“I’m looking for someone to help me see patients.” He turns to the three student nurses dress in white standing by him doing nothing and eyes them thoughtfully.
“Which one do you want?” He takes my hand and pulls me closer. He grabs the hand of one of the nurses. “Here, this one. She is a fine woman. She will do you well. I think you will both be very happy.” He places my hand in hers. Everyone bursts out laughing as we walk arm in arm to the consulting cubicle.
The morning goes briskly. A man with hypertension, a few probably TBs, a gastroenteritis, diabetic reviews, an acute severe pneumonia. The nurses change at 11 for coffee. My betrothed’s replacement is not so enthralled with my work style. She yawns noisily and pointedly whilst I am examining a patient and as I write the treatment card, disassembles her biro and taking the plastic ink tube, sticks it in her ear. “Are you allergic to anything?” I ask the patient. The nurse translates whilst energetically scraping the deep recesses of her ear canal.
“No doctor,” the nurse replies as the patient answers, studying the tip of her biro interior with great interest before wiping the waxy minings off upon her dress. I give her a Paddington bear hard stare in an attempt to communicate that this is puzzling behaviour for the consulting room. She stares blankly back at me. I hold my gaze for a few seconds but, damn she’s good, I have to drop first. She could have taught Paddington a thing or two.
Then to the ward. Sister Jenny, an elderly nurse whose rolling antalgic gait is a consequence of her bad hip arthritis, eyes me. “Doctor,” she shouts, “are you married.”
“No,” I reply. A chorus of mutterings and laughs erupts among the nurses.
“Hauw Doctor! You must find yourself a Zulu wife. A good Zulu wife. Our old medical director. He was English and he found a Zulu wife. You should too.” The other nurses take up the chorus and I back out, throwing on one of the paper masks – useless at preventing TB but brilliant at hiding chronic embarrassment.
The road to work
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