(My first job is as a dental nurse working with the city’s university dental hygienist course. I love the job, and I get on well with the students and the tutors. However, I quickly start to find that I don’t get on so well with the other nurses. The majority of nurses have worked with each other for a long time, know each other outside of work, and have the same interests. At first, this doesn’t matter, but slowly, things start to get unfair. I often find myself on the crappy end of jobs, and one of them causes me do serious damage to my right wrist; I tear the tendons and am signed off work for a long time. This is where things get super bad, as my manager never reports the accident, which is something she gets in a lot of trouble for. When I eventually return, I am on very light duties, spending more time as a glorified receptionist than a nurse. The other nurses double-down on their disdain for me. I suddenly find myself even more left out than before, and any slight mistake is blown out of proportion. One of the nurses actually yells at me in front of trainees because I haven’t signed a cleaning sheet. When I complain to the head nurse, she says that I was in the wrong so tough, despite the fact I admitted to the mistake, but I am angry about the way it was handled. I cannot describe the misery I feel for the next six months, but luckily, I am able to find another job in a field that is as far removed from dentistry as possible. On the Monday morning after I get the contract for the new job, I approach the head nurse on clinic first thing before clinic starts.)

Me: “Morning, [Head Nurse], can I have a quick word with you?”

Head Nurse: “No, I’m going up for breakfast break now. It can wait.”

Me: “It can’t really; I won’t get time to talk to you about this before clinic starts, otherwise.”

Head Nurse: “Sorry, not happening.”

Me: *shouting across the clinic as she walks off* “Okay, I’ll leave my resignation letter here, then!”

(She d*** near sprinted back to me, asking if I was joking. I smiled, told her no, and handed her the letter before turning and going back to my duties. I was, at that time, the one who made all of the department appointments, organised clinics, and knew the brand-new booking system better than anyone else. That next month as I served my notice, watching the panic slowly dawn on them was the best!)

(I have just given birth to my son and am with the nurse who is head of the maternity section. It just happens that we went to school together.)

Nurse: “So, we just have to get some things out of the way. First, do you want him circumcised?”

Me: “No, definitely not.”

Nurse: “Thank goodness. Do you know how horrible it is? They do it without anaesthesia and basically just cut the foreskin off with scissors. The poor babies go through so much pain, it makes me sick every time a parent wants it done, and I’m not allowed to try to talk anyone out of it or… um… say what I just said.”

(I am in the hospital after falling down a flight of stairs. My ankle is fractured.)

Me: “Excuse me. Can you please hand me my phone?”

Nurse: “No.”

Me: “What? Why not?”

Nurse: *huffy* “Well, it says on your chart that you’re a smoker. I’m not going to give you your phone so you can buy more cigarettes.”

Me: “I wasn’t planning on buying anything; I wanted to update my family and friends.”

Nurse: “I don’t believe you. I know your kind. You think you’re special because you destroy your body with drugs. I’m not letting you buy drugs!”

Me: “All right, let’s see what a patient advocate thinks about what you just said.”

Nurse: *goes pale and hands me my phone*

(Later, when I told my dad about it, he told the doctor, who rolled his eyes and said we weren’t the first to complain.)

(I am sitting at my desk, coloring the picture that’s on the next day’s schedule that we will post, so the residents have something cheerful to look at. We can’t print in color so I always do this. A visitor, who is a hospice nurse, comes in and see what I’m doing. I’m a cis female and the nurse is male. I happen to be coloring a picture of an ice cream cone in rainbow colors.)

Visitor: “Why are you doing that?”

Me: “Coloring? I like to post a colored version of the schedule so the residents have–”

Visitor: “No. Why are you using those colors? It’s…” *whispers* “…gay.”

Me: “Yes, rainbow colors are generally used for Pride. June is Pride month, you know. Personally, I happen to be bi.” *cocks head and looks at him, just mentally willing him to say something*

Visitor: *eyes go wide* “You’re…YOU’RE GOING TO HELL!” *runs toward the door with his arm out to push it open, but alas, it is locked and he crashes into it*

Me: “Oh, sorry, let me get that for you.” *sickly sweet smile*

Visitor: *incoherent screaming as he runs outside*

(I have no patience for this kind of bulls***. And since this lovely gentleman was wearing scrubs with his company’s name and his name, I was able to tell them exactly what their employee did. They sent someone else over to cover his patients.)

In 2013, at the age of 25, I begin to have tonic-clonic seizures. Prior to this, I have never experienced any kind of seizure. As the doctors are trying to understand what’s going on with me, they recommend an MRI to see if there are any physical indications in my brain as to what’s going on. Before the referral is made, the doctor asks if I have any metal in my body and I tell them no, and they note it in my chart. They tell me not to wear any jewelry when I go to have the MRI. 

I go to the MRI clinic and throughout the paperwork process, I am asked several times if I have any metal in my body. I write “no” on all the paperwork and confirm this verbally with the intake person. I then speak with the nurse who takes me back to where the MRI is, and she asks me a couple of times if I have metal in me, as well. I tell her no and that I didn’t wear any jewelry. She writes that down and leaves me to change into clothing with nothing metal in it and to hang out in the room until the tech can come in and prep the machine.

After about five minutes, the tech comes in and begins prepping everything. “Before you lay down, I need to ask if you have any metal in or on your body.”

I am profoundly tired, in a lot of pain from the seizures, and scared I have a brain tumor, and so my coping mechanism kicks in. “Oh, no, just the implant the alien put in me when I was taken up on the mothership,” I say, as brightly as possible.

She looks at me quizzically and I repeat myself, smiling to let her know I’m kidding. She’s silent for a beat and then just sighs and tells me to get on the table. No chill at all.

I understand why they have to ask about metal due to the intense magnetism, but jeez, look at the charts, people! I don’t think I need to answer this question twelve times in the span of 48 hours.

Also, I don’t have a tumor, and my implant didn’t show up in the scan!