The greatest compliment one can give a cook/chef is to show appreciation and enjoyment for the food they cook. By the same token, one of the greatest compliments one can pay a writer is to have an emotional response to the words they create – anticipation, eagerness, surprise. It has been wonderful to see the reactions to my last couple of posts and I want to thank you all because they are compliments. Do not hesitate to leave comments or feedback to my writing as they are greatly appreciated. Now let us conclude this story shall we?
Before I left home for school, my dad had given me contact info for a fellow MD friend of his, Dr. M who had recently moved to the town my school was in. He was a back up in case of an in emergency although we both did not anticipate there being the need for it. Well, this was an emergency. There was no way I was letting that she devil anywhere near my knee! I hobbled as fast as I could to the Principal’s office. Now the Principal, Sr. Mercy had a reputation for being a no-nonsense lady. She was both feared and respected, although fear was the most common reaction. I knocked on her door with a sense of trepidation but fierce determination. I had already started the water works to help pad my argument and as I hoped, my tear-stained face immediately caught her attention. She asked what the problem was and I immediately launched into a rant about the nurse, how she did not respect my dad’s wishes, constantly disrespected him and was now threatening to sew up my knee when I had express wishes against it. I told her that there was a colleague of my dad’s in town whom I wanted to go and see so that he could give me a written note against sewing up my knee. She listened quietly and when I was done, explained that the nurse was the medical authority of the school and if that was her educated opinion she could not go against it. Like I mentioned previously, Sr. Mercy was feared, like the warden of a prison and you wanted to stay on her good side to make your time on the inside easier. It must have been desperation and being fed up with the nurse because I used those emotions to boldly tell Sr. Mercy that whether she gave me her permission or not, I was going to see Dr. M as soon as I left her office but it would nice if she went ahead and signed my exit card. (We were not allowed to leave the school grounds without getting our exit cards signed by the principal or an authorized authority.) She stared at me long and hard for a couple of minutes and then asked to see my exit card, signed it and told me to be careful. I have to say I was shocked! I had gone against the grand pumba, and come out unscathed.
I was at the hospital in next to no time where the intake nurse tried to examine me before letting me see Dr. M. However, already at my limit with nurses I told her she did not know who I was and if she valued her job she would show me to his office immediately – it worked! When Dr. M walked into his office I felt like a runaway slave who had made it to freedom, I was safe. I explained the situation to him and we both agreed that as much as my dad’s method had merits, having to deal with the nurse everyday was getting too stressful and so he would sew up the knee and put my leg in a cast from thigh to ankle with a window cut out at the knee for daily cleanings. Two hours later I was sewn up, outfitted with a cast, a crutch and ready to return to school. I must admit I could barely wait till morning to show off my new shiny white addition to the nurse.
The next morning I made my way confidently to the Infirmary with as much pep in my step as I could manage with a crutch. When I walked in, the nurse had her back to me and seemed to be setting up the instruments in preparation to sew up my knee. I pulled out a chair as quietly as I could, sat down, stretched out my cast covered leg out as far as I could and waited for her to turn around. When she did I watched her face as she first saw me and when her gaze finally settled on my knee; it was priceless! There was triumph then confusion and finally comprehension. Whenever I am down, that memory can usually pick me right back up!
Nurse: What’s that? Who did that?
Me: Oh, that white thing? It is called a cast and it was done by a medical doctor in a hospital after he stitched up my knee.
I don’t recall the specifics of the conversation that ensued because I was so triumphant in my victory, I could care less what she had to say. I do remember her making a statement as to how us rich kids felt a sense of entitlement and the cast was unnecessary and a waste of money. I may or may not have replied that it was not her money so what did she care?
I think she was eventually replaced by someone much nicer but she soured me for a long time on nurses and the nursing profession. Once upon a time you could not pay me enough money to be a nurse and the disdain I felt for them was very hard to disguise. I have met some incredible nurses since then and have gotten to know amazing people who were studying to become nurses, so I know that I should have never used one experience to judge an entire profession. However, the dislike I had for nurses had been in existence for far too long and was too powerful to just go away – it had to be transferred and the profession it settled on was Medical Doctors. So stay tuned to for Why I don’t like Medical Doctors!