Minnie’s Musings

Some 60 years ago my aunt Judy wrote a paper on bedside manner. Or lack there of.

This was before my mother was subjected to a gynaecologist who shepherded his posse of trainee doctors to stand in a circle around her bed and announced to his acolytes, “Ah yes, Mrs Bradley here is a chronic aborter.”

This was after her third or fourth miscarriage at least one of which was an ectopic. My mother was distraught. The ward sister wrote a very pointed to to say that she was the daughter of an eminent but dead professor whose numerous and powerful friends would have his guts for garters, in Grandpa’s absence. An apology followed, but only because the powerful connections were in place. .

Well consultant who sawed away on my right hand yesterday needs a crash course. Urgently.

So I am not comparing my pain and distress over my hand and my phobia of needles to the loss of a baby. But I did say to all and sundry that I didn’t like needles and anaesthetic takes a long time to work. I warned him.

I will also admit that I have a very loud voice and got told off for swearing when I pushed out my son’s overly large head.

Having your palm injected with local anaesthetic is excruciating. I cried out several times. But when he stuck the scalpel in and I cried out again, he told me off. Basically he was saying he couldn’t concentrate if I was screaming. Fair enough, but I did warn him.

So , lying there on my own, feeling vulnerable and scared, while he disappeared behind me, presumably to have a fume about how feeble I was being, I started to cry. Eventually someone noticed and came to comfort me. I got a tissue, eventually.

Anyway this ghastly procedure was done, I was sewn up and sent on my way. After Mr Bedside Manner Not waved the soggy tissue in my face asking me if so still needed it. I was escorted back by a nurse who was kind and, I suspect, a bit embarrassed.

On the ward they asked me if it was better than the last time. “Err, no,” said my escort.

After downing that all powerful remedy – a cup of tea – I was handed my paperwork and pottered back to my waiting husband whose smile dropped when he saw my face. Big hug, rapid exit, “I hate that man,” uttered loudly enough for the receptionist to hear.

The envelope of paperwork contains a feedback form. When I can manipulate a pen I will sharpen it…