Thursday, November 30, 2006

 

Bleeding pissheads


One afternoon I arrived at Shipmanville Hospital’s Accident & Emergency Department to begin a late shift. It was a weekday afternoon, traditionally a quiet time, and so there were only two of us per shift, on this occasion Dick and I. The casualty officers we were relieving had very little to hand over to us apart from two patients, a little old lady sitting quietly on a chair and a skinny young man groaning on a stretcher.

Dick made a beeline for the little old lady so I went into the cubicle with the young man and drew the curtain. The smell hit me instantly and I wrote in his notes: Ethanol +++. He was wearing a grimy T-shirt spattered with blood over one shoulder. His bleary, unfocused gaze wandered over me.

‘You doctor?’ he slurred. Liverpool. I nodded and introduced myself.

‘Gorra fuckin’ help me, mate,’ he moaned. He delivered the ck sound as though he was hawking up catarrh.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

He stared at me. ‘You’re the fuckin’ doctor, you tell me.’

Jesus. ‘You’re bleeding from your shoulder,’ I remarked. He frowned and tilted his head jerkily to peer at his shoulder. His eyes widened and he began to scream.

‘I’m bleeding! I’m stabbed!’

I managed to calm him down eventually. It turned out to be a wooden splinter from a door frame he’d barged into.

‘How many stitches am I going to need?’ he asked fearfully.

‘Perhaps an Elastoplast,’ I said.

In those days I was still a bleeding heart do-gooder so I decided to try a little counselling with him before he went home. I suggested that it might be in his interest to cut down on the daytime drinking.

‘Ah, fuckin’ grow up, ya bastarr,’ he snarled, and spewed rich brown vomit over the side of the bed.

I took my leave. Dick’s little old lady turned out to have a nastily fractured wrist, which she had been sitting with stoically and silently for the previous two hours.

About a month later, I had a day off and was doing some shopping in the morning for a party I was throwing the following weekend. I went into an off licence – liquor store to you unBritish – and loaded up a trolley with beer, wine, vodka, Scotch, gin and cider. I reached the counter. Standing behind it was the man with the shoulder splinter.

The transaction passed in silence, which was probably just as well. And if you think this is a bit of an anticlimax, remember that even small embarrassments can punctuate a life far more acutely than can conventional moments of drama. Here endeth the lesson.

Comments:
God, I love a good cringe every now and then.

That ranks up there among the greatest ggnnnnnrrnnOH nnggrrnngnnrrnggJESUS nnggnnnrnnrrCHRIST nnnggrrnnnNOOO!! moments of all time.

Well done.
 
I would of been more embarassing if you had a one night stand with him, all a matter of perspective, or did you?
 
Small embarassments are the worst.
 
He probably didn't remember a thing. You have tested the water by asking for a discount!
 
could, even
 
Bock: I have some far, far more cringeworthy tales than this; I just haven't got up the nerve to post them yet.

Mr Knudsen: or if I'd preached to him about the evils of promiscuous sex and then met him on a blind date in a public toilet.

Sassy: are you saying, as a woman, that size matters after all? I knew it.

Shebah: yes, I did wonder at the time if he remembered me. I rather fear that there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, though. This honesty is part of my noble striving to face up to my demons.
 
I think it would have been more embarassingif you'd had a one night stand with the grannie. Just saying.
 
He'd only remember you if you was out with the white coat an stethyscope. But we both know the court order forbids that.

I'm surprised a Scouser works in an offy. Are you sure he wasn't robbing it?
 
Good point, Dr Maroon. In fact, you've almost scuppered my next post.
 
No, not my next post, the one after it.
 
Ah, a twist n the mix. The tawdry webs we weave, eh?
 
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