Warts and All

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I’m always open to new experiences and new opportunities, and I’m pleased to say I can now add another notch on the adventures-of-everyday-life stick. That of assisting surgical nurse.

The other week, Middle Daughter had an appointment at our local surgery for scraping off of a wart which all the legally obtainable chemical preparations in the world had been unable to remove.

We presented bright and early, me ready with phone camera on hand to capture the emotion of an unanaesthetised surgical intervention, Middle Daughter anxious about needles, scalpels, blood and pain.

The GP didn’t look overly pleased to see us. He muttered that warts disappeared all by themselves given half a chance. He gloomily predicted it would leave a sensitive painful scar. He mournfully prophesied it might eventually reappear. He suggested she might not have been sufficiently assiduous in her application of wart removal product.

Middle Daughter was unpersuaded. She pointed out the wart was aesthetically displeasing if one bent down low enough to catch sight of it, and her friends were offended by the mere sight of it.

Despite more harrumphing and poo-poohing, the GP accordingly began assembling his instruments. It took a while as he opened all the cupboards looking for bits and pieces, just like me after Prodigal/Eldest Daughter has been putting dishes away. More mutterings, and we gathered his assistant hadn’t shown up because of a sick child. Eventually after waving a pair of surgical gloves in my direction, he said “You’re not doing anything useful sitting there. You can assist.” I thought about explaining how I wanted to take photos instead, but thought better of it. I gloved up.

Following instructions, I labelled up the specimen jar and stood to attention waiting ready to unscrew the cap on a second’s notice.

A receptionist walked in looking for something. She said she couldn’t help because she was busy on reception. “Admin more important than patients?” he grumbled, and said it was a bit much when the patient’s mum had to step in to assist.

By now, though, I was in my element as I felt power coursing through my veins. I deftly unscrewed and rescrewed the cap without incident, and didn’t knock anything off the trolley. As he finished off the procedure, the GP said I had a job for the day if I wanted.

I regretfully declined. Art to make, blogs to write, meals to cook.

But I emerged with my head held high as I steered hobbling Middle Daughter back to the car.

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