the Swedish emergency number).”

Caller: “My son is having an allergic reaction. I need to talk to the doctor now.”

Me: “The doctor isn’t in right now. I repeat, you need to take your child to the ER or call 112, right away.”

Caller: “You listen to me. I’m not paying all this money for private healthcare and not getting help when I need it! Get me [Doctor] on the line, right now!”

Me: “He will tell you to go to the ER!”

Caller: “I’m not going to spend the night at a public hospital. I pay for private healthcare, and I will have private healthcare!”

I knew what the answer would be, but just to cover my own a**, I tried to get hold of [Doctor]. He picked up, in the middle of dinner, not very happy.

Me: “Hi, sorry I’m calling so late. I have [Caller] on the line, and she’s requesting to talk to you because her child is having an allergic reaction.”

Doctor: “What? She’s crazy! She doesn’t need to talk to me; she needs to go to the ER!”

Me: “I’ve told her that. Repeatedly.”

Doctor: *In the coldest, angriest voice imaginable* “Transfer her over.”

I wish I could have overheard that conversation. Yep. The lady would rather risk her child’s life than be forced to use — gasp! — public healthcare.

I don’t know exactly what happened after that, but at least the kid was fine in the end, and I believe [Doctor] reported the incident to Social Services.

I pretty frequently get UTIs and related problems. Normally, a quick check-in with urgent care gets me antibiotics and on my way. On this particular trip, I am checking in as my original antibiotics did their job but caused a second problem as certain antibiotics can. For reference: I am a trans man on a very low dose of hormone therapy, but I do not pass in the slightest due to some factors outside of my control. 

Problems start right away: the doctor steps in, asks my name, and then looks up and does an obvious double-take. This happens a little less than half the time — I don’t expect urgent care docs to look over my whole chart in less than five minutes — so I shrug and relay my symptoms. 

Me: “I’ve had [common gynecological issue] before, and all my symptoms line up, so I think that’s what it is.”

Doctor: “We need to test for that.”

Me: “…I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Doctor: “Here’s the kit for the self-test. I’ll step out so you can take the swab.”

I have never before or since had a doctor tell me to take the sample for this particular test on my own, but I’m exhausted, uncomfortable, and ready to leave, so I shrug and do what I’m told. About fifteen minutes later, the test comes back negative. I’m confused but tentatively mention:

Me: “I’ve heard that being on testosterone could potentially cause early onset menopause and could mimic some of the symptoms I’m having, but I’m on such a low dose that doesn’t make any sense. My whole cycle is actually way more regular since I started taking testosterone.”

Doctor: *Practically rolling his eyes* “Hold on while I check a few things.”

Less than five minutes later, he returns with a prescription. 

Doctor: “I did some reading on that condition you mentioned, and you’re probably right. I’ve gotten you the same prescription we give to menopausal women. You can pick it up downstairs.”

I’m a little upset at potentially having a permanent issue and wary that he “did some reading” in such a short amount of time, but I follow through and start using the prescription I was given. Less than a week later, my symptoms have increased so much that I can barely function without being in intense pain. Back to urgent care! 

After the typical tests (done by a different doctor this time), I’m sat down for my diagnosis. 

Doctor #2: “So, it’s [common gynecological problem] like you thought. It’s in such an advanced stage that we kind of only have one option for your antibiotics. It’s strong, so there’s a chance it can also cause [several other, much worse gut problems]. I don’t know why your last test didn’t catch this. Your sample might have gotten contaminated somehow, but most of the doctors here are more careful with such a routine test.”

Me: “…Thank you. I’m glad we got to the bottom of it at least.”

I was finally able to get sorted out, but the antibiotics did in fact cause several much bigger problems, which included needing to get an MRI and spending almost six months waiting for a routine procedure while my health steadily declined. That’s a whole different story. Thanks, first doctor, for being super weird and having me go through all that!