safe in the knowledge that he’s an idiot.
But, as I said, true sciatica is rare. Much more common is for the patient to strain the fascia surrounding the lower vertebrae. I had a neat trick whereby I got the patient to bend over in front of me and then proceeded to administer a hard fingertip massage. Often, within a few minutes the patient was able to bend fully without me needing to manipulate the joints, which could be painful.
I was midway through this procedure when Wayne rapped loudly on the door, informing me there was a telephone call that I needed to take immediately. ‘I’ll have to call back,’ I shouted, as the old braless hippy before me had flinched in response to Wayne’s interruption and now her muscles were in spasm. She was stuck in forward flexion and couldn’t move.
‘It’s George’s teacher,’ Wayne replied between his teeth.
There was no way I could leave the patient as she was: wrinkled breasts hanging low, like snooker balls in socks, stuck somewhere between a forty- and fifty-degree bend – the most precarious of positions. So I told Wayne I would return the call within two minutes.
I spent the next ninety seconds with my thoughts colliding, my brain Rolodex-ing through the possible injuries George could have sustained to warrant such a call. And being unsuccessful in alleviating the muscle spasm in my patient’s back, I gave up temporarily, adjusted the treatment plinth to its lowest setting – around twelve inches from the floor – and supported her around the waist as she crawled piteously on to the plinth, collapsing into the foetal position, saying, ‘Go on, go on. Find out about your son.’
I thanked her and darted to the shelves, grabbing a large towel and laying it over her to preserve her modesty (not that she cared). Then I dashed through to reception, where Wayne was wearing an expression that I was supposed to translate as ‘No personal calls in work hours.’
The call connected and I said, ‘Hello?’ as Wayne pretended to busy himself, tearing open a new box of tissues, then dabbing dry his upper lip.
‘Mrs Toovey, it’s Hilary Slater.’
Hilary Slater was the headmistress. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes and no, to be honest,’ and she sighed out heavily. ‘There’s an issue … an issue with George.’
‘Is he ill?’
Around six months ago I began receiving phone calls from school on a fairly regular basis to say that George was unwell and needed to be collected. He had a range of symptoms: sickness, headaches, dizziness, the occasional limp. As you would expect, the school treated these symptoms seriously. As did I, initially.
Getting over to Hawkshead mid-afternoon, taking George home or else bringing him back to the clinic, did not go down well with either Wayne or myself by the third time. Particularly because on every single one of these occasions there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Within twenty minutes of leaving school his pallor had vanished and he would be chatting away happily. I spoke to George’s teacher. Explained that, for whatever reason, I thought George was trying it on, and I would try to get to the bottom of it but please could they make doubly sure in the future before assuming he was unwell.
A week later I got the same phone call, only this time George had been witnessed vomiting so I could hardly argue. Off I traipsed, leaving a patient with fybromyalgia mid-session in the less-than-capable hands of Gary. Gary, whose entire treatment repertoire consisted of ultrasound followed by whatever new electrical therapy the reps were pushing down our throats and ending with a nice chat about correct posture. Sod all use basically, if you were in constant pain.
George was fine, needless to say. His witness turned out to be one of his buddies, who I’m sure under interrogation would have cracked, switching his story to one of observing strings of saliva rather than vomit. And George had once again earned himself an
But, as I said, true sciatica is rare. Much more common is for the patient to strain the fascia surrounding the lower vertebrae. I had a neat trick whereby I got the patient to bend over in front of me and then proceeded to administer a hard fingertip massage. Often, within a few minutes the patient was able to bend fully without me needing to manipulate the joints, which could be painful.
I was midway through this procedure when Wayne rapped loudly on the door, informing me there was a telephone call that I needed to take immediately. ‘I’ll have to call back,’ I shouted, as the old braless hippy before me had flinched in response to Wayne’s interruption and now her muscles were in spasm. She was stuck in forward flexion and couldn’t move.
‘It’s George’s teacher,’ Wayne replied between his teeth.
There was no way I could leave the patient as she was: wrinkled breasts hanging low, like snooker balls in socks, stuck somewhere between a forty- and fifty-degree bend – the most precarious of positions. So I told Wayne I would return the call within two minutes.
I spent the next ninety seconds with my thoughts colliding, my brain Rolodex-ing through the possible injuries George could have sustained to warrant such a call. And being unsuccessful in alleviating the muscle spasm in my patient’s back, I gave up temporarily, adjusted the treatment plinth to its lowest setting – around twelve inches from the floor – and supported her around the waist as she crawled piteously on to the plinth, collapsing into the foetal position, saying, ‘Go on, go on. Find out about your son.’
I thanked her and darted to the shelves, grabbing a large towel and laying it over her to preserve her modesty (not that she cared). Then I dashed through to reception, where Wayne was wearing an expression that I was supposed to translate as ‘No personal calls in work hours.’
The call connected and I said, ‘Hello?’ as Wayne pretended to busy himself, tearing open a new box of tissues, then dabbing dry his upper lip.
‘Mrs Toovey, it’s Hilary Slater.’
Hilary Slater was the headmistress. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes and no, to be honest,’ and she sighed out heavily. ‘There’s an issue … an issue with George.’
‘Is he ill?’
Around six months ago I began receiving phone calls from school on a fairly regular basis to say that George was unwell and needed to be collected. He had a range of symptoms: sickness, headaches, dizziness, the occasional limp. As you would expect, the school treated these symptoms seriously. As did I, initially.
Getting over to Hawkshead mid-afternoon, taking George home or else bringing him back to the clinic, did not go down well with either Wayne or myself by the third time. Particularly because on every single one of these occasions there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Within twenty minutes of leaving school his pallor had vanished and he would be chatting away happily. I spoke to George’s teacher. Explained that, for whatever reason, I thought George was trying it on, and I would try to get to the bottom of it but please could they make doubly sure in the future before assuming he was unwell.
A week later I got the same phone call, only this time George had been witnessed vomiting so I could hardly argue. Off I traipsed, leaving a patient with fybromyalgia mid-session in the less-than-capable hands of Gary. Gary, whose entire treatment repertoire consisted of ultrasound followed by whatever new electrical therapy the reps were pushing down our throats and ending with a nice chat about correct posture. Sod all use basically, if you were in constant pain.
George was fine, needless to say. His witness turned out to be one of his buddies, who I’m sure under interrogation would have cracked, switching his story to one of observing strings of saliva rather than vomit. And George had once again earned himself an
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