For five years, I have been collecting medical anecdotes. They exist in a file of short stories, anonymised, and with invented names. There are encounters in the chaos of the ED, in crowded wards during Covid, in eerily underpopulated private hospitals. Lists of narrators include elderly parents, friends, relatives. There are accounts by patients, doctors and nurses. There are stories that are excruciating, funny, sad. Stories from the private front line, behind the public face. Addiction and rehab tales from a childhood friend who binges 60 units (about 48 standard drinks) of alcohol a day.
Scenes from the folder: Rose Smith waits while the new specialist scrolls through 25 years of her surgical notes. He turns and says, “I opened the file and my heart sank.”
Rose silently absorbs this. Out the window, a beautiful network of bare tree branches spreads against the iron sky. Rose looks at his sensitive, kindly face and says, with a feeling close to hilarity, “And so to the next chapter in the horror story. The day I learned my surgeon had dementia.”
The new specialist’s expression turns carefully neutral. When she’d described herself as a journalist, he’d launched into a series of comments about the state of play in his field. Controversy had been raging over techniques and implants. “I’m not interviewing you,” she wanted to say. But then he’d focused on her file. Now he’s assuring her he has nothing to do with the former guy, the specialist who could have operated on many patients before anyone knew he was impaired.
“He seemed vague when I last saw him,” Rose says. The new specialist nods alertly. Rain runs down the window.
“Let’s do an examination,” he says. Now she imagines his expression is one of apprehension and doom.
Many years ago, Keri Jones was treated in hospital by a doctor who told her he’d come from a dinner party. He smelled of wine. A long time later, she saw him and noted his craggy drinker’s face. She thinks of him, in a neutral way, as Ground Zero. She transferred away from him, and like Rose, she was treated for years by the dementia guy: from Dr Frying Pan to Dr Fire.
Sarah Brown is waiting in hospital with her father, who is about to undergo surgery. Pre-procedure, there’s a long interrogation. Sarah tells her father the surgical checklist originated in aviation and was taken up by doctors as a way to prevent errors and infections. She learnt this from reading A Mistake, by Carl Shuker, a pacey New Zealand novel about a surgeon.
The surgeon and anaesthetist sweep in, looking sharp and bouncy and reassuringly young. The doctor whips out a big felt pen and draws a purple arrow on her father’s leg. Watching this, Sarah recalls a gastroenterologist who told her recently, “I’d like to write a song about my work.” This amused her so much she couldn’t focus on his advice.
Later in the high-dependency unit, her father is relieved the procedure is over, and gives the medical team an A+. The surgeon smiles and says, “You might mark me down when the painkillers wear off.” Sarah’s dad recites some difficult poems to show he has no cognitive impairment. He’s word perfect.
Rose rings a friend and describes the happy ending in the new specialist’s office. After the examination, he tells her, “You’re fine! All is well!” She’s gone so many rounds with the dementia guy and the dodgy techniques and the faulty implants. How can she be unscathed? “So much of life is luck,” she murmurs. The doctor shrugs, smiles. He’s not going to argue as he smoothly sees her to the door.
