Friday, 5 March 2010

Sexist Pig

The house is one I can only dream of. More than a house, it's a home, warm and welcoming. Large enough to have an entrance hall bigger than my lounge, reception rooms galore, all before you go upstairs and see the multiple bedrooms, separate bathrooms, and a study. Everything neat and tidy, a multitude of toys, books and other items all in their exact place.
I'm allowed briefly upstairs before the patient decides she'd rather entertain the guests in one of the rooms downstairs.
Even though it's more like bedtime for the kids than the adults, she's wrapped in a dressing gown. The sad look is more than just on her face, it seems to be her entire being. She doesn't look at all unwell. Just sad.
"What's the problem this evening?" I thought I'd start with the easy questions first.
"I feel weak."
"And how long have you been feeling this way?"
"About an hour."
Not quite the life-threatening call we'd been initially called to, something along the lines of trouble breathing, possibly a stroke. I don't remember exactly what the call was given as, all I know was that I was given a crucially life-saving eight-minute time limit to get there.
We discussed exactly what she was feeling, how she was tired this evening and that she had no energy and just wanted to sleep. No priority symptoms of any sort, no evident medical problem, just the end of a long day.
I was forced to ask, as gently as possible, what it was that made her think that she needed an ambulance.
"She didn't call you", interjected the husband. "I did."
"And, sir, for what reason did you think she needed to be seen by an emergency ambulance crew or taken to hospital?"
"Well, normally when I come home from work, the children are ready for bed, the house is tidy and clean, and dinner is on the table. Tonight DINNER WASN'T READY!"
He really emphasised the last bit. Shouted it even.
She just rolled her eyes in desperation and invited us kindly to leave, our presence clearly unnecessary.
I left the house with a caveman vision imprinted on my brain.
"I am man. Hear me shout. See me beat my chest!"
21st century man.

7 comments:

Deborah said...

Sheesh!! the poor woman. No wonder she's tired. Obviously depressed and who wouldn't be?

Eileen said...

Never did want to have to do the yummy-mummy bit. Got an apology from my older daughter a few years ago: "I always thought you were a pushy parent - now I know what they are. You just tried to get me to do my homework!" There had been a programme about this genre of parenting where it all has to be perfect and the kids are chauffeured to every leisure activity you can think of.
The poor woman - lets hope he doesn't become the victim of another of these posh high-flyers who suddenly realise their perfect world is crumbling a bit and can't cope. Never mind dialling 999 - he should have been calling the nearest take-away. Prat!!!!!!

Becca said...

I'd be tempted to whisk her off and find her a quiet corner and a warm bed somewhere... and a few meals she hasn't had to cook. Poor thing. I hope she drops him.

Squeezey said...

What a selfish man!
(and very nicely written)

Fee said...

He wouldn't last long in my house. With that attitude, one morning he'd wake up with the breadknife sticking out of him.

Michael Morse said...

When I'm King, I shall decree that:

"Ambulance, Paramedic, EMT or whatever they shall be called are hereby given the ultimate authority to, when summoned for an emergency that does not exist, the right to produce an emergency shall be bestowed upon responders any way that see fit, including but not limited to beating the caveman whose dinner was not ready with his own club."

Ima shel J. said...

I am absolutely amazed that this is true! Whilst I do not doubt you I am totally gobsmacked!