When I started in EMS, the hardest part of my job was interviewing patients. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because I'm a closet introvert—you know, the kind who discreetly dreads large social gatherings. (Memo to anyone whose wedding, confirmation, communion, anniversary or bar mitzvah I've ever attended: No, no—yours was different.)

     Maybe my discomfort had more to do with the limits of intimacy in polite company. You must admit, asking complete strangers about their bowel habits is an unnatural act. At least we should discuss the weather first.

     Whatever the reason, my awkwardness produced the audio equivalent of "Kodak moments" many times during those first few years of contrived conversations with patients. Some I recall due to acute, wish-I-were-a-houseplant embarrassment, others because of how long it took me to get a clue. I present my gaffes here for your amusement with one condition: If we ever work together, pretend you've never read this.

     "Don't worry about the bill—your insurance should cover it." Translation: I have no idea whether the cost of this ED visit will prevent your least-favorite child from going to college.

     "Are you sure you're not pregnant?" Asked and answered the first time. Yes, patients lie, but that doesn't justify playing district attorney. (I was going to say it doesn't justify playing Perry Mason, but the blank stares among the barely legal members of our profession might be mistaken for absence seizures.)

     "Breathe normally." If the patient could do that, I'd still be watching Honeymooners reruns at headquarters.

     "Uh oh…" All I meant is that I had dropped the lancet. Between my legs. Clearly, the patient misunderstood my distress and, based on his expression, was taking a mental inventory of advance directives.

     "OK, OK, we'll bring the dog." See Spot ride near the stretcher. See the EMTs offload the stretcher. See Spot run.

     "I haven't done one of these in a while." Thank you for sharing that, my patient must have been thinking. Now, if you'd be a good little EMT and find someone who knows how to attach that contraption to my leg, I might stop screaming long enough to express my gratitude.

     "Just a little pinch…" I'm pinching myself right now. No, it doesn't feel like a 16-gauge needle.

     "You don't really want to go to the hospital, do you?" OK, I admit I never actually said that. I just think it a lot. I mean, a lot.