The only times I properly lost my shit, and my patience with medical staff were to do with my Mum's cancer treatment.
I remember I had to go up to her surgery as she'd had a phone consultation and needed to do a poo test (sorry Mum), so I had to get the pot, plus she needed a repeat prescription for her Fentanyl patches and I needed to get the paperwork.
Surgery made you wait outside in the car park for everything so I'm out there for nearly an hour, then I get to the intercom. The receptionist said I could only do one thing, then go back and ring in again to make an appointment to do the other thing. I explained Mum had literally just spoken to the GP who had actioned both things. Not good enough, those were the rules.
I lost it, and refused and created such a kerfuffle eventually the Practice Manager came out with both things and was quite sheepish and apologetic.
I then had to travel an hour across town and back to get said patches because pharmacies were out of stock locally, after having delivered the pot home to Mum. When it was filled, I then had to take it back.
The next day Mum got a call to do another one as the original had been "labelled incorrectly", allegedly by us. I pointed out that we had written her name and DOB on it as instructed, so any other labelling error must have been at the surgery. So we had to repeat the whole process again. That was 48 hours of my life that I'll never get back.
It then became obvious that Mum wasn't safe at home, she was having falks and very weak, so as we had a room with an ensuite, we were able to take her to ours. I couldn't stay with her as her flat was too small and "shielding" meant I shouldn't go out as her main carer etc. At ours, DP was able to do any running around.
We rang Macmillan to ask for help facilitating this and were told categorically no, it was against the rules. We then approached the GP who got her admitted to hospital for 24 hours that evening, as her falls were due to sodium issues and she needed a drip. I saw her off in the ambulance terrified I'd never see her again. We managed to get a local man and van so we could get her bed, and as much stuff as we could to make her bed room into a home from home, and of course discharge could only be safe and GP backed up we were safe. She was delivered to us that evening for the last month of her life.
Never saw a Macmillan nurse again until several weeks after her death, when one popped up to "see how she was doing". I was pretty blunt and rude tbh. I spent the last month of her lufe expecting SS to take her away just because we "broke the damn rules".
And people wonder why I have CPTSD.