It’s my first experiment in science for year ten. My teacher so far seems nice enough and has told us not to hesitate to tell her about any issue concerning the class.

Me: “Since the experiment involves sulfur, can I sit out? I have an allergy to it.”

Teacher: “No, you can’t. You have to participate and help your classmates!”

Me: “But I have an allergy to sulfur! I’ll start reacting!

Teacher: “No, you don’t. You’re lying and just want to get out of the lesson!”

At this point, I am very upset and leave. I’ve reacted to things such as paint, medicine, my year eight injections, and even sunscreen!

I talk to my mother about it, and she calls the school, who says I’ll be allowed to sit out. Relieved, I head to science happily the next day.

Teacher: “What are you doing? You have to help your team!”

Me: “The school says I can sit out because of my allergy.”

Teacher: “No, you can’t. Go and help your group!”

When I refuse, she goes over to my group, looks at what they are doing, and signals for me to come over. Knowing that I have no choice left, I go over.

Teacher: “Now, [My Name] will do this part and you guys can observe.”

The task involves handling the sulfur. As I am lifting the eye dropper of sulfur, the teacher goes to another group, bumping me in the process, causing drops of sulfur to land on my arm. I stop what I am doing and head to the sink to wash it off before returning and trying again, this time with success.

By the time my part is complete, a rash has spread over my arm, and it hurts badly. I’ve never had a reaction this bad before. I know I need to calm it down, but I can’t leave the lesson. I explain to my groupmates what’s happening and why I need them to call my doctor. I give them my phone to find the doctor in my contacts while I try not to start crying and find a flannel to soak in cold water to decrease a bit of pain.

Teacher: “Why aren’t you all working? [Girl], who are you calling?

Girl: “[My Name]’s doctor. Sulfur got on her arm, and now she has a painful rash, and we need the doctor because that’s what she’s been told to do if it gets bad.”

The teacher looked at us in disbelief before seeing the spreading rash and agreeing to let us call.

In the end, my mother had to pick me up to take me to the doctor, where I was prescribed pills and listened to the doctor remind the school that I had an allergy, and it should not be dismissed.

The teacher was made to apologize and left the next year!

I work in a small, relatively upmarket preschool where we encourage the kids to have a “news day”. Basically, show and tell, being something from home, a photo, a book, even an interesting leaf, and talk about it in front of the class.

Other kids brought craft projects they had done, a souvenir from their vacation, and other things like that. But one day, a parent traipsed in with an old beat-up toy bucket, the kind kids make sandcastles in at the beach, and handed it to me, saying it was their son’s news.

This thing STANK. I reluctantly take it from them and find it contains a dead, ROTTING jellyfish!

They’d gone to the beach, found a dead jellyfish, and made it our problem by scooping it up and bringing it in. Our head teacher (who is too lovely for her own good) just smiled and said we’d put it on the side until news time.

Best part is it was left to me to slop the disgusting thing into the bin at the end of the day, and the slimy tentacles caught me on the wrist, giving me a raised welt for days!

To this day, I don’t know what they were thinking…

Years ago, I used to work in a hire store, the type that hires out party stuff, marquees (large tents), and all the bits and pieces. A common phone call we would often get is:

Caller: “Hi, I want to hire your largest marquee.”

Me: “Certainly for what dates, and for how long?”

Caller: “We just need it for a weekend,” *Gives dates.*

Me: “Okay, for just the weekend is $8,230.”

Customer: “WHAT! What size is it?!”

Me: “Well, it would cover a good part of a city block.”

Customer: “I don’t need anything that big!”

Me: “Well, how many people are you inviting?”

Customer: “About twenty…”

Me: “Oh, then you want our smallest marquee, then.”

I swear some people have no idea of scale.

Coming up to Easter, my old job sent out a mailer with an item — a cake pan to make sleeping rabbit cakes — that reminded me of this painful interaction.

Coming up to Easter, our bakery counter is absolutely swarmed. We have around sixty various loaves and danishes, all of a very standard design. The crowd is neverending and we have four people rushing up and down the wall to get bread in bags as fast as possible.

Cue the Rabbit Lady.

Me: “Thank you for your patience. What can I get you?”

Rabbit Lady: “I’m looking for a bunny loaf.”

I stare for a moment and then look at the completely normal loaves.

Me: “I’m afraid we don’t have anything that looks like a bunny. Is there something else I can get you?”

The lady looks at me and then looks at the loaves. She seems utterly oblivious to the crowd she just waited through.

Rabbit Lady: “Well, what loaf is most like a rabbit?”

Me: “Cartoon or realistic?”

She gives me a blank stare. Seconds tick away. More loaves are sold around me. The heat death of the universe occurs. And then, we come back to the here and now.

Rabbit Lady: “A bunny.”

I look in desperation at the loaves.

Me: “Well, this one—” *gestures to a basic rounded oval loaf* “—you could carve a little to give it a rabbit shape.”

She gives me another blank stare, not even acknowledging the suggestion.

Me: “You could do that with one of these.” *Points out three other loaves in the same oval boat*

Her expression is now blanker somehow.

Rabbit Lady: “But do any of them look like a rabbit?”

Me: “No, we do not have a rabbit loaf. The best you can do is make one.”

Rabbit Lady: “What do you have that looks like a rabbit?”

Me: “If you don’t like the sleeping rabbit idea, you could take one of these loaves and use the little baguettes like ears?”

Rabbit Lady: *Still with a blank look* “Does that look like a rabbit?”

Me: “It’s about right, yes. Would you like those?”

Rabbit Lady: *Still with a blank stare* “But they don’t look like a rabbit.”

I realise that my colleagues have served about six people each during this exchange.

Me: “Look, we do not have a rabbit bread. You could turn these loaves into one with a bit of carving, or you could make a bunny face with these ones, but if you can’t decide, shall I leave you to think about that?”

She continues to give me a blank look and then turns away slightly. I take this as permission and jump to the next customer, who rapidly identifies the loaf they want.

A coworker who was noticing a slowdown comes running over to help. The first person they ask, since she is at the front and therefore “next”…

Coworker: “Sorry for the delay. What can I get you today?”

Rabbit Lady: “I’d like a loaf that looks like a rabbit.”

I didn’t hear if my colleague was able to help her bunny desire any more than I was because I had to serve people who wanted the loaves we actually had.

In my mid-twenties, I had a sudden need for an organ transplant due to an extreme reaction to a new medication I was taking. Before this, I was healthy, worked a professional job, and lived independently. Suddenly, within a six-week period, I had a new organ (I am so lucky!), a long-term change to my health forever, and family members moving in to support me while I would be recovering for months.

Oh. This also happened basically as 2020 happened, so lockdown galore. I was still physically unable to return to work, but my return date was delayed due to also not being allowed to under the conditions of the lockdown. Because I was working professionally, they were an amazing workplace that held my position for me until I could return — for months.

I had some savings, but they burned up super fast with everything happening so quickly. I couldn’t work, so I naturally found myself needing some extra income if I could. Luckily, in my country, we have a national income support service for those on health leave or those seeking jobs. There is an important difference. One requires a medical certificate, and they usually leave you alone until it runs out. The other usually requires proof that you are doing as the payment suggests: “job seeking”.

I distinctly remember having a long phone call with a case worker from the offices that managed my subsidy payments along the lines of this.

Case Worker: “We are calling about job opportunities.” 

Me: “I have a job. I am waiting for them to clear me to go back.”

Case Worker: “Oh, you have one! So, update your information online, and we can stop your payments.”

Me: “No, I have a job to go back to when I am medically allowed. I need the payments for now, please, and will stop them once back at work.”

Case Worker: “Oh, so you aren’t working? Okay, there are some online options we can look at with the lockdown—”

Me: “No. I don’t need a new job. Medically, I cannot return there yet. I have a job once they clear me. It will be full-time.”

Case Worker: “Well, we can’t keep you on the payments if you aren’t working and won’t look for a job.”

Me: “I am on the disability one. My certificate is still valid. I don’t need to look for a job.”

Case Worker: “Oh! I see! Okay, so, when your medical certificate runs out, I have a list of courses to help with a return to work approach…”

It was basically this on repeat for ages to tell them I had a job to go back to. I needed to physically recover, and then the lockdown needed to ease up. 

Luckily for me, soon after that, the national service for “injury support” kicked in and supplemented my income because I was deemed a medication injury to an organ.