(I have been diagnosed with Lipo/Lymph-edema several years ago, and because of that, I have gained an ungainly amount of weight on my lower half waist down and my arms. To be honest, I have not stopped caring about my weight, and every miserably failed diet has been a throwback to my mental health, too. My former doctor of choice, sadly, could not keep practicing, so I am on the lookout for a new specialist to take care of me and my needs of MLD — Manual lymph drainage — and compression stockings, to give me at least a little relief from the fluid build up in my extremities. Finding this doctor in a well-known hospital close by, a so-called specialist that was recommended to me, seems to be a lucky find!)

Doctor: “Ah, I see. A classical lip-edema type, complete with lymph-edema. Losing weight is horrible, isn’t it? No wonder, with the genetic factors, and the fact that lip-edema cannot be starved off.”

(Finally, a doctor who is not fat-shaming me or telling me to stop stuffing my face!)

Me: *almost melting into the exam table from relief* “Oh, God, yeah. It’s a nightmare! Not even six months on a 1200-calorie diet helped! And the lymph-edema is making it worse; every step hurts!”

Doctor: “Well, no wonder it hurts. I can–” *presses a thumb into my calf, making a nice deep dent there that stays even after he takes his thumb away* “–do this, and it just shows how much fluid you got. Now, you need to lose weight, drastically, and after you lost 30 to 50 kilograms, you can come back, and we’ll see how you feel.”

Me: “What? You just said… You just said that losing weight…”

Doctor: “Yes, but you need to lose weight! Get a dog or a husband, and you’ll be busy enough to forget about food! To lose weight, you should stop eating those sugary snacks, and the sugary fruit, and all those carbs, and eat more red meat and poultry! But remember, you cannot have too much protein!”

Me: *stares, not believing what I just heard* “Uh… okay? But what about compression stockings, and the MLD?”

Doctor: “Yeah, you see, I am not going to prescribe you that. You can lose weight with a good diet, and then you won’t have those symptoms anymore.”

Me: “You said lip-edema cannot be starved off… and I’m really in pain from the lymph-edema and the fluid build up. At least to help with that?”

Doctor: “Yes, but it is not worth either my time, nor the money, nor the effort to prescribe any of that if you can just lose weight, and forget about it!”

Me: *getting up, feeling like I’m in the twilight zone right now* “All right…”

(I left after that, and met with my family physician, who stared at me, called the health insurance company to complain about that doctor, prescribed me the lymph drainage and compression stockings, gave me a pamphlet about a specialised clinic for my lipo/lymph-edema, and filled out forms to get me a spot there for a three week “rehab.” He also told me to eat “normally/healthily,” since, you guessed it, lip-edema cannot be starved off.)

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(While clocking into work, I unexpectedly suffer a stroke. I am a 35-year-old school bus driver and I do not take illegal drugs or drink alcohol. As the EMTs bring me into the ER, the doctor asks what my condition is.)

EMT: “She’s having a stroke.”

Doctor: “Nonsense. She’s too young. How old is she?”

EMT: “35.”

Doctor: “See, too young. Must be a drug overdose.”

EMT: “No, do the FAST test. Face; her smile is crooked. Arms; her left side is paralyzed. Speech; her words are slurred. Time; we got her here in time. Give her clot busters to break up the blood clot causing her stroke.”

Doctor: *angrily* “You’re just an EMT! I say it’s a drug overdose!”

(The EMTs leave, and the doctor turns to me, yelling.)

Doctor: “What drugs did you take?!”

Me: *slurred because the left side of my face and tongue are not working* “I can hear you fine; you don’t have to yell. I took some Nyquil last night for a cold.”

Doctor: *sarcastically* “Nyquil?! More like Meth!” *to nurse* “I need a meth overdose kit here!”

Me: *trying to yell back at him* “I. Don’t. Take. Drugs.”

Nurse: *reluctantly bringing kit* “Are you sure? She shows classic stroke signs.”

(As the doctor gets an overdose injection ready, my husband enters the room, having met and talked to the EMTs in the ambulance bay as they were leaving.)

Husband: “Stop. Don’t touch her again.”

Doctor: *sputtering* “She’s obviously a drug addict. I’m giving her the best treatment for that.”

Husband: “And you’re obviously an idiot.”

(My husband and the doctor are circling my gurney during this exchange. The doctor is trying to stay out of my husband’s reach.)

Husband: *to nurse* “Please call for an ambulance; I want her treated at [Hospital ten miles away]. Not by him.” *points at the doctor*

(The doctor practically sprints from room.)

Nurse: *to husband* “I thought you were gonna kill him. I kind of wish you had caught him.”

(The same EMTs returned. As they were loading me into the ambulance they told my husband that they told that doctor I was having a stroke, but he’s kind of a know-it-all a**hole and they were glad I would be treated somewhere else. I was greeted at the other ER by a neurologist with clot-busting drugs at the door. He says that, luckily, that delay won’t impact my recovery.)

(I fall outside my front door. I still can’t walk on my ankle two days later, and given my rather unfortunate history with broken bones, my parents decide to take me to the hospital to have it x-rayed. I am pretty sure it isn’t broken but better safe than sorry. I have it x-rayed and the doctor comes in with the x-ray picture. She puts it on the wall where we can all see it.)

Doctor: “I don’t think that it is broken, but it is a little hard to tell with all the previous fractures. I sent it to a specialist, just to make sure. If it is broken, we will call you tomorrow.”

Mother: “[My Name] has fortunately only had greenstick fractures so far!”

Doctor: *looks at the big, obvious nick on my bone, then looks at my mum* “No.”

(I cracked up, and the doctor pointed the old break out to my mum. I’d had another fall six months before, but I didn’t bother going to the hospital because I have my own crutches and bandages at home. I had thought it was just a sprain, but apparently not. My ankle was not broken this time, but my parents now take me to the hospital if there’s the slightest chance something is broken.)

My daughter is in the ICU suffering from Guillain-Barré syndrome. She is totally paralysed from her eyes to the tips of her toes, being made to breathe via a tracheotomy and a bank of syringe drivers automatically delivering an assortment of high-strength pain relief. A friend comes to visit and I warn her that my daughter is suffering from a bad headache today.

“Oh,” she says, “Have they given her anything for it?”

Both the nurse and I have to look away. Duh!

(My father is experiencing severe vertigo, to the point where he can’t even crawl. We are in the ER waiting for his turn at the MRI. My dad is a large man with a beard. A doctor we don’t recognize walks into the room and stops short.)

Doctor: “Um…” *looks at his chart, then at Dad, then at my mom and me* “ Mrs. [Wrong Name]?”

Me: “I think you have the wrong room.”

Doctor: “I think you might be right; none of you look like you’re in labor right now.”

(We all laugh with him over his mistake and he leaves. Dad gets his MRI and is wheeled back in while we wait for the results. The same doctor comes in again.)

Doctor: “Let’s try this again, Mr. [Different Wrong Name]?”

Mom: “Nope.”

Doctor: “Nail through the foot?”

Me: “Wrong room again.”

Doctor: “D*** it. How…?”

(He checks the chart in his hands, then runs out and checks the room number.)

Doctor: “Somebody put the wrong room on the chart.”

(He runs off to find his patient. A while later, the ER doctors have run all the tests they can on Dad and still can’t find a cause. They’ve tentatively diagnosed him with a viral infection and have given him instructions for follow-up. Unfortunately, there is a multi-car pile-up and they suddenly get so busy they can’t spare anyone long enough to do the discharge paperwork. We do our best to stay out of the way. The same doctor comes in again, looks at his chart, then face-palms.)

Doctor: “Okay, none of you are a teenage girl with a broken pelvis! What the h***?!”

Mom: “We’re just such fun people that you’re making excuses to come hang out with us!”

Doctor: *laughing* “That must be it! Right!”

(I know he must have been frustrated, but I think he needed the comic relief as much as we did on that stressful night.)