Six weeks later - the blog resurection

It is about six weeks since I last wrote, so I doubt if anyone is actually reading them anymore. It gives me a sort of freedom to write what I like, except, of course I can't. Time and lots on my mind seem to be the great obstacles to contributing more. When I was travelling around Australia I was able to think about what I was going to write, but now,it seems, I'm just too busy. In Australia I was on a role. Another thing is that I was trying to do a daily blog, now I'm going to try a weekly one.

So what's happened this week?

I am now back to full time work which means seeing patients, taking phone calls, and dealing with requests for visits and prescriptions. Since my vertebral artery dissection and consequent visual field loss, I've found it harder to work quickly, and also get very tired. Getting about is also difficult. I can't drive of course, so I walk. I walk to work most mornings, and if I have to visit I either get a lift or walk. Everyone has been very understanding. But what would happen if we got an urgent visit? It couldn't happen, could it?

On Thursday we met up as a partnership with a mediator. Had it really got that bad? Well the session went well. I think there is an appreciation of each others perspectives, and a good way forward. We are starting to focus on the direction of the practice in the future, and less on trying to get more time off. There is agreement that we want to move the practice into the 21st century. We have already agreed to move to offering an eight to eight service.

Back to the surgery. It's one of the mornings that I've walked in to work. A call has come for an urgent visit. Marvelous. It sounds serious. A young man has been found in the front room, unconscious and in a pool of blood. In fact they think he might be dead. The neighbour, who is a ward clerk at the MRI, and knows about these things, thinks it's too late, so they haven't called the ambulance. 'Anyway, he wouldn't want to go to hospital'. I suppose I better get there quick.

First I quickly check his notes. I've seen him twice. The last time was six months ago. He'd been in with indigestion, I'd sent him for tests because he'd been loosing weight, but he hadn't gone. I had noted a smell of alcohol. I better take my bag to look official, but it really doesn't sound good. The house is not far, but I get a lift.

I approach the house with some trepidation. May be I should have been more proactive in following him up. May be I should have made sure he had the test. What will the family say? Will they been angry, blame me? And my reputation, what will happen to my reputation?

As we pull up to the house a small crowd has come to see what's up. These are second or third generation Irish Catholic Mancunians and they are looking grim. The gathering parts, almost Biblically. His mother meets me in the doorway, and in the hall I ask what's happened.

'He's not been sleeping well. He'd been complaining about his stomach and could only sleep after a few drinks. He often didn't go to bed and fell asleep in front of the tele. I came down this morning and found him like this'. 'I sent him for a test for his stomach, why didn't he go?' I ask meekly with a 'I did try to treat him' subtext. 'I didn't know he was supposed to go for one' she says, 'he wouldn't have gone anyway' The on-lookers are starring at me. Are they blaming me? The atmosphere is tense. I can feel my pulse rate rising and I feel a bit clammy.

In the room he is slumped by the settee. Clearly dead. There's a bottle of whisky by him, an empty one. 'Can you leave me with him for a moment?' I say sheepishly. The door closes behind me and I stare at him. There really isn't anything I can do here. He is dead. I better wait a seemly amount of time and then face the audience.

I'm rather more clammy now. What am I going to say? How will they take it? They must know he's died, they can't be hoping for a miracle from me.

His mother comes in, accompanied by a pensive sister and her boyfriend. Another sister is sobbing. His brother is stern and rather intimidating.

My mouth is dry, my pulse fast, my palms sweaty. 'I'm afraid he's gone. I'm sorry he's passed away...he's died'

'Ah sure, we know Father' says mother in a southern Irish accent 'Tanks very mooch'. I edge towards the door, in a bid to get away unharmed. One sister bursts into tears. Brother puts his arm around her shoulder. The others hang their heads. 'Do you want to ask me any questions'. 'No doctor, you did all you could for him'.

"Well I'll leave you with him' and turn, I feel, rather too quickly. Will they think I'm escaping? Should I say something else? I open my mouth to say something.

'He liked you doctor' says his sister. I open my mouth again but stop. 'He thought you were like Jesus'.

What could I say?

What can you say?