I’ve not long turned 19 and I’m working in a fast food restaurant full time while also about to start my second year of college. For the last month, I’ve been complaining of a sore tongue, thinking I have an ulcer, but it turns out to be a cancerous tumour. I’m eventually diagnosed with stage-four oral cancer and have to give up my place in college and work, meaning that while I’m stuck in a hospital bed I have no money to pay bills back at home. When I get home before my second leg of treatment starts, I get a visit from my store manager and the owner.

They hand me one of those massive cheques that are given during presentations, and written on it is my name and a larger sum of money than I have ever seen at any one time.

My coworkers and customers had been raising money for me all the time I was in the hospital — nine and a half weeks — during my operation and recovery.

It made all the bad shifts and horrible customers that had reduced me to tears so worth it.

(I have Celiac Disease, which means I have to be on a STRICT gluten-free diet. I’m very careful when researching what I can and can’t have. One night, my dad stops on the way home at a well-known burger chain.)

Dad: “I need a [popular burger] with no bun; my daughter has a severe gluten allergy.”

Worker: “Oh, so, she doesn’t want the bottom bread?”

Dad: “No… She wants no bread whatsoever. She’s allergic to it. It will make her sick.”

Worker: “No, no, the top bun doesn’t have gluten in it! Only the bottom.”

Dad: “My daughter cannot have any bread and her burger cannot touch any bread or she will have a reaction. I don’t care what you think. Don’t put a top bun anywhere near her food.”

Worker: *begrudgingly* “Fine, then… but I know what I’m talking about. Top buns are totally fine.”

(My burger came bun-less. I still had a reaction.)

I have the fun combination of vasovagal syncope and orthostatic hypotension. In layman’s terms, I faint. A lot. I’ve gotten fairly good at knowing and avoiding my triggers, or at least being able to recognize the onset of an episode early enough to mitigate it. That said, I do still actually faint at least once or twice a year, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s honestly more annoying than distressing.

Understandably, though, the people around me are less nonchalant about it. It probably doesn’t help that according to witnesses, my eyes don’t close when I faint.

My favorite example of this is the time I went to the optometrist after many years without seeing one. He used what is apparently either an outdated or just very intense test for glaucoma, because everyone I’ve ever described it to says they’ve never had anything of the sort done. It involved placing my chin on a rest inside this terrifying-looking contraption while he very slowly pressed a little rubber stopper against the surface of my eye. As it turned out, this was a trigger that I did not previously know about — because I don’t make a habit of pressing objects into my eyeballs for minutes at a time — and I passed right out.

When I woke up, I was on the floor with a very flustered nurse keeping watch over me. This was where it got funny, as often when I faint there will be people who simply will not accept my insistence that if they just leave me alone for a few minutes, I’ll bounce right back. The nurse was one of these sorts, and she insisted that she should get me some water, or an ice pack, or anything. I consented to a glass of water more for her sake than mine, but she wasn’t placated. She insisted that she should get my dad from the waiting room. Now, my family is just as used to my little spells as I am, so I warned the nurse that he was not going to be as comforting as she thought, but if she really wanted to, she could go get him.

She came back minutes later, and as soon as my dad saw me lying on the floor in a dark exam room — because the nurse also insisted on turning out the lights for some reason — he just gave a long-suffering sigh and informed me, and I quote, “You’re such a wuss.”

I cracked up laughing. The nurse was horrified.

I got up and walked out under my own power five minutes later. I now warn my optometrists before any and all glaucoma tests, but sometimes they don’t listen and I get to relive the whole situation over, though unfortunately without my dad’s commentary.

(A friend and I have just gotten piercings. I have some already, so I suggest we get ibuprofen to handle the immediate swelling and pain. We go to our local pharmacy.)

Friend: “Which one do we need?”

Me: “One that has ibuprofen in it.”

Friend: “Ah.” *picks up the most expensive branded box*

Me: “Ugh, I’d rather go with the generic kind.” *picks up my own box*

Friend: “But look at it. It’ll probably kill you!”

Me: “They are literally the same. Yours is branded, though, so they charge extortionate prices.”

Friend: “No, this one is better.”

(I take his box and show him the ingredients on the back. By a stroke of luck, they are EXACTLY the same.)

Friend: *after spending a long time comparing* “Mine is still better!”

(I shrugged and we paid for our own painkillers. He paid £3.49, while I paid 39p.)

(My department at work consists of mostly females, and that means I and the few guys working there are definitely the minority. I have been complaining to my wife over email that my skin is incredibly dry and I am getting itchy. She says when I get home she will get me some lotion to help. As I sit typing, I look down at my arm and realize I can’t wait that long; I have “crocodile skin.” One of the women I work with jokingly told me one time if I ever needed lotion to let her know because she has some at her desk. So, I decide to do just that. I approach her desk with my index fingers together like you see little kids do when they want something.)

Female Coworker #1: “Uh-oh, what did I do?”

Me: *laughs* “Absolutely nothing. Um… One time you and a few of the others jokingly said if I ever needed some lotion I could borrow some… May I?”

Female Coworker #1: “YES! I have… uh… this one which is [scent], this one which is [type], this one…”

Me: “I don’t care what it smells like; I have crocodile skin and it’s really bothering me!”

(She hands me one and I crack it open, putting some on my skin.)

Me: “Oh! I like this!”

Male Coworker #1: *popping up like a prairie dog from his desk* “Huh?! What? Lotion?”

Me: “Yeah, my skin was so dry!” *rubbing both hands up my arm coating myself in the “smell good” lotion*

Male Coworker #1: “Oh! Um… Can I have some?”

Female Coworker #2: “I have some! Want to try it?” *grabs a bottle and starts walking over*

Male Coworker #1: “That’s not the cinnamon stuff that makes everyone here sneeze, is it?”

Female Coworker #2: “No, it’s…” *smelling it* “Okay, it might be…”

Me: “Well, it’s peppermint from what I can tell.”

Male Coworker #1: “Okay… fine… I’ll take it!”

Male Coworker #2: “What are you guys doing?”

Me: “Lotioning.”

Male Coworker #1: “Yeah, figured since he’s going to moisten his skin, I would.”

Male Coworker #2: “Uh… What kind of lotion is it? I mean, you guys are smelling like lotion.”

([Male Coworker #2] is then given lotion by a third female coworker and starts applying it. All of this is going on directly outside the department director’s door. He pops out and sees the three of us guys and the three girls rubbing our skin with lotion and stares at us for a second.)

Department Director: “Dry skin?”

Me: “Yeah, it was bad.”

Department Director: “Carry on. Smells good in here!”

(The department director walked away and we all started laughing. It became known as the “Moistening” by everyone in our department, and they learned at least three guys in the office are secure enough to wear scented lotions for the sake of comfort.)