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 Waiting Room
Medical mishaps reported each week by our covert correspondent, Jackie Marshall, who works at the coalface of modern medicine - the waiting room at a National Health Service (NHS) clinic. (Why not catch up on Jackie's most recent trials and tribulations.)
The Terror Of The Visiting Nurse
October 16, 2006
According to my friend Merri, who knows about these things, 73.2 percent of all Health Visitors are called Oonagh. Which is amazing, considering the name's distribution in the general population. And it’s funny that such a sweet, Celtic name can inspire such terror in new parents. For the Oonaghs of the world have only to utter a single negative comment to a new parent and it sounds like: Your-Baby's-Going-To-Die-And-It's-All-Your-Fault.
Every society needs its complement of Oonaghs, God knows we do. But the problem with having your Oonaghs, who are trained to look for ALL THE SIGNS; is that the clinic is besieged by timewasters with tears streaming down their faces. Not that they know they're timewasters, of course. Once Oonagh's done with them they're all convinced that their child is going to need specialist care for the rest of its short and probably painful life. No one ever seems to point out to the Oonaghs that child development statistics are actually averages, not bludgeons to whack vulnerable new parents about the head with.
This morning, for instance, we had three Oonagh victims through. Tori Lucas (not feeding for long enough at a time; suspected malnutrition; mother's guilt pouring from her nose in great stringy gobbets. Weighed slightly above average; clearly stopping feeding because mother's gushy breasts were doing their job just fine). Then there was Wayne James (sickle cell anemia. Doctor recommended Calpol, fluids and a single glass red wine for mother after infant's bedtime). And then came Liv. And Liv's Mum and Dad. Parents red-eyed. Liv gurgling and bouncing about, smile the size of a saucer.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
Liv's Mum burst into tears. "There, there," I said automatically, scooting the tissues along the counter.
Baby looked fine to me. Apart from a slight tendency to underbite, but I'm sure that'll sort itself out when she's got more than three teeth. She reached out and took a handful of tissues, started shredding them. Her mother, overcome, pushed her into the father's arms and put her face in her hands.
"Sorry," says Dad. "We haven't slept, you see..."
"Do you need to see a doctor?"
"Yes," he replied, and his poor face crumpled. He looked like a beetroot left too long in the veg rack. "Liv," he said, "Livvy's got spina bifida."
Wow. Yes, I think I'd probably be having a bit of a sob in his position too.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," I said. "When was she diagnosed?"
"Yesterday," he said.
Liv, finally noticing her parents' distress, joined in.
Around his sobs, he stuttered out his story. Oonagh had come for Liv's eight-month checkup yesterday. Weighed her, measured her, looked suspicious when Liv's Mum mentioned that she had the odd tantrum; the usual. Noticed that Liv had a tendency to flop over when sitting unsupported.
"She should be sitting up by herself now," she said.
Liv's Mum, halfway through boasting about how her little darling was saying "Mama" and "Dada" already, barely heard it to begin with. "Oh, right, is that outside normal?"
Oonagh used her Health Visitor frown. "Could be," she said.
"How not normal?"
"Well..." Oonagh lifted Liv's Spongebob t-shirt, looked at her back. "She's got dimples," she announced.
"Dimples?"
"Probably nothing to worry about, but it can be a sign of spina bifida, of course."
Mother burst into tears.
"Well obviously," said Oonagh, "it's very mild if it is."
You can't help wondering what a mild version of something that leaves you in a wheelchair is.
Well, I know we receptionists have a rep for stony hearts, but I scooted them round the queue and into Sporty Doc's office double-quick. Ten minutes later, they were wreathed in watery smiles. Didn't glance at me - no one ever does - as they walked out, but I could tell the news was good.
We take files into the doctors' rooms throughout the morning. Next trip, I violated patient confidentiality. As you do.
Sporty rolled her eyes. "I've got to have a word with Oonagh," she said. “She's got to sort out her bedside manner.
D'you know she told them to look spina bifida up on Google?"
I said nothing. Google's the first port of call for most doctors these days for anything more complicated than a common cold. But of course, doctors are generally not spending entire nights winding themselves up with image searches of ulcerated spinal columns. So what was wrong, then?
"Nothing," said Sporty. "Perfectly healthy baby. Just more interested in rolling than sitting."
"And the dimples?"
"Ah," said Sporty. "That's what we doctors call Maximus Gluteus."
I folded my arms, waiting for the medical witticism.
"Kid's got a fat arse," she said. "She'll have trouble finding jeans to fit when she's older."
(Catch up on the most recent happenings in the waiting room.)
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