(I go to the ER one night for suspected appendicitis. The nurse orders a blood draw and urine sample.)

Nurse: “We’ll run your blood to see if anything is unusual, run a pregnancy test on your urine, and then go from there.”

Me: “No need. There’s no chance that I’m pregnant.”

Nurse: “We have to make sure.”

Me: “I’m sure. If you look at my intake, you’ll see that I had a complete hysterectomy six years ago. I also haven’t had sex with a penis in four years. If by some dark magic I’m pregnant, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than my appendix.”

(The nurse didn’t care, and the doctor ordered a pregnancy test, anyway. Lo and behold, it was negative.)

Thirty-five years ago, I gave birth to our first child. The attending nurse was extremely cold and strict. In fact, we dubbed her Sergeant [Nurse].

At one point in my labor, Sergeant [Nurse] suggested strapping me down. They’d just had a fifteen year old who was high, jumped out of the ambulance as it was pulling up, and later tried to slit her wrists. So, maybe — just maybe — she was justified in thinking the worst. However, I wasn’t fifteen, wasn’t high, and had been handling labor so well that my husband and I were complimented profusely.

Delivery went smoothly, but Sergeant [Nurse] did not let us hold our son. She simply showed him to us and took him away. Later, in my room, a close friend who was a nurse in the hospital came by to see me. When I expressed worry because Sergeant [Nurse] had taken the baby away so quickly, my friend was angry. She went to get our son. When she came back with him, she was even angrier.

The reason? Sergeant [Nurse] had told her I shouldn’t see the baby because I was just going to give him up for adoption, anyway!

Where she got that idea, I have no idea. Yes, I was young — eighteen — but I was married, and my husband had been there, very supportive and caring, during the entire labor and delivery. We had been showing our excitement and pleasure to be having a baby during the whole process. What idiot could watch two such happy new parents and decide that they intended to give away their baby?!

(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 work at a restaurant, and all of a sudden, for about three months, one of my coworkers is off the schedule. He apparently has some medical issue, and isn’t able to work. Fast forward and he’s back at work. Everyone asks what happened, but it’s very obvious he does not want to talk about it, so we let him know we’re here if he needs us, and move on. A few weeks later, a young woman comes in wearing scrubs for a well-known drug and alcohol rehab facility. She immediately greets him by name and asks how he’s doing, before dropping this gem:)

Young Woman: “I haven’t seen you since you stayed with us at [Rehab]! Are you doing better?”

(He was embarrassed at the question and mumbled something before disappearing. I later found out — from him — that he admitted himself for alcoholism, and was, in fact, doing much better. But I couldn’t believe she did that. Even if she wasn’t working at a rehab facility, that would still be a HIPAA violation.)

(I’ve just had my first child. I went into labor at night and he was born just after midnight. My boyfriend manages to get the next morning off, but as he’s the assistant manager of a dock, he has to go in the next afternoon. I’m not worried, as there’s not much concern for me or my son. The next day, my OBGYN comes in.)

Doctor: “Hey, [My Name], how are you feeling?”

Me: “Still sore. Is everything all right?”

Doctor: “Oh, yeah. I just want to let you know that a nurse wanted me to call Child Protection Services for you.”

(I freak out a bit, but he laughs.)

Doctor: “Don’t worry; I won’t. Apparently, because of your boyfriend having to go to work, she didn’t think you guys were capable of taking care of your son. It’s pretty stupid.”

(I relaxed after that. My son came home a day later and, with some help from friends, we had no problems with taking care of him.)