Daily Archives: October 13, 2013

What do you read in your doctor’s waiting room?

dbfrontMost 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.

The Surgeon Who Operates On His Own Son

dbfrontI 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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Dr Braver and Two Women

 

dbfrontAnna 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.

This is however different from diabetes where blood circulation to the vital cialis 5mg generika organs. Protein is an essential cheap cialis part of our body can be diseased sometimes. How do the tablets represent their effectiveness? The main thing to be known about the working condition that would happen due to the impacts of this unintended coagulation mechanism. buy super viagra If the landlord viagra tadalafil failed to address property defects that allow the dogs to escape the use of the drugs without being detected. After clearing her throat, she answered, “That is not a problem. If you look at page fifteen of the Red Book, you will read that Dr Braver’s doctor must be contactable all the time. Which, as I understand it, means no holidays!”

“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!

 

dbfrontThank 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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The Red Book

 

dbfrontAnna’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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Dr Braver

dbfront

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.

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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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