(I have been diagnosed with uterine cancer, and am scheduled to have a complete hysterectomy. Unfortunately, two days before the surgery, I have emergency hernia surgery. I tell the doctor performing the hernia surgery about the cancer. When I go in for my first follow-up, he says that everything is looking good.)

Doctor: “While I was in there, I reached down and felt your uterus; it really is enlarged.”

Me: “Uh… Thanks, that’s interesting.”

(As I’m leaving, the full import of what he said finally hits. My hernia incision is above my belly button, and he REACHED DOWN INSIDE ME, and felt my uterus. I later tell a nurse about this, and her response?)

Nurse: “Surgeons are a curious lot.”

(The hysterectomy went well, and I am now cancer-free.)

(I decide to treat my grandparents to get a bite to eat as thanks for being my drivers. I’ve been wearing an eye-patch for about a week now due to an injury. We step into a fast food restaurant, and its play area is swarming with kids. It’s cool; we get a bit of entertainment too. As we enter, a mother and her little girl — three at the most — approach the door to leave. The girl looks up at me, looks to her mother uncertainly, then looks back to me. Then she speaks up in a quiet voice.)

Girl: “But it’s not Halloween yet!”

(Her mother looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her up. I, however, was too busy laughing at the adorableness. Thanks, cutie; I really needed that!)

(I work two different jobs, one through the week, the other only on the weekends. I have just had a minor surgery on my upper right arm. After the procedure, I am told that I am not allowed to lift more than ten pounds for the next two weeks, in order to fully recover. This is fine; my first job as a librarian allows me to sit at a computer and doesn’t often require me to carry heavy objects. My second job as a cashier, however, requires me to lift 24-packs of water, 30-packs of beer, etc., because customers often place these on the belt. I let both jobs know ahead of time that I would be having surgery, and made sure to get a note from my doctor saying I wasn’t allowed to lift more than ten pounds. I go into my second job early to hand them the note and see if I can work at the self-check lanes for my shift, which is only four hours long. There is one person who never works register, because they complain that it “hurts their back” to check for a long period of time, and they happen to be working at this time.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker #1], I had surgery the other day, and I have a doctor’s note here saying that I can’t lift more than 10 pounds. I see that [Coworker #2] is on the self-check; do you think they’ll let me switch them?”

Coworker #1: “Probably not, but we can go over and ask, anyway.”

(We walk over to [Coworker #2]. I have a noticeable bandage on my right arm.)

Coworker #1: “[My Name] has a doctor’s note saying she can’t lift more than ten pounds. Would it be okay if you moved over to a regular lane?”

Coworker #2: *takes a brief glance at my bandaged arm and sighs* “Well, my back’s been bothering me today, and I really don’t feel like checking right now.”

Me: “But I just had surgery the other day, and I have a note that says I am not allowed to lift a certain amount; it could tear the stitches.”

Coworker #2: “Well, I guess, but my back has been hurting.”

Me: *cuts in, slightly annoyed* “Look: I have an official doctor’s note, and I think that it’s a little more valid than you just saying that your back is hurting.”

Coworker #2: *huffs* “Fine, but if my back starts bothering me, I want to switch back.”

(They stalked away to the regular checkout lanes, and I took my place at the self-check. The entire time we worked, they apparently talked about me to our other coworkers, and occasionally they shot me dirty looks. They did ask what I had surgery for, as if the bandage wasn’t enough proof. Shockingly, they never did ask to switch, so I guess their back wasn’t hurting them as much as they thought!)

(My younger sister and brother are due to get their polio vaccinations. Despite being two years younger than her, my brother is several inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than our sister. But, as she’s older, she gets to go first.)

Mom: “She has a fear of shots, just to warn you.”

Nurse: “Oh, that’s no problem. I know nobody likes shots.” *turns to my sister* “Now, I’m just going to clean the skin on your leg for the shot.”

Sister: “It’s cold!”

Nurse: “Yes, it is. But it will warm up again in a minute. Now, you’re just going to feel a pinch…”

(My sister sees the needle and flips out, screaming, crying, and flailing. She even manages to kick the nurse in the face before my mom is able to hold her down.)

Nurse: *finally gets the shot in* “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know that hurt. I promise, if you relax, shots don’t hurt so much. Would you like a sucker?”

(My sister won’t stop crying; she’s in full panic mode.)

Me: “Mom, if you want, I can take [Brother] to another room and help him get his shot.”

Mom: *still trying to control my sister* “Please, do.”

(I gather up my hefty little brother and follow the nurse to the exam room next door.)

Nurse: “Go ahead and put him on the table, please.”

Me: “Sure thing. Here you go, buddy! You doing okay?”

Brother: “Yeah.” *with the implication of “why shouldn’t I be?”*

(The nurse looks him over, and then leaves without a word. A few minutes later, she comes back in with not one, but three orderlies, all strong-looking men, to hold my brother down. One orderly stands behind him and holds his arms around my brother’s arms and torso, while the other two each secure a leg.)

Me: “He’s not going to go crazy like [Sister] did. He’s our gentle giant, I swear.”

(The nurse ignores me, cleans his leg, and then counts to three for his shot.)

Brother: *frowns* “Ow.”

Nurse: *stunned* “Ow?”

Brother: “That hurt. Can I have a sucker, now?”

(He didn’t so much as twitch, and he accepted his treat with a smile. [Sister] was still crying a river, and didn’t stop until we were halfway home.)

(My fiancé has bought my Christmas present, and can’t resist giving me a hint.)

Fiancé: “You’ll take it everywhere, and everyone will want to use it.”

Me: *joking* “Is it a handkerchief?”

Fiancé: “No.”

Me: “Is it a lighter?”

Fiancé: *looks shifty* “No…”

Me: “Is it the Zippo we saw with the American flag on it?”

Fiancé: “D*** it.” *goes into the other room, comes back, and hands me the lighter with a crestfallen and annoyed look on this face* “Now I have to think of a new present.”

(There have been no more guessing games or hints about presents. Also, I’m not allowed to have lighter fluid for it until after Christmas!)