A quiet restaurant. The subdued murmur of conversation, and the clinking sounds of cutlery handled by hungry hands.
Suddenly there is a commotion. A rather fat gentleman at one end of the dining area, stands up and staggers back, and his chair falls. He clutches at his throat, and tears stream from his bulging eyes. It is obvious to everyone that he’s choking.
His daughter screams, and his wife pats him on the back. Nothing makes it better.
At this moment, someone screams, “Is anyone here a doctor?”
I rise from my table, and walk over to the diners in distress, elbowing a gawping tall gent out of the way.
Tossing my spectacles carelessly to one side, I say, calmly, “I am a doctor. Please move away.”
At my announcement people scatter, leaving a clear space for me to work with.
I go behind the fat gentleman, put my arms around his midriff, and attempt to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.
It doesn’t seem to work. The fat gentleman goes limp, and a glazed film appears over his eyes.
His daughter clasps her hands, and says, theatrically, to me, “Oh, please, please save him.”
I realize that there is only one thing to be done. I shall have to perform a tracheostomy.
“Hand me that,” I say, pointing to a table knife.
“No, the knife,” I say, as someone hands me a dinner fork.
Armed with the knife, I sterilize it in a cigarette lighter flame that someone holds for me.
I take a moment to visualize the thyroid gland, and the laryngeal nerves and vessels, and the thyroid vessels, and I make an incision into his neck.
***
The paramedics have come, and are taking the fat gentleman away, as he signs his broken thanks to me. (he can’t talk, obviously, he just had a tracheostomy.) I nonchalantly wave aside his daughter’s thanks, and walk away as she mouths “My Hero” to my retreating back.
As I leave the building I am cornered by a horde of waiting newsmen.
“It was nothing,” I say, modestly, “all in a days work.”
“No comment” I say, when someone asks me something (because that’s what all famous people say), and fade into the night.
Suddenly there is a commotion. A rather fat gentleman at one end of the dining area, stands up and staggers back, and his chair falls. He clutches at his throat, and tears stream from his bulging eyes. It is obvious to everyone that he’s choking.
His daughter screams, and his wife pats him on the back. Nothing makes it better.
At this moment, someone screams, “Is anyone here a doctor?”
I rise from my table, and walk over to the diners in distress, elbowing a gawping tall gent out of the way.
Tossing my spectacles carelessly to one side, I say, calmly, “I am a doctor. Please move away.”
At my announcement people scatter, leaving a clear space for me to work with.
I go behind the fat gentleman, put my arms around his midriff, and attempt to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.
It doesn’t seem to work. The fat gentleman goes limp, and a glazed film appears over his eyes.
His daughter clasps her hands, and says, theatrically, to me, “Oh, please, please save him.”
I realize that there is only one thing to be done. I shall have to perform a tracheostomy.
“Hand me that,” I say, pointing to a table knife.
“No, the knife,” I say, as someone hands me a dinner fork.
Armed with the knife, I sterilize it in a cigarette lighter flame that someone holds for me.
I take a moment to visualize the thyroid gland, and the laryngeal nerves and vessels, and the thyroid vessels, and I make an incision into his neck.
***
The paramedics have come, and are taking the fat gentleman away, as he signs his broken thanks to me. (he can’t talk, obviously, he just had a tracheostomy.) I nonchalantly wave aside his daughter’s thanks, and walk away as she mouths “My Hero” to my retreating back.
As I leave the building I am cornered by a horde of waiting newsmen.
“It was nothing,” I say, modestly, “all in a days work.”
“No comment” I say, when someone asks me something (because that’s what all famous people say), and fade into the night.
***
Dammit. Why can’t this happen for real?
If anyone of you is thinking ‘Walter Mitty’ I’m coming after you with a table knife and a dinner fork.
14 comments:
Ah, but the conclusions are all wrong!
You see, as soon as the incision is made, and you don't insert a tube, our little case of cafe coronary aspirates large amounts of blood laced with liberal modicums of cognac into his LRT. Ergo, he chokes and dies. By the doctrine of novus actus interveniens you are held guilty of culpable homicide, criminal negligence(in case you fail the breatholyser) and also violation of consent(obviously you hadn't asked for daughter's or the wife's consent before you slit his throat). So you're off to jail with long nailscratch marks over your face(from the daughter) and multiple bruises on various portions of your anatomy(from the wife).
So, a word of advice. Before attempting said operation, pick up a bone from the man's plate, suck the marrow out, cut the throat and stick the bone aforementioned in.
Then design that marriage invitation card.
Best of luck.
I do know about the tube. You see, by the time I am actually done cutting into his trachea, the paramedics are there, with medical equipment.
If, as you suggested, I insert a bone which I have sucked the marrow out of, it would be a serious case of violation of asepsis, and hence Culpable by the doctrine of res ipsa loquitur. And as the wife hands me the table knife, I take it as implied consent, which serves in case of an emergency, as I have multiple witnesses. Capische?
and I didnt get the marriage reference, by the way...
oh this is funny.........i shall sit one day and listen to stories such as these from you.
preferably not while i'm under the scalpel.
I'm going to confess to being a loser and say that I actually have quite a few (very imaginary) stories such as this...
yes... this is very walter mitty. but thats okay. he seemed like a nice enough chap at the end of the day...
and yes PLEASE listen to cohen. he is amazing
no. seriously.
you're one of those pied piper-ish storymakers/tellers
AQUILUS: um....the first two comments are very very interesting..though i didnt understand it completely....well..i never thought of walter mitty until you wrote it.
so you wont run after me with a table knife right?...
purpleshunshinethings: aka priyasha....you are obsessed with leonard cohen..yes you are.
aquilus: i have to admit it....it is kinda like walter mitty...hehe.
Purplesunshinethings: I did. it IS very good. Thanks a lot! Turns out I had two albums, "new skin for the old ceremony" and 'songs of love and hate.'
Diviani: aaawww, thanks. You see, it comes of a lifetime spent amusing myself...:)
Xiamaze: The first two comments consist of quibbling over incredibly abstruse points of medical ethics... :)and yeah, you narrowly escape being pursued by me armed with culinary implements!!!
@Xiamaze: You should consider yourself fortunate that you do not have to understand the first two comments. I am not sure I do either, and that's after a year of MUGGING THIS SHIT FOR EXAMS.
@purple:Don't start crying at the last word in the above comment.
@The Big Bird:Thank you. Nice compilation.
yeah, guys, Legal medicine is incredibly boring.
And you're welcome, Karl.
heh. like the agatha christie where the dentist stands up and says to the doctor, "i'm a dentist, could i help?" when the woman's lying dead with a puncture on her neck that's supposed to be a wasp bite.
sorry. that made no sense whatsoever but it just all came back to me.
lol.
iter m. am i missing something? wy would i cry?
exams, dumbo! i mentioned exams!
hanky?
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