The phone rings. I am lying on the sofa in the dark squinting at the laptop screen: someone has lent me series 1 of Spooks. I struggle up and bump across the room to the phone.
“Hello?”
“Moran!?”
“Yebo.”
“How are you?”
“I am fine.”
“I am fine too.” And then those four dreaded words. “Please hold for maternity.”
The line goes dead for a second and then a midwife comes on the line.
“Moran?”
“Yes.”
“How are you?”
“I am fine.
“I am fine too. I have a 22 year old primip. She is in labour but I cannot do a PV. She has a Bartholin’s abscess.”
I ask a few intelligent questions and then, pausing only check what exactly a Bartholin’s abscess is (an abscess of the Bartholin’s gland apparently) I head for maternity. On arriving I am taken to the woman concerned and, yes, sure enough there is a large abscess in the position that I imagine a Bartholin’s gland might sit if I knew exactly what it was.
“I cannot do a PV to check the cervix because it is too painful.” The abscess blocks the way.
“Right.” I try to look like I know what I am doing.
I prod the abscess a few times.
The woman winces.
I stick a needle in it – some black fluid comes out.
“Could you pass me a blade and some local anaesthetic please?”
I infiltrate a little local anaesthetic.
The woman winces at me – a little more purposefully than before – just in case I hadn’t noticed.
I try to make a small cut in the abscess.
Nothing happens.
I try to make a deeper cut.
A little blood.
I put some welly into it and am rewarded by a pressurised jet of black pus. It hoses over my shirt, up my arm and I just manage to duck away to avoid it in the face. And it keeps going. And going.
“There we go!” I say, trying to look nonchalant as I wipe down my arm and chest.
The woman gives me a grin. And two thumbs up.
“Hello?”
“Moran!?”
“Yebo.”
“How are you?”
“I am fine.”
“I am fine too.” And then those four dreaded words. “Please hold for maternity.”
The line goes dead for a second and then a midwife comes on the line.
“Moran?”
“Yes.”
“How are you?”
“I am fine.
“I am fine too. I have a 22 year old primip. She is in labour but I cannot do a PV. She has a Bartholin’s abscess.”
I ask a few intelligent questions and then, pausing only check what exactly a Bartholin’s abscess is (an abscess of the Bartholin’s gland apparently) I head for maternity. On arriving I am taken to the woman concerned and, yes, sure enough there is a large abscess in the position that I imagine a Bartholin’s gland might sit if I knew exactly what it was.
“I cannot do a PV to check the cervix because it is too painful.” The abscess blocks the way.
“Right.” I try to look like I know what I am doing.
I prod the abscess a few times.
The woman winces.
I stick a needle in it – some black fluid comes out.
“Could you pass me a blade and some local anaesthetic please?”
I infiltrate a little local anaesthetic.
The woman winces at me – a little more purposefully than before – just in case I hadn’t noticed.
I try to make a small cut in the abscess.
Nothing happens.
I try to make a deeper cut.
A little blood.
I put some welly into it and am rewarded by a pressurised jet of black pus. It hoses over my shirt, up my arm and I just manage to duck away to avoid it in the face. And it keeps going. And going.
“There we go!” I say, trying to look nonchalant as I wipe down my arm and chest.
The woman gives me a grin. And two thumbs up.
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xox
Cara