(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.)

I have been dating my boyfriend for a few years. He is allergic to nuts. Eating them makes him very sick, so since we started dating I have stayed away from nuts, out of fear of cross contamination making him sick.

This particular day my work was doing a bake sale for charity. One of the things for sale was a Reese’s Pieces brownie, with whole chunks of peanut. I was very happy to have a place where it would be safe for me to have peanuts, so I bought one and ate it straight away.

Pretty much instantly I thought that my tongue felt a bit strange, but being an idiot I thought it was just my imagination and I ate that brownie in about half a minute.

In the next few minutes my thoughts went from, “My mouth feels a little strange,” to, “It’s definitely getting harder to breathe.” I mentioned this to my manager, a first aider, but she thought I was joking. So I went to the receptionist, also a first aider, and mentioned it to her. She realised I wasn’t joking and panicked, running to get my manager.

An ambulance was called and the staff sat with me as I waited and waited, in discomfort, and with no idea if it was going to get any worse. I vaguely remember joking to the baker that “these brownies are killer.” I thought it was funny at the time. Pretty sure she didn’t.

After about 45 minutes with no ambulance, they called 999 again. That’s when we found out that the first ambulance couldn’t find their way into the office block — through the clearly-marked entrance — so they just gave up.

The second ambulance came, and a decision to go to hospital was made, considering that I had no history of an allergy.

We got to A & E and it was unsurprisingly busy. The paramedics were told to put me in resus until another bed cleared, as there was a space in there. They gave me antihistamines and steroids, and by this point I was feeling a lot better, but a secondary reaction was possible, so I still needed an eye on me.

That’s when a nurse came in with a face like thunder, took one look at me, and declared to the whole room at full volume, “She’s not sick! She shouldn’t be in here!”

She repeated this several times, while I just sat there nervously; I’m anxious enough most days, without someone telling me off for being somewhere I have no control over. I had no idea how to respond, so I just sat there ignoring her. She wasn’t doing anything except look at me and make these comments again and again.

Eventually they found a normal bed to put me in, and I got moved, but as they moved me, she declared to the medics and porters around her, “See?! I told you she’s not sick!”

A later blood test confirmed that I had developed a peanut allergy at 23. Luckily I didn’t have a secondary reaction, and it was a pretty easy lifestyle change to avoid, since I was already avoiding them for my partner.

I am going down the steps from my porch and misstep, and end up breaking my leg in three places right near my ankle. It is a Friday night, so I can’t get an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon until Monday.

When I go in for my appointment, I first see a nurse assistant with a very unique name. We talk about how it happened and my medical history. And because I’m female, she asks when my last period was. It has been almost a year. I’m on continuous birth control, despite not being sexually active, because during that time of the month, my migraines and fibromyalgia get to the point where I can’t function. She then goes to get the doctor, and from the room she has taken us to, we hear an argument break out over “who cancelled the appointment of the broken ankle girl.” I still don’t see how that’s possible, considering we made that appointment only an hour earlier. I end up being seen by another doctor with more of a specialty in what I need, so it works out and I forget about the weirdness.

Fast forward a week to when I can finally have surgery. I’m in the hospital gown, have an IV in, and I’m being asked the same questions again and again: spell my name, what’s my birth date, etc. Finally the nurse looks at me funny and looks at my ankle splint — which has a ton of padding and is massive — and tells me, “I know it seems obvious, but I need you to tell me what you’re here for.” I tell her to fix my ankle. She nods and tells me that that nurse assistant — I remember her unique name — had put me down as coming in for a hysterectomy. I’m not sure if she was trying to — inaccurately — note in my file that I’d had one because I hadn’t had my period in a year, or somehow managed to screw up why I was seeing an orthopedic surgeon when I had three broken bones. But I guess that will forever be a mystery.

(I haven’t been to the dentist for several years, but an old family friend — who cleaned my teeth when I was a child — has recently moved to the area, so I go to her for a cleaning. The following takes place with her hands and tools inside my mouth, so I can’t spit.)

Hygienist: “You really need to brush your rear teeth better. I know you can, because they’re clean right now. But your lazy brushing has caused all sorts of problems back here. And you really need to lay off the soda. Really, sugar in general. And high-acid foods and drinks. Soda is pretty much the worst, though. And greasy food isn’t much better! You clearly eat too much fast food, and it’s not good for you. Your back teeth are just falling apart because of all that junk food!”

(Her tirade continues for more than ten minutes. She lectures me like I’m still a child despite that I’m in my mid-20s, before she finally removes her hands so I can pause to rinse and spit. She immediately reaches to start again, but I hold up a hand.)

Me: “We need to get something straight. I don’t eat high-acid foods, or greasy foods. I can’t afford to eat out, even cheap fast food. And I have soda maybe once a month. And while I don’t claim to be perfect, and do occasionally forget to brush before bed when I’m exhausted, I am meticulous about cleaning all my teeth, especially the molars. The reason why they’re so bad off is that I have severe acid reflux. I have had it my whole life. I even had an ulcer a few years back. That’s why I can’t eat any of that crap, and why I can’t help my teeth being somewhat decalcified. Until my doctor and I get the reflux under control, there’s nothing I can do to improve my teeth.”

(I sat back, opened wide, and let her resume cleaning. She was silent for a few minutes, before softly starting to catch me up on the doings of her own kids, who I hadn’t seen in years and was glad to hear about. The rest of the appointment went smoothly after that, and the dentist was informed of my reflux before walking into the room, so he didn’t repeat her mistake. I ended up needing all five of my wisdom teeth removed — apparently I had an extra one — due to extreme decalcification. They were honestly getting spongy by that point. But the visit ended well, and I still go back to the same folks, sans lectures now.)