Filler

A call for help

Many of us are brought up from an early age with the story of the good Samaritan. In the original story the Samaritan volunteered his services. Doctors, however, are expected by society to volunteer to come to the aid of people in need, even when they are off duty. I suspect that many worry about this prospect as much as I do.

A few months ago, I was relaxing in the coffee lounge of a large hotel after an anniversary dinner with my wife. The agreeable postprandial peace was suddenly interrupted by a loud, high pitched scream coming from the hotel lobby. Shortly afterwards bedlam began. A rather flustered, severe looking, middle aged woman began rushing round frantically asking for help. "Call the police, call an ambulance," she shouted.

I got up, rather reluctantly, I admit, and went over to investigate. The first thing that surprised me was the number of onlookers that had gathered, perhaps up to 20 people. Most of them seemed to be hotel guests with some anxious looking staff members mixed in. Naturally, none of them seemed to be doing anything useful, just looking a bit awkward and avoiding eye contact with each other.

I made my way through the crowd, trying not to be too conspicuous, until I saw the cause of the commotion, a young woman lying on the floor. An initial glance showed she wasn't moving, and she seemed to be unconscious. I also noticed a large bump on her forehead. Action was needed and fast, I thought. I took control, pushed my way through to her, muttered "Airway, breathing, and circulation" to myself, and knelt down beside her.

Suddenly, before I could perform any heroics, I was grabbed forcibly from behind. I looked round to see who was interrupting my lifesaving work. The middle aged woman who had been asking for help was looking even more flustered and severe than before. "What are you doing, what are you doing?" she shouted at me. I felt the burden of the gaze of the crowd, which had now swollen to about 30 people.

In a need to justify my presence an inspirational line came to me: "Don't worry, dear. I'm a doctor."

There was an unnerving pause, and her face changed, she grinned, leaned toward me, and whispered in my ear, "Don't worry, doctor. It's a murder mystery party."

David A Kirkbride, specialist registrar in anaesthesia. 

Leicester

We welcome articles of up to 600 words on topics such as A memorable patient, A paper that changed my practice, My most unfortunate mistake, or any other piece conveying instruction, pathos, or humour. If possible the article should be supplied on a disk. Permission is needed from the patient or a relative if an identifiable patient is referred to. We also welcome contributions for "Endpieces," consisting of quotations of up to 80 words (but most are considerably shorter) from any source, ancient or modern, which have appealed to the reader.