Appearance of Age may be Deceptive

Part 1

7 min read.

My General Practitioner (GP) referred me to the Consultant Plastic and Reconstruction Surgeon in the city’s National Health Service (NHS) Hospital for a procedure. After a couple of weeks, I got a letter of appointment on behalf of the head of the department. The hospital was about one- hour drive from our house. My wife accompanied me to attend the consultation. At the main reception, I presented the letter of appointment and was guided to the relevant outpatient department. After reaching there, I showed the letter again, and was advised to have seats in the waiting area. Also, I was primed for a wait longer than normal, as the doctor concerned had to attend an emergency.

After about two hours, a nurse guided us to one of the consultation rooms. In the room, beside the nurse, who had ushered us in, there were two doctors, one male and one female. The male doctor, physically and facially, looked about 26/27, and I conjectured that he would be a trainee specialist, in common parlance described as a registrar. The second doctor, a slight young woman, could be a junior doctor. The male doctor introduced him to me by telling his name, which I could not catch. I was asked to sit on a chair and the nurse facilitated the wife to sit on a seat close by.

As it was my first appointment, I was under the impression that I might be seen by a registrar, who would order the blood tests and the CT scan etc.

Without mincing the words, the doctor said:

“I’m sure that the tests would be fine. If I see you in two weeks’ time, we will fix the date for a four- hour operation with general anaesthetic. You’ll stay in the hospital for five days, including the first night in the intensive care unit (ICU).”

On a second thought, he gave me the tentative date for the procedure in the last week of September.

I did not expect that a four-hour operation, with general anaesthetic, would be performed by a registrar. I looked at the junior doctor gloomily, she gave me a qualifier smile.

My blood ran cold, it scared me so much. My experience of getting a treatment from a registrar was not good. Just a couple of years before, a senior registrar had prescribed me wrong medication, and in consequence, I had to spend a week in the hospital. It is a long story and I will narrate it some other time.

We had planned to have lunch on our way back in a restaurant in the city centre. I was hardly able to converse, let alone stop for a treat.

 I decided to have the procedure as a private patient.

Enquiries were made. The procedure would be done in the same hospital, but the ward would be different. An appointment was made with the consultant anaesthetist on the following Monday and with a senior consultant surgeon on Tuesday. I was directed to come to the private wing of the hospital.

I saw the anaesthetist on Monday. From his accent he appeared to be Scottish. He assured me not to worry. I was quite happy with his briefing and paid him his fee by cheque.

Next day our son also accompanied us. We were welcomed by the receptionist. As usual, she offered us coffee, which we politely declined. After a few minutes, the door of the consultation room, which was not far from the reception area, opened and the consultant emerged.

Guess what?

I will reveal the answer at the end of another interesting event which took place at the same venue.

I had the operation, which was successful, and it was the third day of my convalescence. To fetch a glass of water, I strolled to the water cooler situated quite opposite to the reception desk. The loquacious receptionist, who happened to be South-Asian, spontaneously struck-up a conversation with me:

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, much better. Thank you for asking.”, I replied, genteelly.

“What do you do for living?”, she enquired further.

After I told her my profession, she asked:

“What family do you have?”

I apprised her:

“I have a wife, two children and five grandchildren.”

“What about you?”, I probed.

“I’ve just one boy aged 7.”

“Oh, I see. You may get more.”

 “No. You don’t know Hasan……”

Interrupting her, I conceded:

“No. I don’t know Hasan. I never met him.”

She continued:

“He’s utterly against having a large family. He thinks the family is complete. His views have been further strengthened since he heard Prince Harry that, to avoid overwhelming the planet, they would have one child only. He’s a fan of the Prince.” 

As Hasan had deeply entrenched view against having a large family, I volte faced and opined:

“If he is happy with one child, there are many people in the world who are quite content with that. President Clinton has only one daughter. In China for many years people had one child only. Even now when the one-child policy has been relaxed, they prefer to have one child.”

To conclude the discussion, I asked quippingly:

“Are you happy to have one child? Your husband should give due respect to your wishes as well.”

She brayed with laughter, and clarified:

“No. No. I’m talking about my son having one child i.e. my grandchild.”

I felt embarrassed:

“To be honest, you don’t look a grandmother.”

 She was flattered and commented:

“No, I’m fifty-nine. My husband is an accountant and he will be taking retirement next year. Beside our son, we have two daughters. One is a teacher and the other one is an optometrist.”

By that time, I was heedless of the presence of a senior nurse standing abreast to me listening to our conversation very attentively.

The receptionist pointed out:

“She’s another grandmother. She looks much younger than me.”

“I’m sure the hospital is looking after you very well. Its employees don’t age”, I concluded.

Coming back to the earlier part of the story when the consultant came out of the room to take us in for consultation.

My wife and I were totally flabbergasted when the consultant turned out to be the same doctor, whom we had naively thought the other day that he was a registrar. He turned out to be a consultant surgeon of international repute, was aged about 45, author of several books and had been delivering lectures in many countries of the world.

To cut the long story short, he offered me to operate the following Saturday. But added that the day after the procedure he would go on holidays for three weeks, and in his absence his colleagues would look after me. I expressed my misgivings about the care in his absence. He then offered me the same date as before to perform the operation on the NHS. I agreed. He informed me that the consultant anaesthetist would be a woman, not the one I had seen a day before.

[The anaesthetist consultant never cashed the cheque].

 Everything went very well. In the evening, the consultant came to see me in the ICU. He met the members of the family and briefed them on the outcome of the procedure. On the second day, I was transferred to the ward. The consultant anaesthetist, a genial person, came to examine me. She was quite satisfied with the recovery. I asked her:

“During the procedure did I behave well?”

“Yes, you acted accordingly and slept like a baby.”

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