My wife’s friend is a nurse. We’ll call her Susie. Susie has a very positive and upbeat personality with a wild sense of style. She wears very bright clothes and likes to wear wigs. No, she does not have cancer, but she’s always rocking an awesome wig that matches her outfit. My wife even sends pics to me aside from the social media posts of their night. She wants to get wigs and lets me know by way of these pics.

One night at Bunco, Susie told the gals about one of her patients who clearly does not like her. She always has a grumpy face when looking at her and always has a problem. The patient is getting continuous care and has seen Susie regularly over the past few weeks, so this attitude has been grating on her over time. But this time, she crossed a line. Upon her latest visit, she told Susie:

Patient: “Your unprofessional wigs are making me sick! Stop wearing all these different crazy wigs!”

Right then and there, Susie took off her wig, making sure it clearly showed one of her reasons for wearing wigs in the first place. She had long clumps of hair that gnarled out in all directions, showing bald spots, as well. Susie has alopecia, and she told the gals that she lets it grow out to help fasten the wigs at times. It was quite the sight to behold

Susie: “Is this professional enough for you?”

Susie wished she could have a picture of the moment, but the way she described the lady’s snarled lip at the sight of her and in response to the action was classic. She gave me permission to share her story provided I changed names and didn’t get specific. Deal.

The patient never said anything mean to her again and even made an attempt at smiling the last time Susie saw her.

This happened about five years ago, so I might get some of the terminology wrong. I had just started working in a new nursery (daycare), and on the Friday of my first week on the job, we were notified that there had been three reported cases of Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease in the baby room where I’d been working all week. We were assured that adults couldn’t get HFMD, so I toddled off to a club night that evening with my boyfriend and my best friend.

Before we arrived, I started feeling nauseated, but I assumed it was because of my social anxiety — one of my main symptoms is nausea — so I thought nothing of it. Within an hour of arriving at the club, I was feeling worse, and I noticed red spots had appeared on my hands and knees and around my mouth. I texted my boyfriend that I was feeling too ill to stay, so he and my best friend came to collect me from the dark corner I’d retreated to and took me home.

On the ride home, I felt worse and worse, and coming in from the balcony of our flat where I’d gone for a cigarette to help calm the nausea, I found I’d developed vertigo so bad I couldn’t stand up. I crawled on my hands and knees to the bedroom, and my boyfriend kept me supplied with water and checked my temperature while my best friend looked up the symptoms of HFMD. Surprise! I had every symptom going and a few more on top.

After a sleepless night with my temperature bouncing from 37°C to 39.8°C (98.6°F to 103.6°F), my boyfriend drove me to Urgent Care around 8:00 am, where I was looked over by a doctor who was far too cheerful and condescending for the time of day.

Me: “I’m fairly certain I have HFMD—”

The doctor chuckled as though I’d said I’d been bitten by a vampire.

Doctor: “Oh, yeah? How do you figure that, then?”

Me: “I have spots on my hands, feet, mouth, knees, and bum, a high temperature, nausea, and vertigo, and I just spent all week working in the baby room of a nursery where we had an HFMD outbreak.”

Doctor: “Don’t be silly; adults don’t get HFMD. Your tonsils are swollen. You’ve got tonsillitis.”

Me: “I’ve had tonsillitis before and didn’t have most of these symptoms. Are you sure?”

Doctor: “Absolutely. You can’t have HFMD and tonsillitis, anyway. I’m giving you an antibiotic prescription, but if you don’t believe me, you can always get a second option.”

I didn’t believe him, so I went to a different Urgent Care unit and went through the entire process again with a much more sympathetic nurse.

Nurse: “He said you can’t have both at the same time? That’s ridiculous. You’ve got all the symptoms of both, and your tonsils are so swollen that I’m surprised we don’t need to get you a spit bowl. I’m giving you another prescription for [something I can’t remember]. Take both, and if your temperature goes above 39°C again, come back here and tell them [Nurse] told you to.”

Thankfully, the prescriptions worked, and after a miserable few days, my temperature stabilised, I was able to walk instead of crawl, and I could eat solid food again after nothing but soup. I’m eternally grateful to that nurse for actually listening to me and not dismissing me like the doctor did the first time round. But seriously, who says you can’t have two illnesses at the same time?

I had surgery, and something went wrong during recovery at home. Both the surgery and what went wrong are gross, so I’ll spare you the details!

I went back to the hospital and they set about making the problem right. And they did, quickly and efficiently, as it was something that happens about 10% of the time.

I was recovering afterward in a side room. The door was open, and all I’d been able to hear for HOURS was nothing but fellow patients and their relatives complaining to the nurses. They complained about the parking. They complained about the food. They complained about the choice of TV channels. They complained about the variable mobile phone signal. One woman complained about the wait to get surgery AND how quickly the appointment came so she couldn’t arrange for someone to water her houseplants for her four hours in hospital. The man in the room opposite complained that the disposable surgical gown he was wearing wasn’t soft enough. One woman physically stopped a healthcare assistant with a tray of pills in his hands in order to complain that the coffee machine didn’t do the thing she usually ordered from her local chain coffee shop.

Honestly, I was in Not Always Right entitled customer Hell. 

My usual policy — be nice to people in service industries because I’m also a human being — was ramped up to eleven, and I pushed through the pain I was in to try to be charming and funny and non-demanding with everybody I saw.

I was laying there with a cannula (drip) in my arm when it suddenly slipped out. My husband, who is more likely to panic in such situations than I am, shouted out the door of my room for help.

The main nurse who had been dealing with me all day appeared, in her coat, with her handbag, and with her car keys in her hand.

As my husband was explaining to her in panicked tones about the cannula, I was horrified. 

Me: “You’re done for the day! Go home! Someone else will deal with this! Go away! Go home!”

She was so lovely about it. She calmed my husband — he really doesn’t cope well with medical stuff — and then said she’d deal with it.

Me: “You’re done for the day. Go home! Off you go! It’s fine; someone else will deal with it in a minute. It’s fine!”

She grabbed my arm, popped the cannula back into place, put new tape on it, and turned to leave.

Nurse: “I only did that because you boys were so nice all day. Good luck with the rest of your treatment.”

Me: “You didn’t have to do that. It’ll be fine if—”

Nurse: “I hope I never see you again.”

I burst out laughing — which hurt! — and so did my husband. She gave us a wink and left.

The treatment worked, I’m almost fully recovered, and she has never seen me again — which is EXACTLY what both of us wanted, for the same reason. Nurses: you are wonderful.

Related:
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 16
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 15
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 14
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 13
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 12

CONTENT WARNING: Loss of Pregnancy

I am roughly four months pregnant when my wife and I find out I have what’s called a Partial Molar pregnancy. There are two types of these pregnancies: Molar and Partial Molar. Molar pregnancies are caused by a dead egg being inseminated by sperm, which results in abnormal cells being made and does not result in an actual baby. Partial Molar pregnancies are the result of two sperm fertilizing an egg at the exact same time. In these cases, a baby is created, but the baby has sixty-nine chromosomes instead of forty-six. 

My wife and I are informed about our baby’s genetic condition and told that no baby can make it to term in this condition. On top of that, I am rushed to the hospital for an emergency D&C due to extremely severe preeclampsia. My wife and I are absolutely devastated at the loss of our child, and on top of that, very concerned about my health; I spend eight days in the hospital and have to be monitored for the next six months as these types of pregnancies can lead to cancer.

A couple of months later, I go to my doctor for a follow-up. He is running late and they ask if I would mind seeing a different doctor. No problem, I think. In the room with me are a nurse and the doctor. 

Doctor: “I see here you had a partial molar pregnancy and you’re here for a follow-up?”

The nurse mixes up molar and partial molar pregnancies.

Nurse: “Oh, that’s one of those cheating pregnancies — making you think you have a baby, when you don’t.”

I am in absolute shock that she would say this, as I am still grieving. Additionally, I imagine women who have molar pregnancies would still be devastated to find out they aren’t actually pregnant.

Me: “Um, no. There was a baby.”

Nurse: “No, it makes you think there’s a baby, but there isn’t one. It’s a cheating pregnancy.” 

The doctor starts waving her hands for the nurse to stop.

Doctor: “No, no, she had a partial molar pregnancy. There was a baby.”

After that, we go along with the appointment and the doctor asks some routine questions, including whether I’m physically intimate with men, women, or both.

Me: “Women.”

Doctor: “What? But you were just pregnant.”

Me: “Yes, because we used a doctor to help us get pregnant, at a fertility clinic. There should be a referral in my file.”

Between the insensitivity of the nurse and lack of understanding of basic medical services like fertility clinics, I’ll definitely wait next time my regular doctor is running behind.

I’m checking in for a phone appointment with my doctor. This has happened before, but this time his reaction was pretty funny.

Nurse: “Can you list all the medications you’re currently taking?”

Me: “Well, there’s Spironolactone [a common testosterone blocker, though it has other uses], 100 mg, two times a day. Estradiol [an estrogen supplement], 3 mg, two times a day, [other meds that aren’t relevant]…”

Nurse: “Okay, and is there any chance you’re pregnant or may become pregnant?”

Me: “Uh, no.”

Nurse: “Okay. And the date of your last menstrual cycle?”

Me: “Ummm… Not applicable. I’m, well… I’m a transgender woman.”

I hear the sound of gears turning in his head.

Nurse: “…Oh! Okay, cool! Awesome! Good. That… that’s good for you. Anyway. Okay. Um… Last time you were checked for cervical cancer?”

Me: “…”