Funny folk
Ian Bickle finds that strangers treat him differently, once he has been identified as a medic
Domestic flights within the UK are
often dull affairs - no films to watch,
no food to eat, not enough time to
sleep, and barely enough room in the "cattle wagon" to read a postage stamp. This
leaves one constructive thing to do - speak
to your fellow passengers. So it was that I
found myself engaging in pleasantries with
two middle aged, Northern Irish nurses, a
married couple in fact. It was much to my
surprise that I found they
now worked in my
home county of
Northamptonshire. Given that
98% of people I
have met during my two
years in Belfast
hadn't even heard
of this county, it was
incredible that these two
actually lived there.
The woman was a
chirpy old thing, the
man a bearded,
shy fellow content with looking
out of the window.
It soon became
known that I was a
medical student, and
everything changed - any
reservations
or privacy
protection
seemed to go
out the window
now I had
acquired this
"social tag." Fascinating tales
flowed of their
experiences
during the
troubled 1970s
as accident and
emergency
nurses in Northern Ireland's
largest and number
one teaching hospital - the Royal Victoria,
in which much of my own education is provided. The stories were unsettling at best
and downright scary at worst. The hospital
had a "traffic light" style system for medical
emergencies. Blue, red, and green alerts for
bomb blast, riot, or shooting - all realistically common occurrences at the time. If
injured and being transported in an ambulance, members of the province's police
force, the RUC, would be stripped of their
uniform to prevent further trouble if the
ambulance was stopped. It was reality, not
folklore, that patients in dire straits needing medical attention would refuse to go to
certain hospitals which they associated with
the opposing side of the community divide.
Initially, their stories scared me. Then I
was overwhelmed at how far
things have
come since those dark days. The conversation moved on to an equally overwhelming
advancement - Viagra. It was not talk of
Viagra in itself that was astonishing, but circumstances. This friendly, greying nurse
seemed quite intent on filling any gaps in
my sexual medicine knowledge by giving a
real life account of its efficacy - its efficacy
on her husband sitting quietly by the window. "He is a diabetic you see," she said. "It
really does work well, but 50 mg at the start
wasn't enough, though 100 mg was far better." Then, obviously disgruntled, "You see
you can only get it once a week, isn't that
right?" She turned around for support from
her husband. By this time it was fully apparent to all the strangers in rows A to C what
this couple were up to in their spare time. If
it was ever at all possible to blush through
a beard, the woman's husband tried his best.
I tell this real-life tale not just for fun but
to remind you all that the next time
someone confides in you as a
medic, lend a considerate
and compassionate ear.
I'm sure you may have
had conversations with
friends and acquaintances that they wouldn't dream of having
with anyone else. You
are granted access to
their personal problems as you are different. You are a medic.
You are privileged.
I'll leave you with
the opinions of a
dear old, nonmedical friend of
mine. I bumped
into him at the
pub during a
return home
from medical
school. During the
course of the conversation he said,
"You are in an
amazing position." He went on
to say, "If someone came up to
me and asked me
to drop my
trousers, unless it
was a tasty lady I'd
tell them to get
lost. On the
other hand if I
asked them who
they were and they said 'I'm a doctor' my
pants would hit the floor faster than shit
off a shovel!" It might be crude but he's got
a point.
Ian Bickle, third year medical student, Queen's University, Belfast
Email: medicine@totalise.co.uk
studentBMJ 2000;08:259-302 August ISSN 0966-6494
