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 He used what is apparently either an outdated or just very intense test for glaucoma, because everyone I’ve ever described it to says they’ve never had anything of the sort done.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.)

(My boyfriend hits his head and concusses himself in mysterious circumstances. He was housesitting alone; later sleuthing led me to the conclusion that he fainted, which he’s prone to occasionally, and hit his lower forehead directly on the edge of a high counter. His nose is also broken. I sit in the emergency room with him as he’s given care. He’s lost his memory temporarily and every few minutes he starts wondering anew why he’s there.)

Boyfriend: “What’s… What’s happening? Where are we?”

Me: “At the emergency room at [Hospital], love. You hit your head and you have a concussion. We don’t know just how it happened.”

Boyfriend: “Oh… Wow. My nose hurts.”

Me: “Yeah, you broke your nose, as well.”

Boyfriend: *with a rueful grin* “Oh, no! My classic good looks!”

(Five minutes later he gets confused again, starts asking again, I explain the concussion, we don’t know what happened, the broken nose…)

Boyfriend: “Oh, no! My classic good looks!”

(This repeated, I kid you not, at least 25 times. We’ve now been married 12 years. How could I resist? He has a sense of humor AND classic good looks!)

Let me start by saying that I am enormously grateful to live in a country that has safety nets for the unfortunate and the ill; without them, I’d be dead. Sadly, the way that the current administration handles applications and treats disabled people is criminal.

Sit tight; this one really sucks (until the end).

I had been called in for my PiP assessment, a test where an unqualified person asks you vague questions and then lies on a form about your answers.

I had to be at their offices at eight am in a city a full hour’s drive from where I live. After getting lost twice because of road work, I finally found somewhere to park and hobbled to the office.

The appointment was a nightmare. The woman clearly wasn’t listening to anything I said and did a “physical assessment” of my condition from across the room without leaving her chair — an assessment which took my specialist, with 40 years in the field, six months and millions of pounds worth of machinery to figure out. By the time she was finally done, I was emotionally and physically drained as I staggered out to the main office, only to be greeted with the news that there were yet more forms I had to fill out.

Once I was finally able to make my escape, I was barely holding it together as I headed back to my car, thinking only about getting home and hiding in bed.

Then, I tried to pay for my parking. It turned out that the only parking structure near their office had had a massive recent price hike, and I didn’t have enough money to pay to get my car.

I was in tatters, guys.

I was in so much pain I could barely stand, I was an hour from home, and I had no idea what to do. So, there I was, a 40-year-old guy with tears on my face, trying to explain to the lady at the other end of an intercom what was going on when a young couple who had, I guess, heard what was going on just rocked up and said, “Don’t worry; we’ve got this,” and paid for my ticket.

It wasn’t a huge amount — £20 — but the simple kindness of those two strangers gave me the strength to get home.

I doubt they’ll ever see this and I wish I’d been in any state to thank them properly for their help, but that gesture got me through that awful day.