Talking to God About Surgery (bp coyle)

After four hours in the hospital waiting room, my name was eventually called. A nurse guided me down a long corridor, showed me into an office, left me there alone. A pretty drab place. Some computers against one wall, a couple of uncomfortable chairs, an empty desk. Not even a magazine to flick through. Nothing to do but study the posters on the wall. I think I have at least five of the diseases they warn about!

A young man finally entered. A very tall, very well dressed, young man. Perfect teeth. ‘Good afternoon Mrs…,’ he checked his clipboard. ‘Mrs Goldschmidt, I am Mr Hunter.’ He was the poshest person I have ever had speak to me directly. I had not seen him before and no idea who he might be.

‘Ehhh,’ I said. ‘Who are you? I have been seeing Dr Ravenhall. He made the appointment for me for today.’

Mr Hunter smiled indulgently, nodded his head in a sympathetic way at my unfortunate stupidity. ‘Dr Ravenhall is one of my team,’ he explained slowly. Patiently. ‘He answers to me. Everyone answers to me. Everyone.’

It finally dawned on me, he was a surgeon

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