Some years ago, I worked in a large call center as a department supervisor. One day, I was in a small office off the main floor. It wasn’t assigned to anyone in particular; all the lower- and middle-management people used it occasionally when we needed it.

I was working there alone when a Human Resources assistant who I knew quite well came in, supporting a young Customer Service Representative who we’ll call Annie. Annie appeared shaken and pale. [HR Buddy] helped her to a chair, and I went over to see what was up and find out if they needed me to leave to give them privacy. It turned out that Annie had tripped on the stairs and fallen — luckily only a couple of steps.

Me: “Oh, poor you! Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Annie: “It’s just my wrist; it really hurts.”

Her wrist seemed to be swelling as we looked at it, and she could hardly move it.

HR Buddy: *To me* “I saw her come down on it hard. I think she’d better go to A&E and get it X-rayed.”

At this, Annie looked downright panicked.

Annie: “No! I don’t want an X-ray!”

[HR Buddy] and I were puzzled. Bear in mind, this is the UK, so Annie wouldn’t need to worry about a bill for a hospital visit.

Me: “I know it’s a hassle, and hospitals can be a bit scary, but your wrist might be broken. You really should get it checked as soon as possible; you might need a cast.”

Annie: *Almost in tears* “But I can’t stand needles! I’m terrified of needles!”

Gentle questioning elicited that Annie had no clear idea of what an X-ray actually was! She was frightened because she had some vague notion that it involved getting an injection, though she couldn’t explain why. I had to explain to her, as you would to a small child, that getting an X-ray meant the doctors would use a special machine to take a picture of her bones, no needles necessary, and that the doctors weren’t allowed to give her any injections without her permission anyway.

Eventually, we managed to convince her, and we called her mother to come pick her up and drive her to the hospital. I’m glad I was able to explain things to her so she could get the treatment she needed, and nobody knows a thing until someone teaches them — but wow, that’s a big one to miss for a whole twenty-something years of life!

My son woke up sick with an earache this morning. Motrin helped, but after four hours, he was feeling crappy again, so we went to urgent care.

While I was checking him in, he threw up on the floor. I got him and the floor cleaned up, but we had to wait our turn; there were five people ahead of us.

He napped lightly while we waited, but when awake, he whined about not feeling good.

Me: “No one here feels good, [Son]. We have to wait our turn.”

Finally, there was one person ahead of us, an older lady. The nurse came out for her.

Lady: *Gesturing to us* “Take that boy first. He seems like he’s much worse off than I am, and I don’t mind him going first.”

I know it doesn’t seem like much, but I’ve never had someone do that for me before. Thank you, other patient, for letting my son go ahead!

CONTENT WARNING: Gross

One summer during college, I worked at a gym teaching kids from ages four to ten how to swim. During my classes at the shallow end of the pool, there was also a Mommy And Me swimming class for infants, getting them used to the water while still being in a parent’s arms.

This was an exchange between me and the coworker teaching the infant class in between classes.

Me: “There’s something floating in the pool. Actually, there’s a lot of it.”

Coworker: *Offhandedly* “Oh, I think one of the infants in the Mommy And Me class pooped their pants and it spilled out into the water.”

Me: “Don’t we need to clear the pool and clean it since that’s biohazardous material?”

Coworker: “No, there’s so much chlorine in here that it was dead on contact.”

Now, this I would believe; the chlorine levels at this pool were enough that I ended each day with less leg hair than the day before, and it gave my eyes the look of someone who spent their summer at Woodstock.

My coworker then proceeded to jump into the pool and scoop the poop out by hand before welcoming the next class in.

Safe to say, those reasons are why that was my last summer teaching swim lessons.

In July, I was diagnosed with alopecia, and as a result of the condition, I have no hair on my head — no eyebrows, no eyelashes, etc. The condition took hold so fast that trying to hide it was useless. It doesn’t bother me all that much because I can’t see it unless I am looking in a mirror.

A group of hobby-related friends and I are getting together for a close-to-Christmas dinner and a blind gift exchange. We haven’t seen each other all that much due to the health crisis.

One set of guys always arrives late. Today was no exception. The one dude doesn’t do social media and hasn’t seen me in person in over six months. He notices my bald head, and rubbing his hand over his own head of hair, he asks me:

Dude: “Is that from November?”

I pause for a moment before I reply.

Me: “No-Shave November?”

I think he’s still confused.

My job fired half of our employees, so we were barely staffed. Management told the remaining employees:

Management: “No one is allowed to take time off for any reason. No vacations, no sick days, NOTHING.”

When a coworker was fired for calling in sick, I decided I didn’t want to work for a company like that, and I quit immediately.