This man is quite intimidating, and I don't intimidate easily any more. He is tall, skinny, with a permanent lean forward, as if his tallness needs to be moderated, or that he is always on a mission in a hurry. He ploughs through his patients with rapid fire efficiency, dispensing only as much information as he thinks we need to know.
I know from the MRI report that I also have a cyst in the cartilage, which will need to be drained and repaired, but he didn't mention that. I am just assuming that he will get in there and have a good look around. I mentioned that my knee was 'clunking alarmingly', and he queried that, and I dismissed it. I'm pathetic!
Anyway, I limped out of there, a tragic diminished husk, hoping that he would discover the extent of the damage in the fullness of time. But I am angry at myself, as I knew how he would be, and I had pre-determined to overcome it.
He has agreed to take the plate out of my wrist at the same time, so long as an x-ray shows it has healed. The plate is set so high in the wrist joint it stops it from flexing properly, so must come out. My thumb, which I wondered was broken in the accident, still looks pretty flakey, but it's no longer as desperately painful, so must be healed by now.
On the way home, we stopped for an x-ray, which shows to my amateur eyes that the break has healed well.Onwards and upwards .........
...........................................
I'm off to a funeral today, for a man who I have always called a 'rascal', and even his funeral notice said he was a 'scallywag'.
Mack loved the ladies, probably too much, as his wife called it quits because of his constant infidelities. I clearly remember one day maybe fifteen years ago, at my married friend's house, he came in and, ignoring my presence, kissed her hello, promptly putting his tongue down her throat. Needless to say, I proffered my cheek to him for a peck.
Women loved him back because of his flirting irreverence. Many men probably disliked him for all of the above.
He was deeply involved into the horse world, and was on the board of the Royal Melbourne Show, and the Melbourne Hunt Club, both very prestigious positions.
He loved the grog, and when he began to mow the lawns at a friend's beautiful gardens, she would breathalyse him before she let him on the ride-on. If he failed, he was demoted to the push mower.
At seventy-eight and stricken by cancer, I last saw him two weeks ago at an aged care hostel, where he had been for maybe five years. He spent his time there annoying the nurses and care workers, and receiving visitors. Fresh out of hospital to have a morphine pump inserted, his mischievous eyes still lit up in his wasted face as I called out to him, surrounded by ladies and having a stolen cigarette on the back step.
His funeral is at the local Football Club, where he had built a new life, rarely missing a game when he was well enough. I'm sure I'll hear lots more stories of his escapades today.
Mack loved the ladies, probably too much, as his wife called it quits because of his constant infidelities. I clearly remember one day maybe fifteen years ago, at my married friend's house, he came in and, ignoring my presence, kissed her hello, promptly putting his tongue down her throat. Needless to say, I proffered my cheek to him for a peck.
Women loved him back because of his flirting irreverence. Many men probably disliked him for all of the above.
He was deeply involved into the horse world, and was on the board of the Royal Melbourne Show, and the Melbourne Hunt Club, both very prestigious positions.
He loved the grog, and when he began to mow the lawns at a friend's beautiful gardens, she would breathalyse him before she let him on the ride-on. If he failed, he was demoted to the push mower.
At seventy-eight and stricken by cancer, I last saw him two weeks ago at an aged care hostel, where he had been for maybe five years. He spent his time there annoying the nurses and care workers, and receiving visitors. Fresh out of hospital to have a morphine pump inserted, his mischievous eyes still lit up in his wasted face as I called out to him, surrounded by ladies and having a stolen cigarette on the back step.
His funeral is at the local Football Club, where he had built a new life, rarely missing a game when he was well enough. I'm sure I'll hear lots more stories of his escapades today.
"Here's to a long life and a merry one
A quick death and an easy one
A pretty girl and an honest one
A cold beer and another one!"
... Author Unknown
A quick death and an easy one
A pretty girl and an honest one
A cold beer and another one!"
... Author Unknown
2 comments:
Why is it that some people in the caring profession behave like this? I can only assume that they are terrified of showing their emotions, which must be on a helterskelter ride most of the time.
Sorry about your friend, he sounds quite a character,
and very West Indian too,
in a nice way. x
I guess we want their skills on the operating table, not in conversation. I take a lot of the blame, I just didn't deal with it the way I should have. Dopey Bird!
Re: Mack.... I heard eulogies galore about him yesterday, and he was a most capable organiser and friend. But a desperate, angry speech from a daughter who had cut him off for years, only to regain contact recently. Calling her dad a 'bastard' with such deep passion... she meant it.
I would like to aim higher than he did.
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