Old man with falls, the form says - cardiology opinion to see if a pacemaker would help.
I don't feel so well, I think I am coming down with a flu (again). 'Let's make this quick' - I say to myself. She has already texted me twice about picking me up from work and I just want to go home and curl up in front of the TV, ignoring my MD thesis yet again.
I get to the ward and leaf through the notes.
Familiar story - frail and old, fell down, wife could not get him back on his feet, brought to hospital, now bed bound. His heartbeat was slow (but not too slow) and maybe a pacemaker would help.
Hmmm..., I am not convinced. So after a quick glance at the drug chart to confirm that we are not feeding him anything to weigh his old heart down, I walk (swagger) upto the patient.
He looks tiny in the big white bed. He seems forgettable in the ubiqitous hospital greens (Why can't people have their own clothes in hospital? They would certainly look healthier without those sickly greens).
He looks up from his shapeless, nameless hospital meal and I see the tell tale glint of lens replacement in his eyes. 'Hello', I say, as I give this man (who is at least three times my age) a paternistic (patronising) pat on his knee, 'I am one of the heart doctors and I am here to see what I can do to help you'.
He throws an angry glance in my direction. 'Well you can start by coming back after I finish my meal. And I don't like to be rushed either. I hate it when people just start talking AT a blind man without warning'
I look down at the form - yes it is there in print - 'registered blind'. Two months into my specialty training, am I already turning into an 'organ doctor' without concern for the rest of the patient?
'I am sorry to startle you, Sir. I'll come back when you're done' I say and withdraw from the bay.
I give her a call in the stairwell (mobile safe area) to say that it may take a bit longer than I thought. Then I go to the next ward to check on another patient (but end up checking my emails instead).
I am back in about 15 minutes. I sneak a guilty look into his bay to see if he has finished his meal - and I am only slightly ashamed of the relief I feel when I realise that he is not aware of my presence.
I go up to him to find out what's wrong:
- He is registered blind
- He looks after his wife - who is older than him (and he is 91!)
- He fought for his country at the age of 21 (he didn't think he would make it out of France alive)
- He is fiercely independent
- He does not suffer fools
- He does not like to be patronised
- He expects decency but does not demand it
- He is an extraordinary man in ordinary skin
'Now I may not be an educated man, but surely 91 years of life must count for something' he says.
I do what I can for him - which is not much at all.
As I walk up to the car (she is tapping the steering wheel - not a good sign), wondering about my own old age (how old? will she be there? please God let her be there), Dylan Thomas whispers to me in a blind man's voice:
'Do not go gently into that good night'
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