It was my birthday. A special meal at a smart restaurant was promised but first the children had to be fed, watered, and tucked up with the babysitter for the evening.
Our youngest daughter, Cordelia, aged 3, had never liked fish pie and tonight as she pushed both herself and the offending plate away from her as hard and as fast as possible, she fell backwards on to the floor. The bench on which she was sitting crashed after her and guillotined the tip of her big toe.
My wife took a very brief look at the dangling tissue and fainted. The two older children ran screaming to opposite ends of our flat and locked their doors. It was 7 30 pm and the casualty department beckoned.
The young house surgeon had been poised with a syringe of local anaesthetic and a suture needle when I made my crucial mistake.
Intending to reassure my wife—still looking distinctly pale—I turned to her and muttered in a forced whisper, “He’s going to give her a ring block with some local and then three or four stitches. It won’t take long and she will be fine.”
The house surgeon paused and turned to me. “You must be a doctor?” he said.
“Yes, I am but please keep going,” I replied, looking at the clock—there was still a slim chance of that dinner if we rang the restaurant.
“Sorry, but I will have to consult my registrar,” he said, replacing the equipment firmly in the bowl.
Forty minutes elapsed. The registrar appeared. “You’re a doctor, we must take an x ray,” he said, glancing at the toe in a rather offhand way.
Another 40 minutes. “Normal bones” (surprising in a 3 year old?) was the verdict. My hopes rose. “I will call my senior registrar,” he said. My hopes plummeted.
Another 40 minutes. A rather tall, harassed, senior registrar in white operating kit, obviously fresh from dealing with some major and complex reconstructive surgical case, pushed aside the cubicle curtains. He surveyed the toe. Cordelia by now was fast asleep.
“I understand that you are a doctor,” he said, in what I thought was a distinctly accusing manner. “I have asked our consultant paediatric orthopaedic surgeon to come in.” And he disappeared.
One hour later, ineffectively trying to conceal his intense annoyance at being called away from an excellent dinner party, the senior surgeon to the hospital arrived. A brief glance at the toe and a deliberately prolonged look at the clock. “It’s far too late to do anything now,” he said. “Take her home and bring her back in the morning for the end of my list.” And he departed.
It was now midnight, and so we did.
Moral: see all, hear all, say nowt.
Footnotes
We welcome articles up to 600 words on topics such as A memorable patient, A paper that changed my practice, My most unfortunate mistake, or any other piece conveying instruction, pathos, or humour. If possible the article should be supplied on a disk. Permission is needed from the patient or a relative if an identifiable patient is referred to. We also welcome contributions for “Endpieces,” consisting of quotations of up to 80 words (but most are considerably shorter) from any source, ancient or modern, which have appealed to the reader.