Me: “This is medical records. How can I help you?”

Patient’s Girlfriend: “My man was in the ER yesterday and we need to know what’s wrong with him.”

Me: “Okay. He just needs to fill out a release of information. I can fax one to you, or mail one to you, or you can come in, whichever is easiest for you.”

Patient’s Girlfriend: “You can’t just tell me?”

Me: “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. That’s against HIPAA regulation.”

Patient’s Girlfriend: “He’s too sick to come in! And we don’t have no fax.”

Me: “Then you can come in, pick up a release, and then take it back to have him fill it out authorizing his records to be released to you. When you can come back we can give you his records.”

Patient’s Girlfriend: “I don’t have a driver’s license! He doesn’t have one either. This is bulls***!”

(Meanwhile, I can hear the patient in the background, shouting about how he’s ‘paying for HIPAA’ and how everything is Obama’s fault before he finally takes the phone from the girl.)

Patient: “You look here. I f****** need to know now! I’m really f****** sick and I need to know what’s f****** wrong with me! I’ll come get you when I die!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I really can’t release information over the phone. If you’re seeing a doctor who needs to know what you were seen for in the ER, they can contact us and we can send them the records directly.”

Patient: “I’m not seeing no f****** doctor. I don’t have no ‘Obamacare.’ I just wanna know what’s wrong with me!”

Me: *giving up* “Would you like to speak to my director?

Patient: “D*** yes, I’ll speak to your director! I’ll send Obama after you!”

(I attempt to transfer the call to my director. It rings through to her voicemail so I go ahead and transfer him so he can leave a message. After hanging up, I stare at the phone for a few minutes before turning to my coworker next to me.)

Me: “That might be the most occurrences of the f-word I’ve ever heard in five minutes.”

(Ten minutes later, a coworker from another part of the office comes in.)

Coworker #2: “Um, there’s a patient on the phone who’s really upset. He says he needs his records right now.”

Coworker #1: “Is he saying the f-word a lot?”

(Coworker #2 nods and Coworker #1 sighs.)

Coworker #1: “Tell him to see if maybe one of the doctors or nurses who treated him will talk to him and transfer him to the ER.”

(Five minutes later Coworker #1’s phone rings.)

Coworker #1: “Thank you for calling… What? Oh, good grief. I think we just talked to him, but go ahead and put him through. Health Information Management. How can I help you? Mmhm. No, I can’t give you any information over the phone. All right. I’ll hold, but I can’t break the law for him, either.

(My coworker hangs up the phone and catches my curious look.)

Coworker #1: “He told me he was going to transfer me to the White House so I could talk to Obama. When I said I’d hold, he muttered something about his stupid smartphone, and then told me to f*** off and hung up.”

(I’m in the waiting room of the endoscopy center, waiting for my grandma to come out from her colonoscopy. A nurse opens the door and reads aloud from a chart.)

Nurse: “Theodore?”

Old Man: “Yes?”

Nurse: “Okay, so you’re Theodore?”

Old Man: “Yes, ma’am.”

Nurse: “And you’re here for a colonoscopy today, correct?”

Old Man: “What?!”

Nurse: “A… colonoscopy?”

Old Man: “NO! My WIFE is!”

Nurse: “Oh. You’re not Theodore?”

Old Man: “You said PETER, so I answered you!”

Nurse: “… Okay, then. Is Theodore here?”

(An old man walks from the back of the waiting room.)

Theodore: “I’m sorry. I heard him answer, so I assumed another Theodore was ahead of me.”

Peter: “Well, I know one thing. I am not deaf, and she definitely said Peter first.”

Theodore: “Well, I am deaf, and she said Theodore. You may need your hearing checked, sir.”

(I’m 34 weeks pregnant and on bed rest at the hospital. I’ve been having extreme pelvic pain. My four-year-old son has come to visit me and is climbing on top of the hospital bed.)

Son: “Don’t worry. I’ll watch out for your vagina.”

(I work as a nurse for outpatient procedures. A patient has come in for a not-very-painful procedure, and has already received all of the drugs that we can safely give her for pain. This amount would have had a normal person sleeping by now.)

Patient: *screaming like she’s being tortured*

Me: “Oh, sweetheart, I know this is hard.”

(I put my hand in hers.)

Me: “Here. Try and breathe, and squeeze my hand.”

(She throws my hand away from her.)

Patient: “I don’t want your f****** hand. I WANT MY GODD*** DRUGS!”

(There’s a family history of blood clots and I’ve been showing symptoms for a few days. One hospital cleared me several days prior but my leg is now double the size and purple. I’m at another hospital and have been waiting for six hours.)

Doctor: “So [Other Hospital] said you don’t have a clot?”

Me: “That’s right but my symptoms have worsened.”

Doctor: “This can’t be a clot if they said it’s clear.”

Me: “Then why am I showing every symptom?”

Doctor: “It’s probably just a muscle tear, and you are taking up important bed space. You need to leave.”

Me: “But if this is a clot it could kill me! I’m not going anywhere until you rescan it.”

Doctor: “That’s not going to happen. You need to leave!”

(My mum is with me and seeks out the chief resident and makes a complaint. The doctor returns.)

Doctor: “Fine! I’ll do one blood test. If it’s positive then we’ll see about the scan!”

(They draw blood and come back 30 minutes later. The doctor doesn’t say anything, just takes the brake off my bed and wheels me away.)

Me: “Where are we going?”

Doctor: “… I’m taking you for the scan.”

(The best bit? Not only did I have a blood clot, I had two at 20 cm each, a total of 40 cm and the radiologist said I was only a few hours off needing surgery or the clots migrating to my lungs. By the time I got back to the ward I had a new doctor!)