(I am thirteen years old. I break my wrist and end up with a fibreglass cast. After about six weeks, when it is time to get it off, my dad takes me to a medical centre. The nurse who is allocated to the task of removing it is a little abrupt when describing the process, but in a way that makes me think she is just busy.)

Nurse: “So, we’ll be using this saw to cut along the length of the cast on your arm and then make a cut around the thumb. You’ll feel a small tickling sensation.”

Me: “Sounds good; ready when you are!”

(The nurse inserts what is essentially a wooden tongue depressor under the cast so that the drill hits that and not skin, and then cuts along the length of my arm. It feels fine; there’s no pain or tickling. The nurse changes to the thumb section, puts the wooden thing under the cast, and starts to saw. I start to realize that it’s hurting rather than kind of vibrating.)

Me: “Um, that’s actually kind of hurting; can we stop?”

Nurse: *stops, but scoffs* “We can’t stop! Do you want a cast on your arm forever?”

Me: “Um, no, it just really hurts.”

Dad: *getting concerned* “She’s normally pretty good with pain; can we try it a different way?”

Nurse: “There’s no other way to do it. We need to cut it loose around the thumb, and I’m nearly done, anyway!”

(FINALLY, after about a minute of me trying to hold still and not flinch, the cut around my thumb was finally done and the cast could be removed. As soon as it came off, the nurse went white, kind of muttered something about getting a doctor, and walked out of the room. I then looked down and realised my thumb was dripping with blood, because the saw wasn’t sitting on the wooden depressor but instead cutting into my hand the whole time. My hand was fine, and the cut was super-glued shut, which gave me a fun story to tell at school for a week! To all nurses out there: I understand how busy and overworked you are, and that sometimes people complain of pain when there’s really nothing there, but sometimes there is something wrong with your routine procedure!)

(I am attending university and have started my third year. After some bad experiences with roommates, I have moved into an on-campus apartment where I live by myself. Everything is just fine until I come back from visiting my parents over winter break. One morning when I wake up and start to get ready for class, I notice an odd sound, like someone has turned on a garden hose and left it running at high volume. Because it’s winter, this seems very strange, but I need to eat and get to class so I put it out of my mind and continue on with my day. By the time I get home that evening, the sound is still going, and I manage to figure out where it seems to be coming from, so I submit a ticket to maintenance describing the sound and explaining that it is coming from somewhere beneath my ground floor apartment. The next day, I get a call from the maintenance office.)

Maintenance: “We have a ticket that says you think someone left a hose running on the premises?”

Me: “I don’t know if that’s what it is, but I’m hearing a lot of water running.”

Maintenance: “We don’t have any hoses out right now; are you sure you’re hearing water?”

Me: “Yes. It sounds like a lot of it, too.”

Maintenance: “Is there water on your floor?”

Me: “No, but it sounds like whatever it is is below my apartment.”

Maintenance: “If there’s no water, there’s nothing we can do. If you have no further questions, I am closing your ticket.”

(The whole conversation is a bit odd, but I don’t have much to report other than the sound. It continues non-stop for two weeks before the water pressure in my apartment suddenly dips. I send in another ticket and request that maintenance come by on an afternoon when I’ll be home so I can ask a few questions. When the maintenance person shows up, it’s the same man I talked to on the phone. I turn on the sink in the kitchenette and the faucet in the bathtub to show him that it’s not just a problem with one fixture when he asks about it. He tinkers around for a while before declaring that it’ll probably solve itself in a couple of days. Before he leaves, I ask about the running water sound. It’s been ongoing since he arrived, and it’s very loud.)

Maintenance: *giving me a skeptical look* “That’s your heating unit kicking on.”

Me: “Why does my heating unit sound like running water?”

(He shrugs and leaves. At this point I don’t want to argue because I need to head to work. As the semester continues, however, I find myself becoming increasingly concerned. Whatever this is, there is a lot of water involved, and whenever I try to talk to maintenance about it, they completely dismiss my concerns. By the time spring break rolls around, I have gotten the housing department involved in the hopes that they will take this more seriously. At one time or another, I have spoken to a majority of the maintenance staff, and I get the feeling they’re now convinced I’m a nuisance caller. Since I’ll be gone over the break and I want to get this dealt with, I print off copies of each ticket I’ve submitted and make a recording of the sound on my phone before heading over to the housing office to talk to someone in person. I am assured they’ll look into it and leave a few days later. I’m out with my parents when I start receiving frantic emails and a couple of phone calls. When I can, I answer the phone.)

Housing Rep: “Hello? Is this [My Name]?”

Me: “Yes, hello. May I ask who this is?”

Housing Rep: “This is Student Housing. I’m calling regarding your apartment on campus. The building has been condemned by the city, and we’re trying to move all student residents to other units. Do you have a preference for where you would like to move?”

Me: “Wait. My apartment is condemned? What happened?”

Housing Rep: “Due to a leak in the water main, the city has declared the building unsafe for residents. We are evacuating all apartments above the leak and moving you into alternative housing.”

(When I got back and went in to move my stuff, I found out that they had an “oh, s***” moment after jackhammering into the concrete pad under my apartment. I guess three months of leaking water destabilizes the ground when you’ve got buildings on a sandy floodplain. Who knew?)

About 15 years ago, I went to the drive-thru at [Fast Food Place] and ordered a grilled chicken sandwich with no tomato. When I got the bag, I looked in and saw a sandwich wrapper with a tag attached that said, “Special order, no tomato.” I drove a few miles away, parked the car, and settled down to eat my lunch.

Unwrapping the sandwich, I found that even with the “no tomato” tag, it still had a slice. I picked it off and left it on the wrapper, then proceeded to eat my sandwich.

An hour or so later, I was heading back in the direction of the same place, so I pulled in. There happened to be no line, and the pickup window was open, so I pulled up to it, plopped my wrapper with the “no tomato” tag outside and the tomato slice inside on the counter inside the window, and took off.

I hope the manager got the message.

(A few weeks ago, my 17-year-old son totaled his car. Today, I received an automated call from the dealership, reminding us that the car was past due for an oil change and tire rotation. I call them back to explain that the car has been totaled and that they need to remove our number from that system.)

Me: “Hi, I just received a call stating that we need to bring the car in for service.”

Dealership: “Okay, we can schedule you for next Tuesday. How’s 9:00?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, but the car was totaled in an accident. We don’t need service on it anymore.”

Dealership: “All cars need service, ma’am, to ensure they run properly and to keep your warranty valid.”

Me: “You’re not listening to me. The car was totaled. It’s dead. It doesn’t need service anymore.”

Dealership: “I can probably fit you in on Friday at 2:00, but you may need to wait.”

Me: “Again, you’re not listening. The car is dead. It was hauled off to the junkyard. It will never need servicing again. I’d like you to remove us from the calling list since we no longer own the car.”

Dealership: “You don’t own the car?”

Me: “Not anymore.”

Dealership: *long pause* “Who did you sell it to? We can arrange service for them.”

Me: *trying to remain calm* “We didn’t sell it. It was totaled in an accident. Do you know what ‘totaled’ means?”

Dealership: “I—”

Me: “It’s dead. It was in a fatal accident. The entire right side was smashed up and a wheel fell off. The insurance company officially totaled the car, and it’s now in a junkyard. Why is that so hard for you to understand? We no longer own the car and we don’t need to receive any more maintenance reminder calls.”

(She finally gets the message, and takes down my name and the vehicle type.)

Dealership: “Can I get your phone number in case someone needs to call you back?”

Me: “What for? The car’s dead. Stop calling us to schedule maintenance. There’s no need for anyone to call us back for anything.”

(I had never before been in a situation where I felt the desire to start quoting Monty Python’s Dead Parrot sketch, but if she couldn’t understand what it means to call a car dead or totaled, she certainly wouldn’t have understood if I started calling it an “ex-car.”)

(I’ve been having awful pains for months now. I keep bringing it up to my family doctor, who passes it off as period cramps, as I’m a twenty-something female. I finally talk him into looking into it more, and he says it might be a kidney stone. I get referred to a urologist, all while being told, “I still think it’s period cramps.” I go in for my first visit after taking an x-ray.)

New Doctor: “Okay, so, where is your pain at?”

Me: “It’s mostly on my right side, a little bit higher up.”

(He looks at where I’m pointing, then at some paperwork. He shuffles through it a bit.)

New Doctor: “Okay, yeah. You have a kidney stone. It’s a good-sized one, too. We’re going to get some more images of it to confirm size and position before we talk about how to deal with it. Any questions about that?”

Me: “I… don’t think so. You’re sure it’s a kidney stone?”

New Doctor: “Unless you have a frozen pea in your urinary tract, it’s a stone.”

(I ended up having surgery, and passed it all with no problem. My family doctor never blamed pain on period cramps again.)