(I have an allergy to latex, which when used causes me to break out in rashes. I’ve known this for years and always inform my medical staff of such. It’s my first pregnancy and I’m having pains. I go to the ER and am sent to the pregnancy ward, with allergy bracelets. A doctor walks in and reads my chart.)

Doctor: “It says you’re having what might be contractions. I’m just going to do a check to make sure you aren’t.”

(The doctor promptly puts on gloves and checks me. It takes me a moment, through my intense pain, to realize she’s wearing latex gloves.)

Me: “Are those latex? I’m allergic!”

Doctor: “What? Why didn’t you tell the nurses?”

Me: “I did. They have a warning on the door, in my chart and I’m wearing the color coded latex allergy bracelet.”

Doctor: “Well how was I supposed to notice all that? That’s not my job! That’s your job. Next time tell your doctor before they use the gloves.”

(She immediately rushes off to send me through tests. For the next week, I had a nasty rash and swelling, thanks to the doctor’s failure. Now, I ask everyone about everything, just in case my many fail safes aren’t enough.)

(I am at work on a particularly hot day, when my hands and ears start itching. At first I pay no attention to it, but eventually I start itching in other places, and I see welts appearing on my arms. Having never had an allergic reaction to anything, I have no idea what they are, but they keep getting worse and worse throughout the day, and then throughout the evening. Finally, my boyfriend drags me out to the car and takes me to the emergency room at the hospital nearby. The triage nurse appears very angry that another patient has showed up.)

Triage Nurse: “Help you?”

Boyfriend: “Yes, my girlfriend has these welts all over her, and they’re getting worse. She’s also having trouble breathing. I think we need a doctor.”

Triage Nurse: *without even looking at me* “It’s probably just heat rash. Fill out these forms and bring them back when you’re done.”

(She hands the forms to us, and I’m so out of it I have to have my boyfriend fill them out for me. He leaves me sitting in the waiting room to turn them in, and we settle in to wait. Nearly 45 minutes later, I’m gasping for breath and the welts have spread all over my chest, stomach, arms, legs, feet, hands, throat, and ears. Finally, we go up to the desk to see what’s going on; my boyfriend is practically carrying me.)

Boyfriend: “Look, my girlfriend is getting a lot worse while we’ve been sitting here waiting. How much longer is it going to be?”

Triage Nurse: *glaring at my boyfriend* “It’s just a heat rash; I don’t know why you two even came in—”

(Just then, a doctor happens to come out of the doors next to the desk. He takes one look at me, and then turns to the nurse.)

Doctor: “How long has she been here?!”

Boyfriend: “Almost an hour.”

Doctor: “Are you kidding me?!”

(The doctor calls to a couple of orderlies.)

Doctor: “Get her back here NOW!” *turns to the nurse* “What were you thinking, making her wait like that?”

Triage Nurse: “It’s just a heat rash!”

Doctor: “LOOK at her: does that look like a heat rash to you?! No, don’t answer that; I’ll deal with you once I’ve got her stabilized!”

(I’m taken back to be treated, and given several shots. At one point, I start to drift off to sleep and the doctor slaps me awake, telling me not to DARE go to sleep yet. Finally, I’m stable, and he sends my boyfriend in to sit with me while I’m recovering, and he goes to speak to the triage nurse. I can hear him yelling at her, and then he comes back in to us.)

Doctor: “Feeling better?”

Me: “Oh yes, much better. What happened? What were those welts?”

Doctor: “You had a really bad allergic reaction to something; those were hives. And your boyfriend saved your life. You wouldn’t have lived the night if he hadn’t brought you in, and to be honest with you, if that stupid nurse had made you wait longer, I’m not so sure we could have saved you, even in this short period of time! Next time you start breaking out in hives, take an antihistamine immediately, and then come see us right away if they get worse.”

(We thank him profusely, finish our paperwork, and leave. Ever since then, I’ve always been grateful to that doctor, and I always keep Benadryl on hand just in case!)

(One of my best friends on campus has cerebral palsy, and is confined to a wheelchair. Between the CP and a strong accent, she sometimes has trouble making herself clearly understood to strangers. She is having a strong allergic skin reaction to something; her aid has gone for the night, so I go with her to the hospital. The nurse is crouched down in the waiting room beside my friend’s chair.)

Nurse: “And how old is she?”

My Friend: “20.”

(Instead of responding to my friend, the nurse looks at me.)

Nurse: “Is that correct?”

Me: “I would assume. She can speak for herself. I’m only here as a friend.”

Nurse. “And for how long have you had these symptoms?”

My Friend: “I noticed them this morning, but they’ve gotten very bad.”

(Again, the nurse looks at me instead of my friend; I say nothing. She continues doing this for several moments, asking questions and then looking at me, until my friend finally snaps.)

My Friend: “You talk to me, not her! She’s my friend; she doesn’t know anything about my medical stuff.”

(The nurse stands up and storms away. I follow, more than a little angry on my friend’s behalf.)

Nurse: *to me* “You may think it’s nice to let her pretend to be a real person, but some of us are trying to run a hospital.”

Me: “Excuse me?! She’s in a wheelchair; she’s not stupid! She IS a real person.”

Nurse: “Well if you want to pretend that’s true, that’s on you.”

(I am struck completely silent in rage and shock. A doctor, who I haven’t seen until he SLAMS paperwork down on the desk, interjects.)

Doctor: “Nurse. Supervisor. Now.”

(The three of them go back into an office where the nurse comes out in tears; she was suspended for her behavior.)

This story is included in our Wheelchairs Versus Ableism roundup!

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(It is the day I am born. I am an emergency C-section, so my father isn’t allowed in the room when I am born.)

Nurse: *telling my father about me* “Yes she’s a big girl, 9 pounds and 16 ounces!”

Dad: “You mean 10 pounds?”

Nurse: “No, 9 pounds and 16 ounces.”

Dad: “That’s 10 pounds.”

Nurse: “Sir, it’s 9 pounds and 16 ounces.”

Dad: “…”

Nurse: “Oh wait…”

(My mom is in labor with my twin sisters. She’s been left in her hospital room, as she isn’t in active labor yet.)

Mom: *curls over with pain* “Something’s wrong. Really wrong!”

(Mom starts to repeatedly press buzzer. Five to ten minutes go by with no response. My dad goes to the nurses’ station to see them all chatting, with the buzzer appearing to be disconnected.)

Dad: “My wife needs some help! She’s been buzzing for the last ten minutes!”

Nurse: “Oh, it’s her first kid, she’s just nervous. She’s fine.”

Dad: “No, she’s not! Come check on her!”

Other Nurse: “She’s fine!”

(They continue to ignore my dad, until the commotion brings a doctor out to investigate.)

Doctor: “What’s going on?”

Dad: “My wife needs help! There’s something wrong!”

Nurse: “She’s fine.”

Dad: “They haven’t even looked at her!”

Doctor: “Then how do you know she’s fine? I’ll take a look.”

(The doctor, my dad, and the nurse all go to my mom’s room. The doctor checks my mom and my sisters.)

Doctor: “Get this woman into an emergency C-section. She’s in fetal distress!”

Nurse: “But we need time to do that!”

Doctor: “And you would’ve had it if you’d listened; now go!”

(The nurses later try to blame my dad, but the doctor reams them out instead. Fortunately, both my sisters are born healthy!)