I was in the hospital during high school. My mom was visiting me when a couple of guys with a gurney came in.

Nurse #1: “All right, sir, let’s go.”

At that point, I’d had a number of tests done on me already, and I assumed this was another one. Plus, I was on pain meds and a little out of it.

Nurse #2: “You’re gonna need your coat.”

It was winter, so that would have made sense if we were going to go outside.

Mom: “Where are you taking him?”

Nurse #1: “To his chemo treatment.”

Mom: “He had his appendix out.”

The nurse checked my chart and, lo and behold, they had the wrong guy. 

I’ve since joked that I wish my mom hadn’t caught them, because I could have had an easy malpractice case, but I hope the actual doctors would have caught on to the fact that they had the wrong person.

That wasn’t even the worst thing that happened to me as a consequence of that hospital trip. Not even close.

CONTENT WARNING: Serious Injury (Chainsaw to the finger)

My mother suffered an injury to her finger while working in the garden and was bleeding quite badly. Knowing she would definitely need medical attention, she wrapped up her finger and called the hospital to book herself in.

She sounded quite casual about the whole thing as she spoke to the receptionist on the phone.

Mother: “Hello. I’ve cut myself quite badly, and I think it’s probably going to need stitches.”

Receptionist: “Well, I’ll see if we can fit you in. You’ll probably need to be triaged.”

Mother: “It is bleeding quite a lot.”

Receptionist: “Well, make sure you keep it bandaged for now, and I’ll check when there’s a spot available.”

At that point, I decided I’d better intervene, as there were key aspects of the situation that she hadn’t mentioned, and the receptionist, naturally, was assuming from her casual tone that it was something pretty minor.

I shouted loud enough to be heard down the phone.

Me: “She cut herself with a chainsaw!”

Receptionist: *Taken aback* “Oh! Um— Well, I think we may have a cancellation…”

Full disclosure: my mother had been up a tree trimming branches off and had managed to catch the end of her finger on the chain. Thankfully, it had only been a glancing blow, so it wasn’t as serious as it could have been, but it was still bad enough and did need attending to pretty urgently.

As it was, we got her to hospital, the damage was repaired, and her fingernail (which had borne the brunt of the damage) did eventually grow back, though she still has a nasty scar where it happened. Now, a few years later, she often recounts the incident — particularly my part in it and the receptionist’s reaction — with some amusement.

My partner and I lived in Alberta for quite a long time. In 2020, he decided to move some of his belongings to Nova Scotia. (We planned to retire there together, so we wanted to take belongings there over time.) He got to the Nova Scotia border at the end of April 2020, right when the border slammed shut.

Fast forward two years. We only saw each other three times in that time period, even though we talked on the phone every day. In July, I flew to spend two and a half weeks with him. My dad was also driving across the country to meet us there to spend time with me, my partner, and his family. 

At the end of the first week, my partner and I went camping for five days, trailering our motorbikes there. (It was too far for me to drive that entire way.) The first day, there was no problem driving my bike; we spent hours all over the place. The second day, the morning was fine, although I laid the bike down a couple of times. We came up to a T intersection, I waited for traffic, and then I started around the corner. My handlebars jerked to the left, I lost my balance, and I fell with my left arm outstretched. Instant pain. I could wiggle my fingers and move my wrist. I thought it was sprained.

My partner got the bike up and yelled at me to get up, which took me a few minutes to do. He kept telling me, “It’s just a bruise, it’s just a bruise,” so I got back on that bike, lifted my left hand to the clutch, and rode the bike for a half hour back to the campsite.

Some of the other campers came over to see what had happened and got me kitted out with a sling. We stayed there until the last day of our reservation and then drove back to [Partner]’s mom’s place where he was living. [Partner]’s mom took one look at me and told me that I was going to the hospital; my arm had swollen right down to my fingertips, and my upper arm was blueish-black.

We eventually got to the metropolitan hospital, and after a few hours, they were able to see me. After TEN X-rays, I figured it was worse than a sprain. The doctor came in.

Doctor: “The good news is that you need a CT scan. The bad news is that you need a CT scan because your shoulder is broken in three places.”

We got home at about 10:00 in the morning, and Dad arrived at noon. He was NOT expecting to hear that his daughter had a broken shoulder!

They were able to get me into surgery two days after that — a full seven days after I broke it! I had a plate and screws put in, and then I had six weeks of physiotherapy. I was planning to go to my dad’s at that point, so I was happy when I went in for my surgical follow-up. I was NOT so happy when they told me that it hadn’t healed at all. In fact, the bone had slid, and screws were up in the joint space. I ended up having an emergent shoulder replacement (titanium) and a lot more physio after that.  

The total time that I spent in Nova Scotia was three and a half months — way longer than the two and a half weeks I’d planned! After that, I did go to my dad’s, and I have been there since. I was off work for thirteen months, and I went back to work for the same company with restrictions. (They were so patient; it was unreal.) It’s been a bitter pill to swallow that I’ll likely never be able to lift properly above my head or make certain other movements.

On the other hand, my physiotherapist has been a godsend, as has as my auto insurance!

Don’t be like me: when you’re hurt, get it checked out!

At the time of this story, I was seventeen years old, serving military service in Austria. (You can choose between six months of military service or nine months of civil service. Since I was kind of a rebel in school, I wanted to do civil service, not having to be ordered around that much, but my army dad convinced me to do military service.) I ended up doing my military service in a big army hospital’s dental station doing X-rays and performing other jobs I wasn’t trained or qualified for.

So, there I was, stuck in this institution I hated, having to deal with people I disliked for six months. For the record, I don’t drink alcohol or smoke (which is legal by the age of sixteen in Austria, and quite a few start at age thirteen). Even though I was always trying to be as nice and polite as possible, that already made me one of the most unpopular figures around the site, which consists of 95% men. (I am also male.)

One day, everybody was ready to leave. We were in the changing rooms. If the sergeant was in a good mood, we didn’t have to muster and could just go home. This happened about twice a week, so it wasn’t something rare. 

Someone came into the room and shouted, “No mustering today!”, which was met with cheers from the other recruits. I got into my casual clothes and went to my car as fast as possible.

The next day, I was asked to the first sergeant’s office, and he was fuming. He started yelling at me.

First Sergeant: “WHAT ON EARTH MADE YOU THINK YOU COULD LEAVE WITHOUT MUSTERING YESTERDAY?!”

Me: “I… Well, somebody said there wasn’t going to be any…”

Note that I was generally socially nervous back then and not good with words.

First Sergeant: “YOU DON’T HAVE ANY RESPECT FOR AUTHORITY! I WILL MAKE SURE THAT YOU FACE CONSEQUENCES FOR THAT ACTION! NOW GET OUT OF MY FACE!”

I wandered out of the office, speechless, holding back tears. Apparently, my “colleagues” had played a prank on me. I was very close to just leaving, but that would have made military police go after me, so I had to stay. I excused myself from the dental station for a small breakdown and tried to get the day done without talking to anyone.

The next day, I was ordered into the first sergeant’s office again. He smirked at me with a big grin, pointing to a broom, cloth, and sponge lying in a corner.

First Sergeant: “I have found a great little activity for you to do. There’s a room that has been freshly painted by recruits. You’re going to clean up the mess they made. I want this room clean enough to the point of being able to eat off the floor. These are your cleaning utensils. Be done by the end of the week. You are excused from the dental station until then.”

I took the stuff and went upstairs. Little did he know, I actually enjoy cleaning stuff because it’s very peaceful, and I’m a person who uses those occasions to sort my mind out. The room was a total mess. It was probably last cleaned before my parents were even born. I took the sponge, got down on the floor, and started. I didn’t get anything besides the sponge, the broom, and the cloth. There was an old sink where the painting recruits had washed off all the brushes and utensils. Everything was covered in paint. 

Three days later, I was exhausted but happy with myself; the room looked like new. Everything was shiny, from the old radiator to the sink. I had come to a point where I scratched off the paint with my nails. I was bleeding and hurting, my nails felt like they were coming off, and the sponge had a big hole in the middle, but I was deeply satisfied.

The first sergeant came to inspect my work, and I could tell he hadn’t expected me to be this precise. 

First Sergeant: “Well, I must admit, you did an excellent job.”

Me: “Thanks! Got any other rooms to clean?”

First Sergeant: “No, you can go back to the dental station again.”

That was the biggest problem I had with him during my time there, and I had peace for a short while — before he started being condescending to me again, even though I did most jobs better than the others.

There were many different occasions that I could write about, and I’m pretty sure no other employer could pull through with things they used to do there. It was a frustrating time, and even though I had to do it by law, I still consider it my first “job”. At least it set the bar very low, so my future jobs didn’t disappoint me as much.

I work at the main entrance of a hospital. To get inside, you walk through one set of sliding doors, which leads you into a small area with a couple of parking machines and another set of doors that goes into the main lobby.

One afternoon, I am on shift during a horrible cold snap where it is -35 Celsius (-31 F). Suddenly, a pipe between the doors bursts, and it immediately starts flooding the entire area, including the main lobby!

When the pipes first burst, I am talking with someone who is trying to locate a patient. Our conversation is interrupted when someone comes to the desk and points out the water pouring from the ceiling. I inform the lady I’ve been helping that I need to deal with the disaster, and I point to a courtesy phone in front of her that will immediately connect her with staff who can locate the patient. To my surprise, she gives me a look of absolute disgust. I point to the courtesy phone again as I pick my phone up to call in for help, and she very hesitantly looks at the courtesy phone. Not sure why she is so uncertain!

Then, as water rapidly begins filling the area, a patient in a wheelchair attempts to go over to the ATM located right next to the doors. I inform him that he can’t go there.

Patient: “But I want to use the ATM!”

Me: “You will have to go to the food court to use theirs.”

Patient: “But that one doesn’t work with my card!” *Tries to move forward*

Me: “Sir, you cannot go past here!”

Patient: “I want to use the ATM!”

Me: “Sir, this is an emergency! You absolutely can’t go past here!”

A healthcare worker was able to redirect him, thankfully, but there were towels and an inch or two of dirty water everywhere, and people were frantically running about, trying to mitigate the disaster… and all he cared about was using the ATM!