Do doctors ever cry?

I am lucky enough to count quite a few doctors among my close friends, and am married to one.. While this helps to fuel my fantasy that really I have a bit-part in a medical soap, I do wonder if I am turning into Joey (aka Dr Drake Romano) in ‘Friends’.  My family – think large and all encompassing and you are half way there, like to call on those with medical knowledge at all moments of the day and night, and if the learned husband is not there, have no problem in asking me what my diagnosis would be.

However, this is where the fantasy ends… We, as a family, have had the fortune until recently to not have really needed much medical attention but currently with my nephew in a high dependancy ward at The Brompton,  we are imersed in a very terrifying hospital drama of our own.  This has led to a few barnies at home, as the husband and our medical friends react to news and developments in a completely different way – always looking at long term outcomes and quite plainly stating the risks and likely complications – when all I want to do is grasp to any thread, however gossamer thin, of hope.  Quite frankly, it was driving me insane, let alone how hurtful I found it until I realised how much we rely on Doctors to keep it all together.  If we were given results and prognoses by the men and women in charge, with trembling voices, wringing hands and watery eyes, how on earth could we pull ourselves together to then move forward with the information we receive.  Having seen how cases affect the husband, when he is at home, I know that they do really care, much more than the average punter will ever see, but are very aware of the responsibility to the patient and their families to be the professionals.

The sooner we return to our normal life of me keeping my medical dramas strictly American and on the TV and the learned one not being picked over for every scrap of knowledge he has, the better, but in the meantime, I promise I will not take the recounting of the percentages so personally, even when all I really wanted was some reassurance.

Vicky

Vicky read general arts at university. She then worked briefly in retail before slipping, largely by accident into early years teaching. Her speciality is the glittery smear somewhere between a four year olds nose and ear. She lives in a menagerie of cats, dogs and children with a husband who can't quite believe how he ended up amongst the chaos.

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About Vicky

Vicky read general arts at university. She then worked briefly in retail before slipping, largely by accident into early years teaching. Her speciality is the glittery smear somewhere between a four year olds nose and ear. She lives in a menagerie of cats, dogs and children with a husband who can't quite believe how he ended up amongst the chaos.
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