Tag Archives: medicine

A Better Story

Can bad decisions lead to better stories?

Let us suppose for the purpose of crafting an entertaining story that your lead character’s dotty, old Aunt Hilda—whom he hasn’t seen in forty years, and who recently died at the impossibly-old age of 103—left him, her only heir, the sum of twenty-five million dollars, all in bearer-bonds, and twenty-five cats who shared her last abode.

Your protagonist is elated, of course, and only mildly sorry he hadn’t taken time to visit the old gal from time to time.  After placing the cats out for adoption and depositing one million of those dollars in his personal chequing account to cover immediate lifestyle changes, he now needs to decide how to properly invest and grow the remaining twenty-four million.

To whom does he turn for advice?

He could enlist the help of reliable, established bankers, investment counsellors, financial gurus, and market analysts, all of whom would be eager to serve.  He knows he could safely rely upon these learned and experienced people, whose profession it is to help other people make money—being handsomely reimbursed for their efforts, naturally.  Let us call this the elite option.

But if he has never considered himself an elite, he might decide to call on twenty-five of his closest friends who—in return for the chance to celebrate (and perhaps share in) his great, good fortune—tell him they will devise a sure-fire strategy to determine how he will invest the bulk of his new-found wealth.  That strategy, in order to be enacted, need only be approved by a simple, majority vote of 13–12, swayed perhaps by the most voluble, the most persuasive of the group, rather than by the most knowledgeable.  

Let us call this the populist option, and if your protagonist deems himself a man of the people, he might well choose this second course.

Or, let us suppose for the purpose of creating another entertaining story that your lead character has been recently diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, out of the blue, and that she has very little time to decide on the best medical option that might save her life—although there are no guarantees, of course, from any of them.

To whom does she turn for advice?

She could, in addition to talking with her loved ones, consult with her physician and the specialists to whom the physician refers her, all experts in their field.  Before choosing her treatment plan, she might seek second, third, even fourth opinions from people who have studied their entire lives to deal with critical situations such as hers.  Let us call this, again, the elite option.

But let us suppose again, if she does not reckon herself among the elite, she might gather together concerned family members and friends, all of whom love her and wish her only the best, to ask, by majority vote, which treatment plan they believe she should follow—the established medical option, a naturopathic or homeopathic approach, or maybe an experimental route (which might require travel to a foreign country for procedures not approved in her home and native land). 

Let us call this, again, the populist option, and if she fancies herself of the people, she might choose this second course.

In these examples (deliberately simplistic, I know), there are dilemmas confronting these two characters and the decisions they would have to make.  To whom would they turn in such critical situations, the elites or the populists?

The authors of such stories, too, face these same dilemmas, these same decisions.  Which path should they choose for their protagonists to follow in order to compel their readers to stay locked in to the story?  And will those decisions prove good or bad?

In one telling of the first example, the lucky heir to the twenty-five million dollars might turn to the wise counsel of the investment community, prosper as his fortune grows, and live in a cloistered castle to a ripe, old age.  End of story.

But in another telling, he might seek the advice of his friends, invest and lose his entire inheritance based on their advice, realize belatedly the error of his ways, embark on a driven quest to recoup his lost fortune, clash and joust with pillars of the financial community, rise and fall again and again, only to triumph at the end—a true Horatio Alger story.  Or perhaps, in a cruel twist of fate, he might lose it all yet again and die miserably in an abject state of poverty.

Only the author can decide.

In one telling of the second example, the stricken person might rely upon the medical establishment and, after a period of treatment and rehabilitation, survive to live a long and happy life.  End of story.

But in another telling, the person might turn to family and friends for a decision, choose unwisely, see her condition worsen unto the point of death, only to be miraculously saved by the last-minute intervention of a handsome, dedicated doctor who refuses to be rebuffed by quackery.  The patient’s health improves dramatically, she marries her saviour, and goes on to live well into her nineties.  Or perhaps, in a cruel twist of fate, she is assailed by a recurrence of her disease, against which she vies valiantly, time and again, only to succumb in the end—a true Shakespearian tragedy.

Only the author can decide.

In either example, which do you suppose might offer the more entertaining story, the first version or the second?  The authors make their decisions in the initial writing, of course, but in the end, it is the readers who decide if those decisions are good or bad.

So, can bad decisions lead to better stories?

You tell me.

On Top of the Grass

Almost a decade ago, I was seized by a medical emergency with very little warning.  After a frantic day of searching for an available hospital to perform a needed surgery, I was wheeled into the operating room in the wee small hours of the following morning—in the very nick of time I subsequently learned, due to a severe case of blockage in my colon, caused by diverticulitis.

During the endless days of recovery in hospital afterward, I consoled myself in the lonely nighttime hours by composing a poem in my head, one stanza at a time.  On each following morning, my wife would write the stanza down as I recited it from a sometimes drug-addled memory.

writing

Once home, I tweaked the poem somewhat, then used it as a foreword to a book of tales I was about to publish.  It centered on a sentiment my golfing pals used to joke about in our retirement community—that, no matter what might be ailing us on any given day, at least we were still standing on top of the grass, rather than resting beneath it.

While I was composing it, the poem provided a promise of hope for me that my recovery would be complete.  Later, it became a source of inspiration to do whatever it would take to make that happen.

As things turned out, the hopefulness expressed in the final stanza—written before a second surgery restored me half-a-year later—did bear fruit.  And almost ten years on, the poem still resonates for me with its message of faith and optimism.

On Top of the Grass

It struck with a rush, and hit full-flush,

The pain that would not end.

It twisted my gut until it was shut,

And made my belly distend.

It took fierce hold of my abdominal fold

As I lay on the emergency bed.

I feared I would die, and the question of “Why?”

Kept banging around in my head.

~ 0 ~

My angels of life—my daughters and wife—

Were there from beginning to end.

A sense of their touch meant ever so much

Through pain I could not comprehend.

From dusk until dawn, I thought I was gone

As we raced through the city’s grim gloom,

With siren and lights, we searched the dark night

For an available surgery-room.

~ 0 ~

In the back of the van with the ambulance man,

Sedated, but dogged by the pain,

I yearned for relief, though it was my belief

That I’d never be normal again.

I knew that I should make myself understood,

And tell him I was sinking down fast.

Then he gave me some slugs of painkilling drugs,

And oblivion quickly slipped past.

~ 0 ~

Some hours anon, the doctors had gone,

And I wakened, my girls at my side.

How fair they did seem, my loveliest dream,

Their smiles of relief beaming wide.

They stroked my poor head as I lay in my bed,

And together we gave thanks for life,

The four of us there, reliving the scare,

Just me, and my daughters and wife.

~ 0 ~

The details were grim, but I wanted them,

So I’d know what had happened to me.

They gave me the scoop on my colonic loop,

And I learned it was taken, you see.

But enough does remain, they’ll connect me again,

Just as soon as they figure out why—

And what—caused the block, caused my system to lock,

And laid me so low I could die.

~ 0 ~

I’m home now, it’s great, and so I just wait

For my good health and strength to return.

Then I’ll journey back down to the city’s downtown,

Where the doctor’s next steps I will learn.

A scope and a scan, MRI if I can,

Will give her a plan to pursue,

Then under the knife, I’ll get back my life,

And that life I shall gladly renew.

~ 0 ~

What does it all mean, and why have I been

A victim, or so it appears?

I’m not sure I know, but I’ll go with the flow,

With more smiles than pitying tears.

I know this for true, and I’m telling you,

That all of this sickness shall pass.

When all’s said and done, at each dawn of the sun…

I’ll be standing on top of the grass!

top-of-the-grass

I hope you, too, will be standing there for many years to come.

 

 

My Emergency Room Visit

I had occasion recently to visit a friend in hospital, a spanking-new facility in our community.  I had no trouble parking, finding the elevators, or locating his room, and we enjoyed a half-hour or so of conversation before I left.

It was quite a contrast to what I had experienced a year or so earlier, when I paid an unexpected visit to the emergency department of the old hospital, a facility reminiscent of the dark ages of medicine.

emergency-room_265898

My wife was away for the weekend with friends, and I was home alone.  That in itself is never a good idea.

While attempting to open a can with our idiot-proof can-opener, I managed to slice my index finger rather badly.  When my muddling efforts to stanch the bleeding were unsuccessful, I decided—very reluctantly, mind you—to drive myself to the hospital to have the injury stitched.

With a gauze wrapping the size of a small fist encasing my finger, I managed to make the trip without incident.  Not having needed emergency care for quite some time, however, I’d forgotten how long such a simple first-aid procedure could take.

The first clue that I might be in for a long stay came when I had to wait for a spot in the emergency parking lot.  The guard on duty wouldn’t let me in until a metered space opened up, despite my wagging my mangled finger at him.  That word—emergency—takes on a whole new meaning when one enters upon hospital property; Hurry up and wait might best describe what I was about to endure.

Once I finally got the car parked, I had to find the parking meter (at the far end of the lot from where I was, of course!), fumble some coins into it, then trudge back to the car to place the parking pass on the dashboard.  I might have been whimpering softly by this point, although I can’t be certain.  I next proceeded to the emergency room entrance, following the brightly-coloured signs with their pointing arrows, and limped up to the reception desk.

I’m not sure, looking back, why I was limping; after all, it was my finger I had injured.  Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to influence the admissions staff to whisk me right through.  I could almost hear the PA system blaring forth:

Prep the O.R. immediately!  This patient has a severe digital incision requiring prompt attention.  Alert the trauma unit!  We’re on our way up!

Hah!  Faint hope!  I leaned on the reception desk, moaning strategically, waiting for the receptionist.  She was on the telephone, apparently fighting to get off, but losing.  Finally, to my delight, another woman came behind the counter, set down the coffee and bun she was carrying, and approached me.

“Last name?” she inquired.

“Burt,” I responded.  “I’ve cut my finger pretty badly on a tin can, and I can’t get the bleeding…”

“Take a seat,” she interjected, indicating a row of chairs to my left with a jerk of her head.  I meekly joined the other eight or nine folks already sitting there—none of them, to my eye, as much in need of help as I.  Every few minutes, just to emphasize that point, I groaned audibly.

During the next forty-five-or-so minutes, every one of them was called into one of two small cubicles, behind a curtain.  I never saw anyone emerge.  But I was impressed with the efficiency of it, even ‘though I had to wait quite a while to be included.

When I finally heard my name, I smugly entered a cubicle ahead of the people who had arrived after me, every one of them fixing me with a malevolent stare for having the nerve to think I was in greater need than they.  Inside, I was told to sit down in front of a large computer screen.  A different woman sat opposite me.

“Proof of health insurance?” she asked.  “Been treated here before?”

“Yes,” I whined, “but it’s out in the car.  In my wallet.  I don’t think I’ve been in here before.”

“We’ll need it,” she said.

Slowly and somewhat resentfully, I carried my sore finger all the way back to the parking lot to fetch my wallet.  Then I trudged back to the cubicle.  By now I was limping even more noticeably.  Of course, someone else was now inside with the woman and her computer, so I had to wait my turn once more.

At long last, I made it through the data collection process and was ushered through the rear door of the cubicle to what I hoped was the treatment room.  Alas!  It was another, larger, waiting-room, and the whole world, it seemed, was ahead of me.  Including some of the people who had apparently resented me earlier, now happy they had passed me in line.

96-waiting_room_hospital

Three magazines, two washroom breaks, and one half-cold cup of coffee later, I was called into an honest-to-goodness treatment room.  After sitting on the padded table for a quarter-hour, trying not to wrinkle the protective paper pulled over top of it, I finally decided to lie down.  Precisely at that point, a doctor (I greatly hoped) bustled in, scanned my data sheet, donned her latex gloves, then removed the sodden wrapping I had been clutching around my wound.

“Do you need this finger?” she asked abruptly.

“Do….do I need it?” I croaked in horror.

“No, no, no.  I mean, do you need it for your work?  What sort of work do you do?  We can freeze it and stitch it if you need your finger; otherwise, we’ll clean it, glue the skin, and tape it for you.”

My relief was palpable.  All my anger and frustration at having waited an eternity vanished in a flash.  I was so grateful she was going to save my finger, I was seized by an impulse to hug her.

But she wasn’t there long enough for me to act on it.  In not much more than five minutes from the time she’d entered, I was all taped up.  And the bleeding had stopped.

“Good to go,” she said, “unless that limp is a problem.”

“Uh, no, it’s not,” I quickly replied.  “It’s really nothing.”

In no time at all, I was outside on the way to my car.  And to the parking ticket on the windshield, reminding me that I had stayed too long!