(I have been extremely sick with stomach issues for quite a long time, but have had zero luck finding a doctor who will take on a Medicaid patient. One day, the pain after trying to eat something becomes so severe that I ask my grandma to take me to the ER. We go to the main hospital downtown and wait. My mom eventually gets off work and comes to take grandma’s place waiting with me. Finally, after over eight hours, I’m called back. We sit with the doctor and talk about my symptoms: non-stop nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, lack of appetite, exhaustion, unable to keep anything solid down, and so on, getting progressively worse over the course of more than a year. I’ve survived on an increasingly all-liquid diet all that time, so it’s clear something’s wrong.)

Doctor: “Well, you’re young, so I’m not too worried about it. I know you’re in school right now. Remember, your state of mind can really affect your body. Have you been depressed at all?”

(Yep, no tests or anything other than checking my blood sugar and doing a pregnancy and drug screening. I am discharged with basically the advice to try to relax and find a GP to discuss things with. Exactly one week later, I’m at home, and this time start vomiting blood pretty much nonstop rather than the usual intermittent basis. I call the nursing helpline for my Medicaid provider.)

Nurse: “You’re bleeding internally. You need to get to an ER immediately. Do you have someone who can drive you, or should I line up a ride for you?”

Me: “Well, I was literally just in the ER last week.”

Nurse: “Miss, you really need to go back. Is there someone who can take you?”

Me: “Yeah, I know my mom will take me if I tell her. Thank you.”

(Sure enough, my mom came to get me, and we headed for the one hospital in town not part of the network that ran the other one, as it was the local Catholic hospital. I was checked in and taken back within a few minutes, the doctor really listened, and they did tests, giving me meds to help with the nausea in the meantime. Turns out, my H. pylori numbers were practically astronomical, and the ultrasound revealed visible swelling where an ulcer was on the brink of eating through my stomach, in addition to the anemia and high white cell count. I effectively got there pretty much just in time. So, yeah, that’s my story of how most of the medical system wanted to effectively leave me to die just because I couldn’t make enough between my four jobs while going to school, and the one hospital that saved my life. Thanks to a scheduler in the local medical system, I have since found a GP and a GI specialist who are working on the underlying autoimmune issue we’ve since found, as well as getting the stomach issues under control that I was left with due to long-term lack of treatment.)

(My jacket’s zipper has started misbehaving; most days it refuses to zip up, and even when it does, it “splits” at the bottom. I’ve taken it to a sewing place at the mall.)

Employee: *takes the jacket, zips it up with some effort, hands it back to me* “It’s fine. It doesn’t need to be fixed.”

Me: “It’s not fine. I’m having more and more trouble with it. I’d like a replacement zipper, please.” *hands jacket to her*

Employee: “That would cost [amount].” *hands jacket back*

Me: “That’s okay.” *hands jacket to her*

Employee: “It’ll take a week.” *tries to hand jacket back*

Me: “I don’t care! I’ll pay what it costs, and I’ll wait as long as it takes! Just please fix it!”

Employee: “FINE.” *writes up the order in silence and takes my payment while glaring at me*

(I’ve never had so much trouble convincing someone to take my money before.)

I go to see my dad one day while my mum is away on a trip, to keep him company and to help him get some stuff done. One of the things he wants to do is add new waterproofing strips to the top of his workshop. We set up the ladder and I go up while he cuts some blocks. Rather foolishly, we didn’t do anything resembling good practice while setting up the ladder, a fact that comes back to bite me when I try to climb down it and it slips out from under me. I fall and luckily I land feet-first, but then I tip forward, and this time I land head-first on the patio.

I scream and my dad rushes out. A quick damage assessment has a lot of blood streaming from my head and a small puddle of it on the floor. I should note at this point that my dad and I are absolutely terrible for seeking medical attention. The last time my dad was in hospital he had managed to nearly slice his thumb off, and I, likewise, had not gone to hospital since I was eight. But given the amount of blood, we decide a trip to the hospital might be a good idea.

Since we are close to the hospital, we decide it would be faster and easier to just drive me in. With a towel soaking the blood up, we drive to the hospital and I walk in. It’s worth noting that despite the fact I’m walking, my t-shirt is covered in blood. The towel at my head it quite wet with it, too; anyone with some sense should probably figure I’m an urgent case. The staff who assign severity of cases, however, take a different view on things. First, I have to sit for five minutes, and then I meet with someone to fill out my details before being sent down a hallway to another waiting room. After around five minutes here, the blood loss and shock is getting to me and I literally pass out onto the floor.

According to my dad, I am suddenly swarmed with nurses and doctors, my blood pressure and vitals are taken, and I am shoved onto a bed with a compress applied to my head. At first, however, there is some confusion as to who I am. It turns out the admitting nurse decided my case wasn’t that serious, “because he was walking,” and had listed me as discharged.

I am given a head CT and kept in for six hours of observation, diagnosed with a mild concussion and a large cut to the side of my head, which fortunately closes without the need for stitches. My dad thinks it is hilarious later when a sign on our way out reads, “Would you recommend [Hospital] to a friend?” With the way they handled my case…

(My hotel recently upgraded to key cards instead of old-school keys. Instead of getting the standard, cheap magnetic cards, we opted for more expensive cards with a chip and antenna in them that prevents them from deactivating. Because these cards aren’t cheap, we do charge for them when they are taken, and this notice is printed on each of the key cards to let guests know. One morning at checkout, I have a particularly difficult time with several guests yelling at me about the missing card charge. This interaction is the best, though.)

Me: *talking to the guest checking out* “So, you’re at a zero balance, and I’ll just need your key card, and you can be on your way!”

Guest: “I left it in the room.”

Me: “Are you sure? Because if our housekeeping staff cannot find it in the room, there is a charge for missing keys.”

Guest: “Are you serious? How much?”

Me: “£5. They’re not the cheap magnetic cards. They have a chip and antenna in them to prevent them—“

Guest: *cutting me off* “This is ridiculous! £5? You should be ashamed of yourself! I stay in hotels for business three times a week and I’ve not ever been charged for a key card!”

(He then starts to unload his things at the desk; he hangs his coat on the edge of the desk, takes out his phone, takes out ANOTHER phone, takes out his wallet, takes out his car keys… and then magically PULLS THE KEY CARD OUT OF HIS POCKET and slams it on the desk.)

Me: *trying to be as nice as possible, even though HE is the one who should be ashamed!* “Oh! Looks like it wasn’t in the room after all. Thank you sooo much for returning it, and I hope you have a nice day!”

(I work at a gas station on the overnight shifts. It’s usually me and one other person. There is rarely, if ever, a manager or supervisor there after midnight. This happens sometime after 2:00 am.)

Customer: *walks in* “Hey, do you guys still cook pizzas for customers?”

(We sell the gas-station brand pizzas in the store and will cook them at a customer’s request.)

Me: “Of course.”

Customer: “Really? You do? You cook pizzas at this location?”

Me: “Yes.”

Customer: “Oh, because last time when I came in, I called in and asked for a pizza to be made so I could pick it up. And when I came in…” *pulls out his phone* “…the pizza was sitting out, not cooked, just in a box.”

Me: “Really?”

(He shows me a picture of a pizza that, from what I can tell, wasn’t cooked at all.)

Me: “Oh, man. I’m so sorry about that. Did you happen to catch the name of the employee who took your order?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “How about the date and time? When did you order the pizza?”

Customer: “I don’t remember.”

Me: “Ah, well, how about your receipt? Do you still have it?”

Customer: “No, I threw it away.”

(I’m a bit annoyed, because without that information there isn’t much the staff can do to figure out WHO took the order or WHEN, much less confirm if he actually asked for the pizza to be cooked.)

Me: “Well, I’m sorry, there’s not much that I can do.”

Customer: “Is there a manager I can speak to?”

(It’s completely dark outside and there is a clock on the wall behind me that says it’s after 2:00 am.)

Me: “No. Our managers don’t come in until six.”

Customer: “D***. Do you have their numbers so I can give one a call?”

Me: “I’m not going to give my managers’ personal numbers out in the middle of the night.”

Customer: “Why not?”

(I stared at him in vague disbelief. After about thirty seconds, he shook his head and left the store without another word. I don’t know what he was expecting to happen by coming in at 2:00 am with this complaint.)