So, imagine thisDr. William Turner, a well-known cardiologist, had booked himself a little break at a spa hotel down in Bath. He thought hed have a shave, freshen up, and head out for the evening. Once youre over forty, its the little things, isnt it? Mind you, hes over sixty, but whos counting?
Right then, just as hes sorting himself out, the door flies open and in barges this woman. Now, youd need the skills of a sculptor to do her justice. Shes the sort of person you could run anatomy classes onshes substantial, lets say that, with enough presence to command a classroom just by rolling a pointer along her side and saying, Now, a woman consists of
She blurts out, Thank goodness youre here, Dr. Turner! Just brilliant that a famous heart doctor chose this spa for his holiday! Because right now, the caretakers wheeling in a patient to the treatment room, and the resident cardiologist is away. Honestly, who plans a heart attack for midnight? But as luck would have it, here sits a top notch cardiologist…
Turner knows hes caught. No getting out of thisthe woman must be nearly twenty stone, with a bright, brick-red lipstick right in the middle of her face, as if someone stamped her with the Inquisitions seal made of Max Factor. Theres just no arguing with ladies like her. Explaining that not even a magical heart doctor can do much with a caretaker and a nurse in a Snowman costume for an assistant would just be pointless.
So Turner heads to the treatment room, where he finds the caretaker with wild eyes standing next to a hospital trolley. On it, squashed beneath a stack of medical notes, is a bearded, floppy manface like a lumberjack glued onto a year 9 pupils body. That sort of build usually belongs to senior university folk.
Raving, he is, the caretaker announces. Just keeps muttering rose, rose… Acts like hes in a flower shop.
The nurse checks the mans blood pressure and tells everyone, grimly, its dire70 over 50 and dropping. This isnt blood pressure, its the size of my arms and legs! she jokes suddenly, cackling away. Turner gets goosebumpsnever a great sign. Apparently, the blokes normal systolic is 180 over 100like a warm-up lap.
Turners scanning the room for the right kit when he hears something strangea sound you just dont get in treatment rooms. Turns to see the nurse, weeping openly. Whats with you? Turner asks. She sobs, I just feel sorry for the man
Turner gets a prickly feeling in his scalp.
He tells her, Right, get the adrenaline, rubbing his hands with hand gel. You do know how to use adrenaline? And what do you pull it up in?
Oh, poor man! the nurse howls, slumping against the door frame, tears streaming.
Turner snags a syringe and draws up the shot himself, glancing at the caretaker. The caretakers eyes are as wide as saucershes never seen a needle this big; it could fend off pirates. In fact, Turner reckons, hes never met a backside that didnt recoil at the sight of a needle that size. The caretakers eyes are practically rolling back in his head. The nurse is in the corner sobbing. Honestly, Turner nearly slaps her to snap out of it. But then he thinks, what if she reflexively throws herself out the window? Splat. Not ideal.
He thinks, sod this, and jabs the shot into the mans sunken chest. And, of course, the caretaker collapses on the spot.
Oh, the poor caretaker! the nurse wails.
What is wrong with you people? Wheres the smelling salts? shouts Turner.
Are they going to die? Theyre going to die! Oh, my poor eyes shouldnt witness this the nurse snivels.
On the table sits this cast-iron lamp, heavy enough for David tending to a sore lion or something. Five solid kilos, Turner reckons. Hes tempted to use it to knock some sense into everyone. But he holds off and instead demands calm, since its getting pretty unclear who needs treating and who needs sectioning.
Enough! Discipline! he bellows.
Suddenly, the patient on the trolley sits up, eyes closed.
Dont start, sir, says the nurse sternly, placing her hand on his head and pinning him back. Smelling salts are in the cupboard, obviously.
The caretaker is so far gone theres no pulse to be found. The bearded blokes arm flops off the trolley. Out cold againTurner is starting to lose it.
Chest compressions! he yells, dragging the caretaker out from under the trolley by their ankle.
The nurse rolls the bearded chap onto his stomach, hikes his pyjamas up, and looks set to stride over the trolley.
Cardiac massage, not a blooming wrestling match! Turner shouts.
The nurse flips the man over, sits on him, and the trolley creaks in protest. Turner hears something crunch. He shoves smelling salts under the caretakers nose, who goes soft like an octopustheres not a straight bone in him, just flops wherever you grab. Turner props him up on the couch, looks over and sees the nurse about to pulverise the patient.
He yanks her off, sticks smelling salts under her nose, and sits her beside the caretaker. Theyre both sitting there like limp chickens, cotton wool up their noses. Ones trousers have slid to their knees, the others skirt is above her waist. Utter shambles. The ambulance crew, this is not.
Just then, the patient cranks upright again like an airline seat back. Eyes still shut. He turns his head slowly toward the couch, and the caretaker, spotting this, promptly keels forwardTurner notes a starburst on the floor tiles where his forehead landed.
Please, everyone, wheezes the patient without opening his eyes, I beg you, dont treat me any further
He then explains the whole business. Turns out, hes a lifelong hypotensive. Any sign of snow and he deflates like a party balloon; thunderstorms see him drifting round the floor like a draught. Not his fault, he was just born that way. His everyday blood pressures 80 over 50, maybe a bit lower on a bad day. Thats nothing a cup of strong espresso wouldnt solve. What definitely wouldnt help is a large nurse with a necklace of billiard balls sitting on his chest. Hed honestly thought the end had come, and his wifeRosewould walk in from the loo to find him gone. The irony: shes the one feeling ill, but hes the one nearly carted off.
Turner feels his hair turning grey. He grabs the medical notes and reads: Rose Yates. He remembers thinking, on the drive here, that he wouldnt mind getting to know a local lady, maybe have some company He quickly decides: never mind.
Whats this? he asks, showing the file to the nurse.
Thats the medical file, she answers, staring blankly ahead, cotton wool hanging from her nose.
This isnt Rose Yates at all, Turner points out. This is definitely a Lionel, not a Rose.
As his doctor, you really should have noticed that by now
Oh, for”
Listen, everyone, interrupts the patient. My wifes here. I just brought her a bottle of kefir She nipped to the loo and left her notes with me. Then I started feeling rubbish. This chap here, whos just demonstrated softness trumps hardness in all matters, hauled me onto the trolley and wheeled me in. Now Im here. I felt awful, but now I feel grand. Wasnt well, but now, thanks to whatever that courageous doctor gave me, Ill not sleep for ten yearsfits nicely with my plans for another research publication. Honestly, if you lit a match below me, Id reach orbit. Never felt so well-pressured in my life.
After the bloke with the kefir leaves, the nurse pipes up, Maybe we should all pretend this never happened.
Turner wants to smack her with the lamp again but holds back. She beats him to it: Ill deal with the caretaker.
In the end, Turner never did meet anyone new at that spa in Bath. And honestly, who can blame him?
