(I have been extremely sick with stomach issues for quite a long time, but have had zero luck finding a doctor who will take on a Medicaid patient. One day, the pain after trying to eat something becomes so severe that I ask my grandma to take me to the ER. We go to the main hospital downtown and wait. My mom eventually gets off work and comes to take grandma’s place waiting with me. Finally, after over eight hours, I’m called back. We sit with the doctor and talk about my symptoms: non-stop nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, lack of appetite, exhaustion, unable to keep anything solid down, and so on, getting progressively worse over the course of more than a year. I’ve survived on an increasingly all-liquid diet all that time, so it’s clear something’s wrong.)

Doctor: “Well, you’re young, so I’m not too worried about it. I know you’re in school right now. Remember, your state of mind can really affect your body. Have you been depressed at all?”

(Yep, no tests or anything other than checking my blood sugar and doing a pregnancy and drug screening. I am discharged with basically the advice to try to relax and find a GP to discuss things with. Exactly one week later, I’m at home, and this time start vomiting blood pretty much nonstop rather than the usual intermittent basis. I call the nursing helpline for my Medicaid provider.)

Nurse: “You’re bleeding internally. You need to get to an ER immediately. Do you have someone who can drive you, or should I line up a ride for you?”

Me: “Well, I was literally just in the ER last week.”

Nurse: “Miss, you really need to go back. Is there someone who can take you?”

Me: “Yeah, I know my mom will take me if I tell her. Thank you.”

(Sure enough, my mom came to get me, and we headed for the one hospital in town not part of the network that ran the other one, as it was the local Catholic hospital. I was checked in and taken back within a few minutes, the doctor really listened, and they did tests, giving me meds to help with the nausea in the meantime. Turns out, my H. pylori numbers were practically astronomical, and the ultrasound revealed visible swelling where an ulcer was on the brink of eating through my stomach, in addition to the anemia and high white cell count. I effectively got there pretty much just in time. So, yeah, that’s my story of how most of the medical system wanted to effectively leave me to die just because I couldn’t make enough between my four jobs while going to school, and the one hospital that saved my life. Thanks to a scheduler in the local medical system, I have since found a GP and a GI specialist who are working on the underlying autoimmune issue we’ve since found, as well as getting the stomach issues under control that I was left with due to long-term lack of treatment.)

(It’s our policy at our pet store to clip the wings and nails of the birds that go home. We are advocates of keeping bird wings clipped, as we receive so many calls of people who lost their birds because they were fully-flighted and flew right out the door. I’m working by myself and have a store full of people first thing in the morning while I’m trying to clean the cages. One woman is here to pick up two birds she bought over the weekend when I was not working. She’s rather strange and seems to think I should know who she is and what she’s here for without telling me. When I finally gather from her which birds she’s here for, I start to get them ready to go home. The birds are nervous because of the chaos in the store, so I take them into the office to clip them. As I’m finishing, the woman opens the office door.)

Customer: “What are you doing?”

Me: “I’m clipping their wings and nails.”

Customer: “Oh, well, don’t clip too much.”

(I’ve already clipped them, but we never clip enough for the birds to plummet to the floor when they try to take off, just enough so that they don’t fly around the room and smash into window or mirrors. In the craziness, one of them snagged its nail. It bled very little, but the nail is loose and will probably fall off. My boss tells me over the phone that if it seems like the bird needs to be seen by a vet to bring him down to the vet next door.)

Me: “I just wanted to let you know that the bird snagged its nail a bit. It’s not bleeding, but the nail will probably fall off. It doesn’t look all that damaged, though, and I’m sure it’s going to grow back. However, if you’re worried about it, I can bring him down to the vet next door.”

Customer: “No, I’ve got birds; it’s not a problem. I can handle it.”

(Since the woman doesn’t seem fazed by it and says she can handle it, I send the birds home with her. Later that afternoon, my boss suggests that I call her to be sure the bird was all right when it got home.)

Me: *on the phone with the woman* “I just wanted to be sure the little bird’s toe was all right and it hadn’t started bleeding.”

Customer: “Yes, it’s fine, but I’m very upset about that whole fiasco while I was there. I intend to talk to [Owner] about it.”

Me: “What fiasco?”

Customer: “I am an experienced bird owner, and I did not want my birds’ wings clipped.”

(The birds’ wings were actually already clipped before she bought them, and I just trimmed the very ends of them. Mind you, the feathers grow back in a short period of time.)

Me: “I’m very sorry, but that’s our policy when we send birds home.”

Customer: “It should have been discussed with me beforehand.”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry, but that is our policy. The owner will sometimes make exceptions, but no one told me that you didn’t want it done.”

Customer: “I’ll be talking to [Owner] about it.”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry for the confusion. I’m happy that the little bird’s toe is all right, though.”

Customer: “Yes, it’s fine.”

(After that conversation, I called my boss to give her a heads-up. She said the woman was ridiculous and that it was our policy to clip. I know I had nothing to worry about, as the owner is very good about backing up her employees, but I like to let her know when she should be expecting a crazy customer to phone her.)

When I was young my dad had an IT job that could call him into work at any time, on top of his normal working hours. At least once a week he would a get a phone call in the middle of the morning and would have to get dressed and go to the office.

One night, my mom woke up and noticed that he wasn’t in bed next to her. She looked at the clock to find that it was past three am. Concerned, she got out of bed and walked into the living room to call him. She reached his office answering machine — this was before everyone had cell phones — and left a message about how it was late and whatever he was doing could wait until he got some sleep. She then went back to her room and slid into bed, only to find another person already in the bed. She screamed like a banshee until she realized it was my father’s panicked voice asking, “What?! What is it?!”

Turns out, while Mom had left their room to make the phone call, my dad was in their master bathroom brushing his teeth. He had kept the lights off and was trying to be quiet so as to not wake her and then climbed into bed before she got back.

(A young girl and her parents approach the entrance of our gift shop.)

Girl: *stops dead with her jaw dropped* “Mom! I can’t go in there! I can’t! I’ll spend all my money! I just can’t!”

Mother: “Sweetie, you can still look and—”

Girl: “NO! There’s too much cool stuff! All my money will be gone! It’s too much pressure! I JUST CAN’T!” *throws her arms up and runs to sit on the nearest bench, clearly upset*

(The father stays with the girl while the mother shops. In the end, she buys her daughter a surprise gift and the girl is super happy. As they walk away, the last thing I hear is:)

Girl: “Wait! How much do I owe you?”

(When I am young, I go to a summer camp every year that is mainly staffed by people from overseas, primarily England. Being a bunch of middle-schoolers that rarely meet anyone from another state, never mind another country, we don’t quite get that it is rude to insist on hearing someone speak with an accent, but the counselors are mostly patient with us. Sometimes though, our ignorance gets a little too much for some…)

Us: “What’s your name?”

Counselor: “Pull.”

Us: “Huh?”

Counselor: “Pull?”

Us: “What?”

Counselor: *slightly pleadingly* “Pull?”

Us: “What kind of name is that?!”

Counselor: *with a resigned sigh and an exaggerated American accent* “PAAWWL!”

Us: “Oh! Paul!”

(Sorry, man! I promise I’ve learned to better understand accents in the twenty-plus years since!)