the more senior trainees and I knew that he could deal with this case himself.
‘Get him up here quickly,’ he said. ‘There’s a bit of hydrocephalus so I’d stick a wide bore drain in and then take out the clot, leaving the AVM alone. It’s deep.’
‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘He’s potentially salvageable so make sure they send him up the motorway pronto. You might point out to the local doctors that there’s no point sending him if they don’t do it quickly. Apparently they need to use the magic phrase “Time Critical Transfer” with the ambulance service and then they won’t mess about.’
‘It’s already done,’ James replied happily.
‘Splendid!’ I said. ‘Just get on with it.’ And I headed off downstairs to my office.
I cycled home, stopping off at the supermarket to get some shopping. Katharine, the younger of my two daughters, was staying with me for a few days and was to cook supper. I had agreed to do the shopping. I joined a long queue of people at the check-out.
‘And what did you do today?’ I felt like asking them, annoyed that an important neurosurgeon like myself should be kept waiting after such a triumphant day’s work. But I then thought of how the value of my work as a doctor is measured solely in the value of other people’s lives, and that included the people in front of me in the check-out queue. So I told myself off and resigned myself to waiting. Besides, I had to admit to myself that soon I will be old and retired and then I will no longer count for much in the world. I might as well start getting used to it.
While I was standing in the queue my mobile phone went off. I experienced an immediate flash of alarm, instantly frightened that this would be my registrar calling to say that there was a problem with the brain tumour case but instead I heard an unfamiliar voice as I scattered my shopping over the counter while struggling to answer the phone.
‘Are you the consultant neurosurgeon on call?’
Emergency calls are usually all sent to the on-call registrar so I answered warily.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘I am one of the A&E SHO s,’ said the voice self-importantly. ‘My consultant has told me to ring you about a patient here. Your on-call registrar is not answering his bleep.’
I was immediately annoyed. If the case was so urgent why didn’t the A&E consultant ring me himself? There used to be a certain etiquette about ringing a colleague.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said, as I tried to gather up the hot cross buns and clementines I had dropped. A&E were probably just trying to shift patients quickly to meet their target for waiting times. ‘I was just speaking to him ten minutes ago . . .’
The A&E SHO didn’t seem to be listening.
‘It’s a sixty-seven-year-old man with an acute on chronic subdural . . .’ he began.
I interrupted him and told him to ring Fiona, who was not on call but I knew was still in the building and then switched the phone off, giving an apologetic smile to the puzzled check-out girl.
I left the supermarket feeling anxious. Perhaps the patient was desperately ill, perhaps James had failed to answer his bleep so I rang Fiona on her mobile. I explained the problem and said that I was worried that maybe just for once it really was an urgent referral and not just an attempt to get a patient out of A&E .
I went home. She rang me half an hour later.
‘You wait until you hear this one,’ she said, laughing. ‘James had answered the call and was already on his way to A&E . The patient was perfectly well, he was eighty-one not sixty-seven and they’d completely misinterpreted the brain scan, which was normal.’
‘Bloody targets.’
By the time that I had got home it had started to rain. I changed into my running clothes and reluctantly headed for the small suburban park behind my home. Exercise is supposed to postpone Alzheimer’s. After a few laps round the park my mobile phone went off.
‘Bloody hell!’ I
‘Get him up here quickly,’ he said. ‘There’s a bit of hydrocephalus so I’d stick a wide bore drain in and then take out the clot, leaving the AVM alone. It’s deep.’
‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘He’s potentially salvageable so make sure they send him up the motorway pronto. You might point out to the local doctors that there’s no point sending him if they don’t do it quickly. Apparently they need to use the magic phrase “Time Critical Transfer” with the ambulance service and then they won’t mess about.’
‘It’s already done,’ James replied happily.
‘Splendid!’ I said. ‘Just get on with it.’ And I headed off downstairs to my office.
I cycled home, stopping off at the supermarket to get some shopping. Katharine, the younger of my two daughters, was staying with me for a few days and was to cook supper. I had agreed to do the shopping. I joined a long queue of people at the check-out.
‘And what did you do today?’ I felt like asking them, annoyed that an important neurosurgeon like myself should be kept waiting after such a triumphant day’s work. But I then thought of how the value of my work as a doctor is measured solely in the value of other people’s lives, and that included the people in front of me in the check-out queue. So I told myself off and resigned myself to waiting. Besides, I had to admit to myself that soon I will be old and retired and then I will no longer count for much in the world. I might as well start getting used to it.
While I was standing in the queue my mobile phone went off. I experienced an immediate flash of alarm, instantly frightened that this would be my registrar calling to say that there was a problem with the brain tumour case but instead I heard an unfamiliar voice as I scattered my shopping over the counter while struggling to answer the phone.
‘Are you the consultant neurosurgeon on call?’
Emergency calls are usually all sent to the on-call registrar so I answered warily.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘I am one of the A&E SHO s,’ said the voice self-importantly. ‘My consultant has told me to ring you about a patient here. Your on-call registrar is not answering his bleep.’
I was immediately annoyed. If the case was so urgent why didn’t the A&E consultant ring me himself? There used to be a certain etiquette about ringing a colleague.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said, as I tried to gather up the hot cross buns and clementines I had dropped. A&E were probably just trying to shift patients quickly to meet their target for waiting times. ‘I was just speaking to him ten minutes ago . . .’
The A&E SHO didn’t seem to be listening.
‘It’s a sixty-seven-year-old man with an acute on chronic subdural . . .’ he began.
I interrupted him and told him to ring Fiona, who was not on call but I knew was still in the building and then switched the phone off, giving an apologetic smile to the puzzled check-out girl.
I left the supermarket feeling anxious. Perhaps the patient was desperately ill, perhaps James had failed to answer his bleep so I rang Fiona on her mobile. I explained the problem and said that I was worried that maybe just for once it really was an urgent referral and not just an attempt to get a patient out of A&E .
I went home. She rang me half an hour later.
‘You wait until you hear this one,’ she said, laughing. ‘James had answered the call and was already on his way to A&E . The patient was perfectly well, he was eighty-one not sixty-seven and they’d completely misinterpreted the brain scan, which was normal.’
‘Bloody targets.’
By the time that I had got home it had started to rain. I changed into my running clothes and reluctantly headed for the small suburban park behind my home. Exercise is supposed to postpone Alzheimer’s. After a few laps round the park my mobile phone went off.
‘Bloody hell!’ I