(My genetic disability makes any form of physical activity, even just walking, difficult. Most days I can get around in short bursts of energy and willpower, but I do have a handicap parking pass for “bad days” or “flare-ups.” When I go to pick up a prescription at my local pharmacy, I take the farthest handicap spot, still trying to be considerate of others while recognizing my limitations. My mother comes along because I was just released from the hospital a few hours ago. A woman sees me get out of my car and shouts:)

Woman: “Hey! You ain’t handicapped! Hey! B****, you ain’t handicapped!”

Me: *to my mother* “Just walk.”

(The woman approaches us directly before we reach the crosswalk. She looks us both over and crosses her arms.)

Woman: “You don’t look handicapped.”

Mom: “Well, you don’t look like a dumb c***, but I guess we’re both wrong.”

(The woman stands there, dumbfounded, before stalking ahead of us into the store. I’ve never heard my mother say so much as, “d***,” so I am probably more shocked than the other woman.)

Me: “Mom! What?! What just happened?!”

Mom: “Nobody has the right to talk to you like that.”

(My mother is a children’s librarian at the public library. Sometimes I volunteer to help out during story time. My mother’s coworker has the day off, and she and her six-year-old daughter come in. The little girl has a hearing impairment that requires her to wear hearing aids. As I’m supervising the kids during crafts, I hear this gem:)

Little Boy: *running around before he stops and taps her on the shoulder* “Hey, what are those things on your ears?”

Coworker’s Daughter: *turns around to address him* “They’re my hearing devices. They help me listen. You could probably use some.” *turns back around and goes back to her craft*

(I work in a nursing home. This particular resident is diabetic and thinks her blood sugar is too low, even if it is normal. This exchange happens after checking her sugar.)

Me: “Your sugar is really high! What have you eaten?”

Resident: “I accidentally drank two shakes!”

(Later I check her sugar again.)

Me: “Your sugar is [normal value] right now!”

Resident: “I think it’s low!”

Me: “No, it’s really good! Keep up the good work.”

(The resident proceeds to eat a chip.)

Me: “Your sugar is good; don’t make it too high by eating those chips!”

Resident: “Oh, my hand accidentally fell into the chips.”

Me: “…”

(I work at a well-known retail chain as a cashier. We’re doing a temporary fundraiser for diabetes research and have to ask each customer if they’d like to donate some money towards the cause. My father has diabetes.)

Me: “Hello! Would you like to donate to help diabetes research today?”

Customer: “No, sweetie. I believe that if you just don’t eat white flour or sugar, the whole diabetes thing disappears!”

Me: *stares at her in disbelief for a few seconds* “Would you like a bag?”

(She needs to either get her head out of the organic movement or do some research on diabetes. It can’t merely be fixed by eating differently, ma’am!)

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 5
What A Diabeetus, Part 4
What A Diabeetus, Part 3

(I am at a restaurant known for their southern cooking from scratch with my daughters for my eldest’s 12th birthday. As we are seated, we can overhear the woman at the table behind us.)

Customer: *to waitress* “Honey, I am absolutely allergic to gluten. I cannot have any gluten on my plate. Please tell the chef, or else I’ll blow up like a balloon and have to go to the hospital!”

Waitress: “Of course, ma’am. We take customer allergy very seriously here. We have a lot of items for those with a gluten allergy to choose from. Have you decided what you would like?”

Customer’s Husband: *orders*

Waitress: “And for you, ma’am?”

Customer: “Yes, honey, I think I will have the double-fried chicken, with side salad, mashed potatoes with gravy, and two of your delicious drop biscuits.”

(The waitress gets a pained look on her face and the woman’s husband just buries his face in his palms because he surely knows what’s coming next.)

Waitress: “Um, ma’am, our chicken is coated in a flour base, our gravy is made with flour, and so are our drop biscuits. The only things you ordered that are gluten-free are the mashed potatoes and salad.”

Customer: *without missing a beat* “Oh, no, honey. Listen. I can have flour; I just can’t have any of that gluten stuff.”

Waitress: “But, ma’am—”

Husband: *interrupting the waitress, looking at her with a pained expression* “It’s fine.” *he gives her the “I’m sorry” look* “She isn’t allergic to flour.”

Waitress: *sensing what the husband was doing* “My apologies, ma’am. Let me go put this in for you.”

(As soon as the waitress leaves, the wife starts to complain about how none of these waitresses know what they are talking about when she tells them she’s allergic to gluten.)

Customer: “It means I’m allergic to the gluten they put in the food back in the kitchen, not flour! Why doesn’t anyone understand this?! Everywhere I go, I get told there is flour in everything I order! I’M NOT ALLERGIC TO FLOUR, JUST GLUTEN!”

Husband: “Yes, honey, I know you’re not allergic to flour… just gluten.”

(Two minutes later, the waitress came out and set down a bowl of salad. The woman quieted down. Just as she finished her salad, her food arrived, and she happily ate everything on her plate without swelling up like a balloon and needing to go to the hospital.)