MW_Secret_files/Erotic Dreams.pdf - Medwords.com.au

PRACTICE TALES
Repairman
An interesting person with an unusual character, is the phrase that best describes
Mrs. Mac. She has been a patient of mine for 25 years, and I have seen her through
the loss of her husband, the diagnosis of maturity onset diabetes, falling downstairs
and breaking her hip and not being found for 36 hours, the loss of her home and
independence, her establishment in a retirement village unit and the onset of evolving
dementia.
Most people cannot stand her very abrupt and aggressive manner, let alone her
thick Scottish brogue that she hasn’t lost despite half a life-time in the antipodes.
After knowing her for so long though, I get along with her reasonably well, giving
back as much as I get in a friendly verbal banter. On the other hand, the other
residents, and staff, at the retirement village avoid her as they find her to be
uncooperative and confrontational. As a result she is, and always has been, a loner.
When phoning the practice, her manner is usually abrupt in the extreme. “I want
the doctor” is shouted down the line, with no name or introduction. The staff know
her so well that they merely acquiesce, and reply that the doctor will come at a
particular time. The response to this is usually “Can’t he get here sooner!” even if the
time is in five minutes. With an answer in the negative, she finishes the call with
words such as “Well I’ll just have to suffer until then I suppose”.
Last Tuesday was just one of those days. The appointment book looked as though
a demented ink covered spider had crawled across it, and the entire district had a
prolonged power failure, which meant that some internal rooms were pitch black, Pap
smears were done with a pen torch, and the phone system was down.
Just after the power came back on the phone call came from Mrs. Mac, and the
usual dialogue followed. She was told that the doctor (none of the five women
doctors in the practice were qualified in Mrs. Mac’s eyes, so it was always me) would
call after surgery.
Dutifully I arrived at the huge 500 unit complex in which she lived, fought my way
through the multiple security gates and doors that closed after hours, and eventually
arrived at her room.
“You’re late!” was the peremptory comment made when I walked in. It was 8pm by
this stage, as the surgery had run overtime, I was very tired, and rather hungry, my
last food being an early lunch a 11.30am.
My brief apology was followed by a query as to how I could help her.
“Fix the TV”. Please and thank you were not in her vocabulary, but I knew, deep
down, in her heart of hearts, she really wanted to say those words - I think!
“Okay, but how can I help you?”
“Nothing! Just fix the TV!”
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