(My coworker goes to see a 94-year-old patient who had been confused overnight.)

Coworker: “Good morning, Mr. [Patient]. How are you today?”

Patient: *in a very measured voice* “Terrible, doctor. The professor saw me earlier and implicitly told me I am a wolverine. I’m afraid with this news I need to leave.”

Coworker: “I see. You’ve been a bit poorly so should probably stay in hospital for now.”

Patient: “Oh, but doctor, if you can guarantee I am NOT a wolverine, I’d feel ever so relieved.”

Coworker: *poker faced* “I can guarantee you are NOT a wolverine.”

(I’m a transporter pushing patients to surgery. I pick up a 17-year-old boy with his family. They’re all nervous, but the boy deals with his anxiety by being rude to his parents. He starts in on the vertical creases between his dad’s eyebrows.)

Boy: “Ha! That looks like a [crude term for female genitalia]. You’ve got a [kitty cat] on your forehead!”

(He goes on like this for several minutes as his profanity gets worse and worse.)

Mom: *finally* “Stop it! You’re embarrassing me and the transporter!”

Boy: *belligerent* “Why? She’s got one!”

(I’ve finally had enough. I lean down and tell him, loud enough for his parents to hear:)

Me: “You keep using language like that and that’s as close to a real one as you’ll ever get.”

(There was stunned silence from the entire family. Then the parents started cracking up.)

(I work in a hospital lab. We often will send samples to other labs if specialized testing is requested (especially genetic testing). When we pack it, the boxes are labeled all over with stickers that say “temperature sensitive,” and “human origin specimens.” We also send a shipping manifest electronically to the lab so that they know it’s coming and can match the samples to the paperwork. We get a doctor who calls and wants to know why he hasn’t seen results on a patient from about three weeks ago. We call the lab we had sent it to.)

Lab Assistant: “I’m wondering about a sample we sent you a while back. Do you have an update on it? It’s—” *gives the identifying information*

Other Lab: “We never got it. We called Veronica about it.”

Lab Assistant: “What are you talking about? We don’t have a Veronica. The contact name on the shipping manifest would be our supervisor, [Name] and it was signed by [Other Name]. We have a duplicate copy of it.”

Other Lab: “We never got it.”

(About two days later, we get an international call. It is an appliance factory in Mexico. We learn that after the shipping company tagged the sample as received at the other lab, it was somehow loaded back on a truck and sent to Mexico. After speaking with the shipping company, we learn that it was the other lab’s doing. We call the other lab and try to figure out what to do about this issue. The other lab just keeps insisting that it isn’t their fault, that we should have marked the box better. We don’t really want to play the blame game; we just want to make sure this testing gets done, and that the patient doesn’t get charged twice for very expensive genetic testing. Finally, after they keep on going on about blame, one of the other lab scientists asks the lab assistant to give them the phone.)

Lab Scientist: “Look, I don’t care whose fault it is. We just want this to work out for the patient, but since you’re stuck on this topic, we weren’t the ones who shipped human biological samples across an international border without customs declaration, and also discussed privileged health information with some lady named Veronica who clearly has nothing to do with this issue. So, if you want to play the blame game, you probably won’t like your consequences.”

(They shut up about blaming after that.)

(My mother and I are deciding on a gift to buy for a sick relative. I wander away so she can check out but a few minutes later she comes over to me, empty handed and confused.)

Mother: “I was at the register about to buy it, but a woman standing next to me looked over and grabbed it out of my hands!”

Me: “You’re kidding! Did she ask for it?”

Mother: “No! She just grabbed it and handed it to the cashier. And the cashier rang her up!”

Me: “Mom, there’s a phrase that my friends and I use. It makes you feel a bit better sometimes.”

Mother: “Okay…” *keep in mind, she is an older and very mild mannered woman*

Me: “Entitlement b****!”

Mother: *happily and with great diction* “Entitlement b****!”

(I work in a call center that mainly serves as an after-hours line for local hospitals and clinics. Routine questions revealed this particular caller to be a pregnant teenager and someone who speaks English as a first language.)

Me: “Good evening. How may I help you?”

Patient: *using the most arrogant and condescending tone imaginable* “I need to speak to a doctor, right now!”

Me: “Miss, are you currently experiencing an emergency? Bleeding, difficulty breathing—”

Patient: “No, no, but this is really important!”

Me: “Would you like me to take a message?”

Patient: “NO! I said I need to talk to a DOCTOR, NOW!”

(The doctor’s line is reserved for emergencies only. Nonetheless, I continue politely.)

Me: “What seems to be the nature of the problem, miss?”

Patient: “The doctor gave me these prenatal vitamins, and I need them to tell me how much I should take!”

Me: “…You mean the dosage instructions printed on the side of the bottle?”