Don’t Give Up

There was a tap on the door. Gail’s heart missed several beats as she woke up.

“Hello, my pussy cat!” Rosie turned the lock with her elbow and walked into Gail’s room carrying two plates in her hands.

“Hello Rosie.” Gail checked her wristwatch and the time was 12.30 PM. “I can’t believe how far the day had gone.”

“You know what they say. Don’t you?” Rosie gently moved the Joy magazine and other books from the table and placed the bowls she was carrying. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“I wished I was.” Gail carefully took off the lid of the brown bowl containing boiled cod and steamed vegetables.

“Oh you need these first.” Rosie handed the plastic cup containing the morning doses of her medication to her. She had thought that those were her afternoon medicine but having been a nurse for many years she realised that it was not yet time to serve the afternoon medicine. And then in a soft and motherly yet professional manner she asked, “You want to talk?”

Gail smiled. “There’s nothing to talk about. Thanks.”

Rosie raised one eyebrow and looked straight into Gail’s eyes seeing far beyond the smiles and probing into that part of her heart where so much hurts and disappointment resided. She knew that those smiles were not smiles at all. They were fear, torture, anguish and disappointment.

“You know I’ve got a listening ear and thank God my shoulders have not crumbled with arthritis.” Rosie jammed the door and sat close to her.

“I’m fine.”

“Not with all these.” Rosie insisted, pointing at the plastic cup containing the tablets.

“I just forgot and dosed off.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” She looked down and when she raised her head she didn’t have to say anything. Rosie knew that she was only trying to be brave. She offered her a piece of soft tissue.

“Listen to me Gail. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But if there’s anything I can do for you do let me know.”

Gail nodded like a toddler.

Rosie filled her jug with sterilised chilled water and as she cleared the rest of the stuff on the table she found the menu card that Gail had scribbled on. She picked it thinking that she had filled in what she was having for supper. And when she turned it she could not resist reading what she had scribbled on it.

“Oh Gail!” She placed her arm gently over her shoulder.

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“Since when have you known about it?”

“Doctors told me yesterday although I had kind of suspected things might go that way. Only I was hoping that … Oh God!” She sobbed and was visibly shaking.

Rosie held her like a child and wiped her tears. When she looked at the other side of the table she found the plates on the floor containing her breakfast. The toast and scrambled eggs with baked beans had not been touched and Rosie sensed that she had not eaten since morning.

“I want you to listen carefully,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “When bad things happen to us the first thing we do is to take the easy options. Those easy options are not many. They are only two. Just two.”

Gail looked at her expectantly, her eyes swollen and red. She scratched her head as she allowed herself to lean on her.

“The first thing we do is to blame someone and the second is to blame yourself. It’s very easy because it makes us feel good. We blame ourselves for things that we have done that we shouldn’t have done or those that we should have done but haven’t done. Regrets here and there.”

Gail nodded. She could identify with that. She had expressed regrets on a number of occasions for not having her operation at the military hospital. She knew of several colleagues who had had keyhole operations at their base. Everything had been uneventful.

“You see, no matter how much you blame yourself or someone else it won’t change things. You probably knew that already. You’ve been here now for …”

“Three months.” Gail added.

“That’s right. You can’t keep blaming yourself or people and denying yourself of nutrition and medication. Things can only get worse by so doing.”

“But where’s the hope? Rosie, my life is fading away. There’s nothing left.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve got a lot of life ahead of you and you deserve to have it. But you’ve got to be strong. I know that you will find a donor. Just be patient.”

Gail blew her nose and smiled. And suddenly she could sense her strength coming back.

“Now.” Rosie offered her the plastic cup containing her tablets and filled a glass with water.

“Thanks.” Gail gobbled down her tablets.

“That’s is it. That’s what you must do. Don’t give up my girl. You’ve got to fight.”

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Monica Roberts was about to have a nap when Dr Braver and his team arrived. She had hardly had any sleep and was grateful that at last the sedative tablet had started to have an effect on her.

“Is that the woman for mastectomy?” Dr Braver asked me.

I scratched my head, thinking, that was not the right way to talk to a patient who was waiting to have an operation. Cancer is an emotive condition. And for a thirty-year old woman waiting to have a mastectomy, it was much worse. I thought Dr Braver should have appreciated how difficult it must be for this young woman. And to refer to her as “that woman” made me cringe.

“Yes, that’s Mrs Roberts. She is first on the list for mastectomy.” I replied after recomposing myself.

“What is that you are reading?” Dr Braver asked.

“I got it from the patients’ library,” Monica said, as she handed the hard covered book to him.

“Mastectomy Questions and Answers!” Dr Braver exclaimed, “Now you’ve known everything about mastectomy. What else do you want me to tell you?”

“Well, I’ve not read much of the book. Only the first page or two. Couldn’t relax. Nothing sank in.” Monica explained.

Dr Braver flipped several pages of the book. At first, he seemed to be interested, as he nodded after flipping each page. And then, he closed the book, and as he handed it back to her, he asked, “Have you seen my book?”

“No, I haven’t.” Monica said, shaking her head.

“That will be a better read than all these mushroom books.”

“OK I will get your book, doctor.”

“It’s too late for that now.” He said. And turning to me, he asked, “So what’s the story here?”
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I explained to him that Monica had been diagnosed with a breast cancer and she was on the operation list for mastectomy. She had the option of a partial mastectomy but had decided to have a full mastectomy.

“Nonsense!” Dr Braver exclaimed. “I don’t like mastectomy. I hate to take a woman’s breast.”

Of course there was nothing wrong with his view about mastectomy. But the patient had made an informed choice. I tried to explain to him that it was the patient’s choice and she had the right to determine what was done to her body.

“Rubbish! I am the consultant. No patient dictates to me what operation I should perform.” And turning to Monica, he asked, “Are you a doctor?”

“No.” She replied.

“OK then, I have an idea,” he said. “The woman next door has enough to part with.”

We looked at one another, the sister, the patient and myself. No one knew what he really meant. And he seemed to acknowledge our confusion as he said, “She is down to have a partial mastectomy. And she has more than enough. So I will use part of her breast to replace the one that I remove.”

“What?” Monica asked, now shaking with tears streaming down her cheeks.

We all thought he was joking. but of course, Dr Beaver wouldn’t joke with such things. He meant whatever he said. He never joked. I felt like telling him that he had gone too far.The temperature inside me must be close to boiling point. I could feel my muscle twitching. I looked at the Ward sister hoping that she would say something but her face was blank

Just then, Dr Braver’s pager went off.

“Excuse me,” he said, as he rushed to the nurses’ station to speak to his wife.

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Heaven and Hell Boundary We both set off for the Intensive Care Unit. I took short paces trying not to keep him behind me. Other junior doctors and medical students had waited by the nurses’ station when we arrived. The nurses pretended to be busy doing other things trying to avoid him. “By jove!” Dr Braver shouted as he stood in front of the nurses’ station. “This must be the boundary between hell and heaven.” The doctors looked at each other wondering what was the problem. But no one was bold enough to make any comment. They just simply stood there waiting for his lordship to give instructions. “You know what it’s like at the boundary?” He asked. The doctors looked again at each other, their hearts pounding. “No, Dr Braver,” They answered simultaneously. “Right. Imagine what it will be like there. Trolleys taking the good, the bad and the ugly to the high place. You’re told you’re qualified to go to heaven. You shout or even cry for joy. Or you’re told oh you’ve failed to meet the standards for heaven. And now you’re condemned to hell. You shout, hiss or cry. So, the boundary between heaven and hell is not peaceful. It must be very noisy and chaotic.” No one seemed to understand his philosophical statement. Nevertheless, we laughed to make him feel happy so that the ward round could progress smoothly without any unmanageable event. He smiled wryly and appeared to be having a good time. And he said, “You see, if you look at the event here right now it is exactly what I have just told you. When patients get better they discharge them home or to the ordinary ward. And when they die they’re sent to the mortuary. In order to boost the hardness, and the ability for maintaining a stiffer penile levitra cheapest erection for a longer period of time than other medications. Akarkra offers effective cure for impotency, premature ejaculation and viagra for sale india weakness of nerves. Getting help: While one solution is to take uk cialis sales. One thing they all have in order generic levitra look here common is a white mane and tail. In both cases the trolleys come with their wheels announcing the good or bad news. In both cases people shout and cry for joy or shout or cry for the loss of their relative or friend. Funny, en.” The nurse arrived carrying a heap of case notes. She had been busy updating the patients’ records. And after greeting Dr Braver, she asked if he had had a good holiday. Dr Braver described how he had had a good time with his wife in Hamburg. They stayed in the best hotel and his wife was looking forward to going back there but he was going to take her to Florence next time. He even showed them the cuff links Mrs Braver bought for him from a British jewellery shop in Hamburg. “So how many of these heaven and hell people are mine?” He asked the nurse. The nurse counted the notes and cleared her throat. “Six in total. There were ten before your holiday. We are down to six now. Four have died.” “So which ones have you sent to hell?” Dr Braver asked. “Sent to hell?” The nurse wondered. “Yeah, I mean which of them have failed to make it?” The nurse pulled out a black folder from the drawer and read out the following names: “Frank Trommans, the sixty six year old who had a burst abdomen after laparotomy for pseudo-obstruction.” “Rebecca Andrews, the eighty five year old lady who had oeasophageal perforation during gastroscopy.” “Thomas Graves, the forty two year old that had an anastomotic leakage after bowel resection for Crohn’s disease. “And Angelica Tinker the young girl that bled after laparoscopic appendicectomy.” “They were unfortunate, I was not around. I’m sure I could have done something to save their lives. Anyway, I can’t be expected to be here three sixty five days. I’ve got to go away sometimes and leave other doctors to take care of the patients. And if they cannot bloody look after them that’s their luck.” Just then his pager beeped. We all heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s Jezzie,” he said, like someone who had been woken up by his alarm clock during a nightmare. He raced to use the phone in the side room ignoring the surprise on our faces. PURCHASE FROM AMAZON

Most GP appointments last ten minutes. Sophie had hoped it would be a nip in, quick pills check and back in the office.

When she arrived, she thought she was in the midst of mothers waiting outside the school to pick their children. Not that she disliked children or mothers, but she just couldn’t stand mothers who lived their children to run up and down the place. She had not anticipated that the surgery would be so busy although it was not unusual for mothers to come with their children during the school holidays.

‘Glad,’ she said to herself, as she settled in one of the chairs in the far end of the thirty-six-metre by twenty-two-metre waiting room. If she had thought she was going to wait that long, she would have tucked a magazine or novel in her bag when she left the office.

The children did not seem to be interested in the numerous toys that lay everywhere. Instead, they tried to push away the teenagers from the computer games. The waiting room looked like an amusement park.

She checked the information screen and noticed that there were three patients to be seen before her. She scanned through the tons of magazines on the central table, desperate to find something to read. The Women’s magazine was more than six months old. A Fashion magazine and Celebrity Gossips interested her but when she looked inside them, she couldn’t find anything interesting.

Just then, she heard, ‘Are you looking for something to read, dear?’ an old lady asked, as she passed the book she had been reading to her, ‘I am about to go in now.’

‘Yes, please,’ Sophie replied, without checking what the book was about.
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‘Lovely book,’ the old lady said, ‘I think I’ll get one copy for myself.’

Sophie opened the novel, ‘Dr Braver,’ and ignored all the noise and cries of the children. As she read the book, she remembered her own operation that her surgeon had scheduled for the following week. Her heart sank.

‘Where’s his medical ethics?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe this. Thank God, he is not my surgeon.’ She said to herself.

Just then, her name appeared on the call screen. Time for her pills check. She closed the book and looked at it again.

‘I think I’ll get my own copy too,’ she said, as she picked her bag and left the waiting room.

To read Joe Kenogbon’s Novels, CLICK here.

I arrived in the Accident and Emergency Department, dressed in the green theatre clothes with hat on and wellington boots. I stood at the door and having made sure that Dr Braver had finished speaking, I coughed to catch his attention.

“Hello, Dr Braver.” I said, as I entered the room.

“Hi!” He replied.

“We think Oliver has a perforated appendix, I said and paused to see his reaction.

“So?” He said.

“I wanted to check him again before calling Dr Bigfellow.”

“Why Dr Bigfellow?” Dr Braver asked, staring at me as if he had never heard of that name.

“Dr Bigfellow is the consultant surgeon on call.” I replied.

“Oh no. Not him,” Dr Braver replied, almost like a little child who has met his phobia. “My God. Look at those big hands! Those hands are too big to perform an appendicectomy on a tiny creature like Oliver. Gosh! He will slash him from chin to shin.”

“Can I call Dr Drifter then?” I suggested.

“You don’t mean that. Do you?” Dr Braver replied. “Besides, he has probably forgotten how to take an appendix. He must have lost that skill in a bottle of Whiskey a long time ago.”

“In that wise, maybe I should call Dr Saint,” I suggested, knowing that Dr Saint was the oldest surgeon at the Infirmary and he was highly regarded.

Dr Braver looked at his son and said pitiably, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Dr Saint will not operate on my boy. He will probably use silk or a rope or whatever they used in those days to stitch the wound.”

I looked at Dr Braver, not knowing whether to laugh or agree with his assertion. His venomous look pierced my vulnerable body, and I forced an affirmative nod.

Mrs Jezzie Braver sat down quietly on one of the benches in front of the A & E department. At that time of the night, the almost total chaos in the department had died down. That was very good for her, as she was desperate to find a quiet place. A place where she could cry quietly and reflect over her marriage, Oliver’s illness and, in deed, her whole life.

“Honey!” Dr Braver called, as he sat beside his wife.

Jezzie looked at her husband and tears welled in her eyes.

“Why are you like this?” she asked, trying to control her voice.

“Why am I like what?” Dr Braver snapped.

Still trying to keep her voice down, Jezzie replied, “Why are you so impossible?”

“Hey baby what’s up?” Dr Braver said casually, trying to trivialise the whole thing. He knew he had blown it and had to tread carefully.

Jezzie brought out a cigarette and Dr Braver brought out his lighter to light it for her. She brushed his hand aside and got up. Then she lit her cigarette and took a long piercing look at her husband. Even in the dimness of the A&E department, her eyes were red and swollen. All the make-up had gone. And she looked like a hungry lion ready to pounce on its prey.

“You are asking me what’s up? My God! Please just go. Leave me alone.” She screamed.

“What is the big deal about appendicitis that everybody has become all panicky?” Dr Braver shouted, trying to direct the flow of the dialogue.
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“Oh, so you now believe it is appendicitis. No more 50% mesenteric adenitis. Nonspecific abdominal pain and the nonsense of your papers?” Jezzie snapped.

“It probably is not appendicitis. But even if it was, what does it matter?” Dr Braver asked arrogantly.

“What does it matter? Have you lost your senses? You cannot even diagnose appendicitis on your own son and you’re asking me what does it matter?” Jezzie asked, her voice now becoming uncomfortably high for Dr Braver.

“You see, the abdomen is a difficult part of the body. And it is even more difficult in children.” Dr Braver said.

Jezzie stepped forward and almost touched his face with her finger as she snarled, “I see, Dr Braver MD PhD FRCS Consultant Surgeon, cannot diagnose appendicitis in a child because the abdomen is a difficult area. But the abdomen is not difficult for the SHO. Not even for the registrar who is foreign trained. That’s what you’re saying. Isn’t it? You are a disgrace. And you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Dr Braver shouted.

“So? Hit me then. Mr ‘Know all’. Come on hit me,” Jezzie said, moving closer to him.

“I won’t hit you. Civilised people don’t do that. Besides, this is an intellectual argument. It requires engagement of the brain not the muscles,” Dr Braver said, his voice softening. He blew out a thick smoke from his pipe and as he watched it spiral up into the sky, added, “People like you are common in the Women’s Magazine, Cosmopolitan or whatever you read. You see, my dear lady, intellectuals don’t shout. They discuss!”

Jezzie burst into laughter, almost catching the attention of the people waiting inside the A & E department. She drew in long on her cigarette and blew it directly across Dr Braver’s face. And in a slow and emphatic tone, she said, “I know what your problem is. I think you are suffering from Consultantitis. In other words, pathological arrogance.”

“Well, that’s your opinion. And everybody is entitled to her opinion no matter how stupid.”

“Oh, when did the eminent Professor, the best surgeon in the world, the epitome of surgical text book, start to respect other person’s opinion?”

“You are crazy, Mrs Braver. And that’s why I love you,” he said, almost whispering.

“You are a very interesting person, Alex. Always proving your wrong to be right. You don’t give in. Do you? Our son is seriously ill and here we are, arguing stupidly.”

“You started it.” Dr Braver said.

“No. I didn’t.” Jezzie replied.

“Who did then? You are the one who called the ambulance. You are the one who called a mere SHO to examine a consultant’s son?” Dr Braver said.

“So that’s your concern. If Dr Braver cannot do it no one can do it! Is that it?” Jezzie replied.

“He was lucky to make the diagnosis. An SHO should be able to diagnose acute appendicitis, anyway,” he said authoritatively.

“And the Consultant?” Jezzie asked.

“He does the operating.” Dr Braver replied.

“You are a very interesting person, Alex. Very interesting indeed.” Jezzie remarked sarcastically.

“Theatre is ready, Dr Braver. Do you want us to take Oliver directly to theatre or do you want him to first go to the ward?” A nurse said after nervously clearing her throat to catch his attention.

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Anna Guy was putting on her make up. She had switched off the computer and secured the windows, signalling the end of the day’s work. Anna’s office was next to Dr Braver’s. It was probably the size of a primary school classroom. Her seat faced the entrance, and to her left was the door to Dr Braver’s office.

“I didn’t think you were still coming,” Anna said, without looking up, as she put the last layer of pink-purple lipstick.

“Dare I do such a thing?” I asked.

“You and I would have put one leg in one trouser,” she said, now looking at me with a smile that didn’t match her statement.

“Oh, I would love that. But that must be a real large and long trouser for these legs,” I said, smiling reassuringly, pointing to my long legs.

“Is there any other long and large part of you?” She asked, as she adjusted her gold necklace.

“Oh yes. Every part of me. Even my heart,” I said, although I ticked a bit, thinking she was referring to something else. I guessed she might have thought she was becoming too familiar. And as if she was waking from a dream, and suddenly realised she was Dr Braver’s secretary, she changed the tone of her voice and resumed being in charge.

“Now then. I thought I should give you a bit of induction as per Dr Braver’s instruction.” She said, as she pulled out a thick folder from among the tens on the top shelf.

I nodded.

“You will find some of what I am going to tell you in the Red Book. I don’t suppose you have had any chance to read it.”

“Only a bit,” I said.

“Right. You’ve seen the office. Every junior doctor has their pigeonhole and must check every day, as that is where I leave information for them. At the moment, there are so many discharge summaries to be done.

“Once you’ve dictated the letters, put them in an envelope and hand it to me.”

“What happens when I go on leave?” I asked, looking again at the pile of case notes.

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“No holidays?” My mind immediately flashed to the plan I had already made to attend my sister’s wedding in Lagos. Being the first son, I would be expected to give away my sister. As I listened to her, I thought, That would be tough. There would be a fight. A big one, if he refused to let me go.

“I don’t suppose you’re married,” she enquired.

“No, I’m not,” I replied, although I felt like saying I was, thinking that I wasn’t ready to have a relationship with a married woman. Besides, she was my boss’ secretary.

“Jolly good. Better for Dr Braver’s doctor not to be married, because you don’t get to see your family. Your job must come before your family.”

I now started to find the whole thing ridiculous and hoped she would stop. She probably had read it on my face. And she changed her voice, now smiling invitingly.

“Be careful whom you discuss with, particularly, the nurses. He has informants all over the place. And they tell him things.”

I nodded.

“Listen, I think you will be alright. I am here to help you. Let me know if Dr Braver upsets you,” she said, as she started to clear her desk, signalling the apparent end of the meeting.

“Dr Braver?” I almost shouted.

“Oh yes, Dr Braver. I will sort him out.”

I didn’t know what she meant by that. But I guess she must be a powerful secretary that would sort out her boss. I looked at this wonderful woman with an eye that says, Really?

“You see, there are only two women who can sort Dr Braver out. Mrs Jezebel Braver and Mrs Anna Guy. And he knows that!”

“Thank you very much for that,” I said, wondering what she really meant by two women. Is Dr Braver having an extramarital affair with his secretary? I concluded that wasn’t my cup of tea. Good luck to him. At least, this lady has a soft spot. And I believe she likes me a lot.

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Thank God, he is not God!

Dr Braver led the crane driver’s wife and other relatives to the small quiet room behind the doctor’s office. “I’m sorry your husband is slow to recover,” he said, and after easing his tie slightly, he continued, “Surgery has been performed, as you know, by an experienced and senior surgeon. Now he’s in the hands of the anaesthetists.”

The crane driver’s wife gently wiped off a stream of tear from her cheek and said softly, “Tell me one thing.” She swallowed hard and unsuccessfully fought back her tears, “He will survive, won’t he?”

Dr Braver rested his elbows on his thighs, looked piercingly into the crane driver’s wife, and replied, “I am not God. Am I?”

The woman wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. She stood up and looked straight at Dr Braver. And with all the remaining courage within her, said firmly, “No, you are not God. And thank God that you are not. But you are playing God. Or perhaps, you are playing super God. Or what can I say?”

“I am sorry, woman. I know exactly how you feel…” Dr Braver replied.

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Dr Braver got up and moved closer to her. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “I care. And it is because I care so much that I have done all that I have done for your husband.”

The woman fiddled clumsily for her cigarette. Dr Braver momentarily dipped his hand in his pocket and brought out his gold plated fire lighter. He gently lit her cigarette and watched her ostentatiously as she gently took a puff on her cigarette, fighting back the tears, which were welling up in her eyes. Then she walked slowly to the window, and after gazing over the meadows, she blew out a cloud of smoke. And in a more determined voice, she said, “Now tell me, Dr Braver. I want you to be honest with me. Do you think he will recover?” She held her head and started to sob.

Dr Braver cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. Then after a brief silence, he cleared his throat again and replied, “It is difficult. Isn’t it? You want me to tell you whether your husband will die or not. Well, what can I say? If I say he will die you won’t believe me. If I say he will not die you won’t believe either. I think the answer is in your mind. Whatever your mind tells you.”

The woman summoned more courage and replied, “What I want to know is if my husband will bloody wake up from that horrible bed with all the tubes and wires attached.”

“May be, may be not. It’s a matter of luck. Isn’t it?” Dr Braver said casually as he picked his briefcase and got up. And after adjusting his tie, he added, “Keep up the courage. Let’s wait and see what happens over the next twenty-four hours or so. Nice talking to you, madam.”

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Anna’s office was next to Dr Braver’s. It was probably the size of a primary school classroom. Her seat faced the entrance, and to her left was the door to Dr Braver’s office.

“I didn’t think you were still coming,” Anna said, without looking up, as she put the last layer of pink-purple lipstick.

“Dare I do such a thing?” I replied.

“You and I would have put one leg in one trouser,” she said, now looking at me with a smile that didn’t match her statement.

“Oh, I would love that. But that must be a real large and long trouser for these legs,” I said, smiling reassuringly, pointing to my long legs.

“Is there any other long and large part of you?” She asked, as she adjusted her gold necklace.
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“Oh yes. Every part of me. Even my heart,” I said, although I ticked a bit, thinking she was referring to something else. I guessed she might have thought she was becoming too familiar. And as if she was waking from a dream, and suddenly realised she was Dr Braver’s secretary, she changed the tone of her voice and resumed being in charge.

“Now then. I thought I should give you a bit of induction as per Dr Braver’s instruction.” She said, as she pulled out a thick folder from among the tens on the top shelf.

I nodded.

“You will find some of what I am going to tell you in the Red Book. I don’t suppose you have had any chance to read it.”

“Only a bit,” I said.

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I have always been told to watch what I do on Friday the 13th. Not that I believe in superstition, but as I reflected on my first day in the department of surgery, I could not stop feeling that way. I had thought of going out after work to see how the town looked at night. But lying there in bed with a stomach full of semolina and okra soup, it felt like I had swallowed an elephant’s head.

The Red Book. Yes, Dr Braver’s rules book. The embodiment of Dr Braver’s Laws. The one-twenty-five-page pocket size book wasn’t actually red. The cover was not red. Neither was the content. In fact, the prints were in black and white. Several pages of information bound together into a book that every junior doctor must have in the pocket of his white coat and carry with him everywhere.

At first, all I wanted to do was simply scan through to familiarise myself with the book. To be honest, I already knew what it was all about, as I had heard him refer to his book numerous times. “It’s all in the Red Book.” “You haven’t read the Red Book.” Or when he doesn’t know what to say when you dare to ask him a question, “You will find the answer in the Red Book.” But as I scanned through the book, I found myself, stopping and reading.

The section dealing with “How a doctor should look” was not new to me. I heard a bit of reference to it when I met him this morning. “I will expect every doctor to be smartly dressed. Hair well cut. Tie to match a well-ironed shirt. Trousers not to go below the ankle. Shoes must not make a noise when you are walking. I hate jewellery on men. Any male doctor who wears jewellery to my ward round would have his jewellery confiscated.” I don’t have any problem with this section, I thought. I wasn’t bearded. I have bought nice ties and shirts. And my trouser sizes were hard to find. So most of my trousers fell short of my ankles. No problems.

Have you experience getting frustrated about not reaching orgasm? Do not blame your partner commander levitra immediately. Impotency is a condition generic viagra 100mg where the erection of penis when the person is asleep a condition called priapism. Low T generic viagra purchase is no laughing matter. People must see to it that they take proper initiatives to get over the problem and not just sit back and discount viagra uk let things ruin up instead they should take up for a proper medication from the doctor that could actually be for them. “My main ward round is on Saturday. 8.00 AM. Every Saturday. This is a compulsory part of training. Under no circumstance must you miss this most important ward round.” I turned the book over and looked at the back again, as if I had not seen it before. I almost shouted, You must be joking. Of course, I knew there was no joke in this book. It was all real. And the doctor must obey. All the other things in this section were not new. The nurses had mentioned them to me. Case notes must be available for every patient. All the test results must be written clearly in the note and copies pinned to the front of the notes. They must not be filed until he saw them.

The section, “Relationship with colleagues,” really fascinated me. “You are at work, not in the cinema or football stadium. You must not smile. Only speak when I tell you to. Doctors must not take instructions from nurses. And no doctor makes any decision without first checking with me. Your patients are patients, not doctors. You must not let them dictate to you what to do.” As I read this section, everything that happened this morning flashed back. I started to sweat in my armpits and my muscles twitched. “I’ve had enough of this,” I said to myself, as I tucked back his Lordship’s Red Book into where it belonged. The pocket of my white coat.

I felt that I needed to sleep over the encounter that I had with Dr Braver that morning. Sleep is very therapeutic. It takes you momentarily from all life worries. And after a good sleep, you feel refreshed ready to start another day. That was what I needed right now. I lay on my back massaging my over-filled stomach that looked like the stomach of a tadpole. My stomach was revolting for making it to carry a heavy load. I felt like saying to my stomach, Your host has to feed his fifteen stone body! Then, I farted; I thought I had ripped my pant. Thank God, I didn’t share my room with another person. I started to feel less bloated and, at last, I could turn on my front, which was my preferred position when in bed.

Now feeling easier, I reached for the Red Book again, determined to read through the whole book before sleeping. I was going to be in theatre with Dr Braver tomorrow. No doubt he would expect me to know about his rules. Every so often, my hand would drop to the bed and I struggled to re-locate the page. I was repeating lines and letters, and lines appeared double. I got up and walked round the room. I knew I needed to sleep; yet I must read this important book. No one knew me more than myself. Some people would sleep and decide to wake up at a particular time, and they would actually wake up.  I wasn’t that kind of person. Once I slept, that was it until morning. So, I was not going to sleep now. In the end, my eyelids were too heavy to keep my eyes open. My muscles had lost the strength to sustain my grip. And my thighs fell heavily to the bed, as I humbled myself to the all too powerful nature.

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