You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  “Mr. Simpson will be here in a second,” said Dr. Rogers, who up to that point hadn’t noticed me, but he put me at my ease by nodding in my direction. Although I could only see his eyes over his mask I knew that he had given me a smile. (Being an artist and a portrait artist in particular, I knew that a genuine smile can only be detected in the eyes, not the mouth). The double doors then flew open, held by another orderly, and the surgeon made a grand entrance. This was accentuated by the fact that he was holding his arms outstretched in front of him as he entered, thereby ensuring that he does not come into contact with any surface. He stopped after a couple of strides and looked around as if to familiarise himself with his surroundings. He was wearing the same uniform as the rest of us, except that he was also wearing a plastic apron.

  Through his green mask he announced, “Good evening everyone, sorry I am a little late and I have not had chance to speak to you, but I believe we have all worked together before.” Everyone nodded, and just as Mr. Simpson was about to approach the operating table he looked at me and did a double-take. He didn’t say anything. As he looked directly at me, I noticed immediately that he had the most piercing blue eyes. As he stared at me it seemed as though he had Superman’s x-ray vision as I felt the almost laser-like force going straight through me.

  Thoughts quickly flashed through my mind, ‘Do I look away?’ ‘Am I not supposed to be here?’ ‘Do I speak first?’ I sensed the doctor and nurses at the table watching as two masked men stared at each other. Who would blink first? It was like the ‘Gunfight at the OK Corral’. An instantaneous moment was like an eternity as I seemed to be frozen in time. I tried to follow the surgeon’s thought-process by attempting to read his facial expression around his eyes: initially raised eyebrows and open eyes of surprise, then the lowering of eyebrows in puzzlement, and finally a smile and nod of acceptance. I reciprocated with a similar nod. The whole exchange lasted two seconds maximum, but to me I felt as if my life had flashed before me.

  At the operating table the surgeon stood on the side directly opposite the three nurses, and the anaesthetist sat at the head of the table to his right. He greeted each colleague warmly by their first names and his professionalism and courteousness were such that he also turned to the two orderlies, who were standing a few feet away and politely nodded to them in acknowledgement. He was like the conductor of a symphony orchestra who shakes hands with the first violinist and then acknowledges each section in turn. There was no doubt as to who was in charge. He turned to the anaesthetist and asked a few technical questions, and then made sure that the nurses were positioned exactly where he wanted them.

  I settled into my position, adjusting my body stance in order to gain a good vantage point, ready to witness a totally new experience in my life. By no stretch of my imagination could I possibly expect what was to come next. The surgeon, Mr. Simpson, turned directly to me and said firmly, “Here,” as he held out his right hand towards me and then pointed to the floor next to him. I just looked at him, remaining rooted to the spot. I was glad that I was wearing a mask because at least he couldn’t see my open mouth.

  “I want you here,” he instructed firmly, repeating his gesture. Before I could reply, I noticed Frank tilting his head to me and down to the operating table. He was signalling me in a similar fashion to the way Malcolm had attracted my attention to witness Fred Tinsley talking to the T.V. a couple of weeks earlier. The message that Frank was attempting to convey was ‘just do as you are told’ and Janice reinforced this. So, I did as I was told and took up my designated position at the operating table. The surgeon positioned me right next to him. In fact we could not have been closer, since his right elbow touched my left elbow and to my right sat the anaesthetist. I could have put my arms around both of them, the way a hooker does to the prop forwards in the front row of a rugby scrum. He then told me to hold the patient’s head under her chin with my left hand and under her head with my right hand and to make adjustments as instructed by the anaesthetist.

  After a couple of seconds the surgeon asked, “Is that okay now?”

  “Yes fine,” I replied

  “I was talking to Dr. Rogers,” he said curtly.

  I looked across at my colleagues who returned my glance with a combination of, ‘Good luck’ and ‘Sorry we got you into this.’ At least that’s what I would like to think they were conveying to me.

  The patient was covered in green sheets, and the area to be operated on, literally right under my nose, was about the size of an A4 sheet of paper.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let us begin,” he announced, and selected a scalpel from the tray to his left. I was transfixed. With the blunt handle of the scalpel, he simply marked a line about 4 inches long on the exposed flesh. This left a visible white line, temporary for seconds but sufficient to act as a guideline for the incision. With expert speed and confidence the surgeon cut along this line to the depth of about the width of the palm of his hand. The blade was so sharp and the incision so swift that I literally watched the wound open up before my eyes. It was like slicing a Victoria sponge cake. For a split second there was no blood, and I could see the various layers of skin and fat as clearly as, well, a Victoria sponge cake or a geologist analysing the strata in an exposed section of sedimentary rock.

  The blood then started to seep from the walls of the incision and quickly formed a pool in the wound. The whole team then moved into action. The surgeon removed the first blood simply with a couple of scoops of his hand onto his plastic apron. The theatre nurses moved rapidly, applying various clamps which looked like, and were handled like, scissors. At the same time, they were handing various implements to the surgeon. I have never seen anything as fascinating in my life. In fact, I was so enthralled that I didn’t even have time to think about any feelings of nausea. Janice had chance amongst all this activity to look up to me with a slight raise of the eyebrows and an encouraging nod of the head to see if I was okay. I responded with a similar expression to assure her that I was fine.

  I was particularly intrigued to watch how the surgeon directed his staff not only with verbal instructions but also by tapping on the implements as they were offered. He would have a clamp in his right hand and literally knock one to one side from one nurse to take a different one from another. It sounded like a fencing tournament with metal on metal. One nurse would dab with a swab, and this would be tapped away forcibly by the surgeon when he was ready to proceed. In no time at all, about half a dozen clamps had been applied with the handles all protruding at different angles, and the bleeding was stemmed as quickly as it had first flowed. The level of skill displayed by everyone was awesome. To my untrained eye it seemed like organised chaos, and I could only try to imagine the amount of training necessary to work together in such a manner. The first stage was over and the surgeon asked the anaesthetist for technical information and asked if everything was fine. He then turned to me and asked if everything was fine. This time he really was talking to me.

  “Yes, her head is at the same angle,” I answered proudly as I maintained my hold with both hands.

  “We are now ready to tie the fallopian tubes,” he announced.

  ‘God, I hope he doesn’t ask me to put my finger on the knot,’ I thought.

  This phase of the procedure was much calmer and slower, and then the clamps were removed by the theatre nurses.

  “That seems fine,” concluded Mr. Simpson, stepping back from the operating table. “I think the incision can be closed up now.”

  Needles and sutures were handed to him by a nurse from a sanitised tray, and he started the sewing up. Once he had started the process he handed over to Frank to finish off.

  “Thank you very much everyone,” he said graciously, with a gentlemanly bow to each of us. “Will I see you all for a cup of tea?”

  “Yes Mr. Simpson, in the usual room down the corridor in about half an hour,” said Janice.

>   “Splendid,” replied the surgeon, who left the theatre with Dr. Rogers.

  Frank was busy concentrating on his sewing, while Linda and Janice disconnected the patient from various tubes and the theatre orderlies prepared to wheel her to a recovery ward.

  I went into the annexe locker room and sat down. I was exhausted.

  “Well done John,” said Linda and Janice. “So, what did you think of that?”

  “Unbelievable,” I said, and then added, “I’m really glad I got rid of all that static electricity!”

  Frank then joined us and informed us that the patient had been taken to the ward.

  “I hope the sight of all that blood hasn’t spoiled your appetite,” he remarked.

  “Why?”

  “The hospital always provides a buffet and cup of tea after operations.”

  After a quick shower and change, I followed my colleagues to a room where the catering staff had organised a buffet of sandwiches, quiche, chicken drumsticks and cakes. Thankfully, there wasn’t any Victoria sponge. We helped ourselves to a plate of food and stood together in a group.

  “That has never happened before,” said Frank, referring to my inclusion in the actual operating team.

  “Yes, it was a slight surprise,” I concurred with deliberate understatement.

  “I think it was because Mr. Simpson was slightly late and didn’t have chance to speak personally to any of us beforehand,” suggested Linda, who then looked at me and said, “He probably assumed that you were a member of the team.”

  I then had visions of me receiving my P45 the following day. Janice took a sheet of paper from her pocket and showed it to me. It was an official hospital document on headed notepaper which included a check list for the operation: patient’s details, nature of operation, surgeon, anaesthetist, and theatre staff. At the bottom, where else, was my name: John Meadows (student).

  “I can see what’s happened,” said Frank taking the sheet from Janice. “It doesn’t say ‘Observer’ next to John’s name.”

  “So I was included as part of your team due to an administrative error?”

  My P45 was starting to look like an absolute certainty.

  “I’m glad I didn’t faint or have to dash out,” I said with a sigh of relief.

  “Yes,” said Janice, “I watched your face as the surgeon made the incision, but you were fine. Well done again.”

  At that point the two doctors entered the room and walked over towards us. “Don’t say anything,” Frank whispered to me.

  “May we join you?” asked Mr. Simpson, by far the more extrovert and demonstrative of the two doctors. “Sorry I didn’t have time to greet you beforehand,” he said as he shook hands with Frank, Linda and Janice. “It is nice to see you again.” The surgeon then turned to me and said, “We haven’t met before, I’m delighted to meet you,” as he offered me a firm handshake. Before I could reply he said, “You are Mr. Meadows, I believe.”

  “That’s right Mr. Simpson, pleased to meet you.”

  I fully expected the surgeon to engage the rest of the group in general small talk over a cup of tea, and I could retreat into semi-anonymity. No such luck. He continued to fix me with his intense, blue x-ray eyes and said, “I believe you are a student?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I replied, not attempting to disclose any more information than was necessary in view of Frank’s advice. As I answered him I could detect a slight shuffling of feet from my three colleagues, and I was really hoping that one of them would interject with a change of subject.

  “So where are you studying?” he inquired further.

  “At Leeds University,” I answered. I could feel myself beginning to act shiftily.

  “Oh, terrific reputation, I know it well,” he enthused, “and when will you graduate?”

  “I’ve got two more years left,” I answered, and realised that this had become a two-way conversation with no escape route.

  “You must know Professor Rawlinson.”

  “Well, not personally, but of course I know of him.” I was telling the truth because the names of the Professors of the various university faculties often appear in print. There followed more shuffling of feet and occasional clearing of throats from my colleagues.

  “Yes, we studied at Cambridge together,” said Mr. Simpson proudly, “and he is still a very good friend of mine.”

  “You probably spend some time at Jimmy’s?” was his next question. I knew that this was the nickname for St. James’s Teaching Hospital in Leeds.

  “Oh, St. James’s,” I said, nodding my head in agreement, but not actually answering his question.

  “So when were you last there?”

  “Oh, let me see,” I said, stroking my chin looking to the ceiling. “It must have been last April.”

  “Which department were you in?”

  “Casualty,” I answered. By now he must be thinking that I had had a personality by-pass operation.

  “Oh, really, how interesting.”

  “Yes, I twisted my knee playing rugby.”

  The surgeon laughed at that, and Janice, Linda and Frank followed his lead. Mr. Simpson thought I was just making a little joke.

  ‘When is someone going to interrupt and change the subject?’ I thought, hoping to be rescued soon. Unfortunately I realised that the surgeon was extremely eminent and carried great authority, and interrupting him was hardly an option.

  “So, Mr. Meadows, when you graduate from University which particular field of specialism or areas of expertise do you think you would like to go into?”

  I took a sip of tea, looked around for a second while thinking over his question. I rolled my eyes towards the ceiling and stroked my chin again as Frank, Linda and Janice looked on helplessly. I took a deep breath and looked straight at the surgeon and finally answered, “Textile Design...”

  The interminable silence was only broken by the sound of shuffling feet as my colleagues closely inspected their shoes. Mr. Simpson stood there expressionless.

  “I am here as a vacation student for the summer holidays.”

  Still silence as I fully expected to be frog-marched off the premises by men in white coats. Mr. Simpson then burst into laughter and looked towards Dr. Rogers, who also started to laugh. My three colleagues joined in with hesitant, forced laughter. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “My dear chap,” said Mr. Simpson touching me sympathetically on my shoulder, “let me apologise most profusely. What must you think of me putting you through such an ordeal?”

  I must confess that an apology from an eminent surgeon was not the outcome I had expected from our conversation.

  “He did very well don’t you think?” said Janice with obvious relief in her voice.

  “He did tremendously well,” agreed Mr. Simpson patting my arm. After a few more minutes of light-hearted chat, Mr. Simpson looked at his watch and started to say his farewells. As he shook my hand he said, “Let me apologise once more,” and added jokingly, “I don’t suppose you would consider switching careers from Textile Design to Medicine?”

  “I don’t think so,” I agreed. “The only stitching I will be doing in future will be on cloth.”

  And with a laugh he was gone, after inadvertently providing me with one of the most incredible experiences of my life.

  Can You Stand the Sight of No Blood?

  The following week I was back in the operating theatre. Henry had told me that an orthopaedic operation had been booked, and it was to be carried out on a lady called Helen who was forty five years of age and a long-term patient at Rainhill Hospital. Since birth, she had only been able to walk on her tip-toes with the aid of a Zimmer frame because her Achilles tendons were too short and caused her feet to point downward. She was to be operated on by a consultant orthopaedic surgeon c
alled Mr. Habib. Incidentally, the tradition of consultants reverting back to the title of ‘Mister’ rather than ‘Doctor’ goes back to the days when the local barber also doubled-up as the doctor and dentist. In 1540 Henry VIII instigated the founding of the Barbers-Surgeons Company and this is the origin of the red and white pole outside a barber’s shop, representing bloody bandages.

  Imagine walking into the barber’s shop, “Yes sir, how would you like it?”

  “Just give me a short back and sides, an appendectomy, and pull out four teeth please.”

  Not surprisingly, doctors who had studied for higher qualifications wished to be referred to as Mister to distinguish them from their ‘blood-and-guts’ colleagues.

  When I arrived at the theatre I was greeted by two different theatre nurses, and I explained to them that I had observed an operation the previous week. I made a special point of checking the staffing list to make sure that this time I hadn’t been promoted to consultant surgeon. We got changed and scrubbed up as usual, if I may be forgiven for sounding blasé. The patient was wheeled in by the same theatre orderlies as last week, who greeted me with a cheery, “Hello luv, are you here again?”

  “Yes, I’m a glutton for punishment.”