(After our son is born:)

Nurse: *to my wife* “And I’m just confirming that the baby is covered by your insurance for at least 21 days?”

Wife: “Yes, that’s correct.”

(Later:)

Doctor #1: “Hi, Mom & Dad! Congratulations! I’m [Doctor] and just here to look over the little guy. Oh, he’s a cutie!” *examines the baby for five minutes* “Well, everything looks good. Congratulations again!”

(Even later:)

Doctor #2: “Hello! I’m [Doctor #2]. I’m here to examine [something else] with your son. Congratulations, by the way! Oh, he’s a handsome guy!” *examines baby for five minutes* “Well, everything looks good. He seems to be doing great!”

(Later still:)

Doctor #3: “He’s doing great, but his levels aren’t quite where we would really like them to be. I’m going to keep you guys here for another night to monitor him.”

(Months later we start seeing bills from pediatricians whose names we didn’t recognize at all for “neonatal exam” and other odd things. Two years later our daughter is born in the same hospital.)

Nurse: *to my wife* “And I’m just confirming that the baby is covered by your insurance for at least 21 days?”

Wife: “No, I’m on a self-funded plan so that isn’t the case. We’ll be putting her on the state-based Medicaid plan with her brother and coverage will be retroactive to her birthday.”

(Later, as in less than 24 hours after the birth:)

Nurse: “Looks like you guys get to go home today! Just so you know, her levels aren’t quite where we would want them to be so you’ll need to set up an appointment with your primary care pediatrician to have her checked within the next day. Congratulations again!”

(The next day at our pediatrician’s office:)

Pediatrician: “Why in the world would they discharge you with her levels like this? This is very concerning to me. She needed another night in the hospital. Did any pediatricians at the hospital look at her?”

Wife: “Just one. Weird, because last time we saw like four or five; they’d just pop in and we’d never see them again.”

Pediatrician: “These numbers are not good. We need to get her to the ER today.”

(Off to the ER (at a different hospital) and our new-born daughter had to stay the night for some urgent treatment. She’s fine now but the lesson is learned that we mention Medicaid to the hospital with extreme caution.)

(We’ve been seeing one of our patients regularly for the six years I’ve worked in this intensive care unit, and according to my coworkers he’s been a fixture since he was four months old. He’s 15 now, suffering from a serious heart condition and awaiting a transplant. He’s one of the politest, funniest, and genuinely nicest young men I have ever come across. Today, finally, he’s getting his new heart. Typically organ donation is done completely anonymously in Australia, and we aren’t legally allowed to tell anyone who their organs came from. In this case, the heart is coming from a 19-year-old boy who was killed by a drunk driver. As uncommon as it is, he was brought to our hospital and his parents have agreed to turn off his life support and donate his organs, so his parents are still hanging around saying their final goodbyes after surgery. The procedure goes well and our 15-year-old patient is asleep in his room, 18 hours after surgery. I’ve just finished some paperwork and am sitting at the nurses station chatting to some of the nurses. The 19-year-old’s parents have come out of their son’s room and asked if there is anything left to sign. My colleague is walking them through the final forms for the funeral home when the alarms start sounding for our 15-year-old patient. Several of us break into a dead sprint and go to help him. We burst into his room all at once to find him sitting up in bed, absolutely mortified.)

Me: “[Patient], what’s happening? Are you feeling okay?” *I start checking him over*

Patient: “Yes! Everything is fine! I’m fine!”

(I hear a giggle from behind me and look down. The poor kid has a pillow across his lap and a box of tissues next to him on the bed. I deduce that he has been “test-driving” his new heart, and we all slink out of the room, leaving him on his own to deal with his embarrassment. As we come back to the desk, one of the nurses tells the others what happened. From behind us, we hear a short laugh. We turn and see the 19-year-old’s parents, both struggling to contain their laughter.)

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know you were there.”

(They break into uproarious laughter. It’s infectious, and eventually we’re all laughing. The 19-year-old’s mother eventually catches her breath enough to speak.)

Mother: “I’m sorry; I know it’s all supposed to be anonymous, but we know he ended up with our boy’s heart. Honestly, with the amount of time he spent in the bathroom as a teenager, I can’t think of anything more true to his memory than what that young man was doing!”

(It might have scared the h*** out of us when it was happening, but that teenager gave some good people a great laugh, exactly when they needed it.)

(I work in housekeeping at a hospital. My job is pretty simple: clean rooms, mop vomit, and pick up trash. One day I’m making my rounds, getting trash from patient rooms, when I pass by a mother who has just found out her newborn son has some serious medical issues and they don’t know when he can leave. She is sobbing as she goes back to her room. My sister was a NICU [Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit] baby when she was born, and I know my mom had a hard time when she was told the same thing. I want to comfort this mother. My heart is racing as I go into the room. I just keep thinking, “Should I say something? What would I say? Am I allowed to even talk to patients on a personal level like this?” I enter the room and the mother is still sobbing. I decide I have to say something.)

Me: “Ma’am, I know I am just a housekeeper, but I want to tell you about my sister.”

Mother: *looks at me, surprised, and smiles* “Go ahead, dear.”

(My heart is racing and I am terrified.)

Me: “My sister was a NICU baby like your son. When she came out the doctors broke her arm, her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, and my mother was told she probably wouldn’t live long. On her first birthday we took her in for another appointment; doctors were amazed that she was alive and healthy. They told us she probably would be mute. It took her a while, and she does have speech issues. But she can talk. There have been many other things they doubted her on. But what I’m saying is that her whole life doctors have doubted her, and every time she has jumped over the hurdle and proved them wrong. Don’t give up on your son before he has the chance to do the same.”

(The woman breaks into complete tears and asks me over for a hug. She then asks, as I’m pulling away:)

Mother: “How old is your sister now?”

Me: “She is 16, going to her first homecoming next month.”

(The woman cries, holding me, for five minutes.)

Mother: “Thank you. Thank you so much. I needed to hear that he would be fine and you have given that to me.”

Me: “It will not be a easy road. But with your love and support he will jump through those hurdles, too.”

(I have to leave to get the rest of the patient trash. A week passes by. I am cleaning the lobby when the child’s father passes me and recognizes me.)

Father: “Were you doing trash last Thursday?”

Me: “Um, yes, I believe I was.”

Father: “You gave my wife the words she needed, and she has completely changed her feeling on the situation.”

Me: “I’m so glad to hear that! How is your son?”

Father: “He is still in the NICU, but he should be getting out in the next couple of days. My wife and I have been reading up on how we can help him grow up strong like your sister. Thank you so much, and tell your sister thank you, as well.”

(That day was the moment I had been waiting for, for the last year. Four months later, it is still amazing, and I still cry at the fact that they remembered a housekeeper. I guess the quote is true: “People may forget what you did for them, but they will never forget how you made them feel.” I don’t know their names; I don’t even know the boy’s name. But I really hope their son is well and is a strong, happy four-month-old. I’m glad I could be the light in the mother’s life and make the difference for her.)

(I have been suffering from a cough and breathing problems for a few days. Thinking it is just a passing cold, I don’t worry too much about it until one night I notice that my neck is noticeably swollen. Concerned, I go to my mother, who is a nurse, and ask her opinion. She decides to take me to the ER due to the swelling and my issues with breathing. After arriving, I am taken to a room to wait for the doctor to evaluate me.)

Nurse: “I hear you’re having some trouble breathing.”

Me: “Yes, I’ve been coughing, and I thought it was just a cold, but now my neck is swollen.”

Nurse: “Well, let’s just listen to your chest for a minute.”

(She listens to me breathe for a few moments, makes a note on her chart, and leaves. Several minutes later, the attending physician enters the room.)

Doctor: “So you’re having issues with breathing?”

Me: “Yes. I told the nurse I thought I had a cough, but now my neck is swollen and my mom was concerned it could be something else.”

Doctor: “Well, let’s just listen to your chest.”

(He also checks my lungs, the same as the nurse.)

Doctor: “Well, you seem to have some labored breathing, so we’re going to give you a breathing treatment to help with that.”

Me: “What about the swelling?”

Doctor: “I don’t really see any swelling.”

(My mother and I both stare at the doctor in disbelief. Full disclosure, I am overweight, and because of that, I do have somewhat of a ‘double-chin’. However, this is far beyond double-chin territory; it was noticeable enough for both me and my nurse mother to be concerned.)

Mom: “Her neck is obviously swollen. This isn’t normal. I know what normal is for her, and this isn’t it.”

Doctor: *dismissing her* “I’ll be back with the breathing treatment.”

(My mother and I are completely irritated by his behavior. My mom, in a stroke of genius, pulls out her phone. Not a week before, we had been on vacation, and had taken many pictures; my mom pulls up a picture of me, facing forward, that shows how I usually look. When the doctor returns, she shows him this picture as evidence that my neck does not normally look as it does now.)

Doctor: *taken aback* “Oh, your neck IS swollen! Let’s get you in for an MRI!”

(Thankfully, I just had bronchitis. However, neither my mother nor I were pleased that one of my symptoms was ignored, simply because the doctor assumed that it was irrelevant!)

(A major pile-up has occurred on the interstate, and the medic has made a group call to several of the nearby hospitals. Of all the people needing medical care, there are 14 Priority-Three, meaning they need emergency services. I’m at [Hospital #3], and ambulance calls are on a loud speakerphone.)

Medic: “[Hospital #1], how many can you take?”

Hospital #1: “[Hospital #1] is on trauma bypass right now.”

(This means their ER is full, but they can squeeze people in if it’s life or death.)

Medic: “Okay. [Hospital #2], how many can you take?”

Hospital #2: “[Hospital #2] can take five.”

Medic: “[Hospital #3], how many can you take?”

Hospital #3: “[Hospital #3] can take five.”

Medic: “[Hospital #4], how many can you take?”

Hospital #4: “[Hospital #4] can take approximately half as many patients as the other hospitals.”

(Cue the puzzled looks.)

Medic: “Okay, [Hospital #4], we’ll put you down for 2.5 patients.”

(Everyone cracked up, and started debating on whether the half patient would be top, bottom, left, or right.)