Love, Accidentally

Chapter 1

1

I can feel the eyes of everyone on us as Dr Patel and I cross the waiting-room floor. Some of them are like meerkats, lifting their heads and tracking the movements of anyone dressed in a hospital uniform. Others are more subtle, pretending to be absorbed in the trashy magazine they’re holding or scrolling on their phones. The one thing they all have in common is a resigned air of quiet desperation. Please, you can hear them thinking, let this be the time that my name is called.

I almost want to stop and explain apologetically that the stark reality is: if you’re well enough to sit in a chair and wait in the Accident and Emergency department, you’re probably going to be there for a while. Anyone who’s blue-lighted in, or walks in with a major issue, is instantly going to jump in front of you, pushing you even further down the queue.

As a grade 7 senior sister, it’s rare for me to spend any time in the minor injuries part of A most of my work takes place either in the major traumas unit, known as ‘Majors’, or the resuscitation unit, which probably doesn’t need much explanation. Minor injuries are generally dealt with by the emergency nurse practitioners, but we’ve just received a call because they’re facing an issue they’re not entirely sure what to do with.

‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Blessing, the nurse who called us, says as we step through the door. ‘The gentleman is in bay five. His name is Maurice and, well…’ She tails off, handing the notes to Dr Patel.

‘Let’s have a look then,’ Dr Patel says in that confident tone that all consultants seem to have. I wonder whether it’s something that’s specifically trained into them, or whether it just comes from the knowledge that they’re the cream of the crop. She doesn’t even open the folder, pulling back the curtain of bay five and sweeping in, leaving Blessing and me to follow in her wake. ‘Hello, Maurice,’ she says, as if addressing a naughty schoolboy. ‘I’m Dr Patel, one of the A&E consultants, and this is Tilly, one of our senior nurses. Blessing has asked us to have a look at your injury because she’d like a second opinion before we treat you. Before we go any further, can you just confirm your date of birth, please?’

‘Fifth of June 1960,’ Maurice replies, looking miserable.

‘Great. And the first line of your address?’

‘Five, the Spinney.’

‘Perfect. What seems to be the problem?’

He blushes and glances at Blessing, obviously hoping she’ll come to his aid, but she suddenly seems to find a spot on the floor absolutely fascinating.

‘It’s, umm, Maurice Minor,’ he mumbles eventually.

‘What?’ Dr Patel looks as nonplussed as I feel.

‘His penis.’ Blessing finally decides to come to his aid. ‘He refers to it as Maurice Minor.’

‘I’m a classic car enthusiast,’ Maurice explains. ‘It’s a bit of a pun.’

For a moment, Dr Patel stares at him as if he’s some kind of lunatic, before recovering her composure and continuing in her previous brisk tone.

‘What’s the matter with him… it?’

‘It’s probably best if you take a look,’ Blessing advises her. ‘It’s easier than trying to explain.’

‘Fine,’ Dr Patel sighs as she draws the curtain to give us privacy. ‘Do you mind showing me, Maurice? Ah,’ she observes once he lowers the blanket to reveal the aforementioned Maurice Minor. You know how the penis is often referred to using an aubergine emoji on social media? Maurice’s penis looks like it’s been auditioning for the part. It’s horrifically swollen and a hideous dark purple colour. It only takes a moment to locate the cause.

‘Is that… a washer ?’ I ask, pointing at the metal ring encircling Maurice Minor’s base. It’s a little like the kind of thing you’d put under a bolt when you’re assembling furniture, except much larger.

Maurice nods, wearing an expression of pure misery.

‘How—’ I begin, but before he can launch into what I suspect will be the IKEA-furniture version of the ‘I was vacuuming in the nude and fell on the Hoover nozzle’ lie, Dr Patel cuts me off.

‘We need to get that off, and fast,’ she states. ‘How long has it been there?’

‘Since eight o’clock last night,’ Maurice mumbles.

‘You mean you’ve had that thing on your penis for over twelve hours?’ Dr Patel demands, outraged. ‘Why did you leave it so long to come in?’

‘I kind of hoped everything would go down and I’d be able to get it off,’ Maurice tells her.

‘I see. And presumably you’ve been yanking and tugging at it, which would only have made the swelling worse.’ She snaps on a pair of surgical gloves and lifts the penis to inspect underneath, making Maurice wince. ‘The skin is broken under here,’ she observes. ‘We’ll need to treat that to make sure it doesn’t get infected. I take it the washer wasn’t sterilised?’

Maurice looks like he’d quite like the earth to open up and swallow him as he shakes his head. Dr Patel is making no effort to conceal her disdain, so I don’t entirely blame him. Poor Blessing is desperately trying to look anywhere other than at Maurice Minor, but I have to confess a slight ghoulish fascination. This was obviously some sort of sexual misadventure, but what on earth was he trying to achieve?

‘Blessing,’ Dr Patel practically barks. ‘We need to get this thing off. What were your thoughts?’

‘We were planning to cut it off,’ Blessing tells her meekly. ‘But there’s so much swelling around the washer that we couldn’t see how to get the cutters in there without doing more damage. That’s why we called you.’

‘Good observation,’ Dr Patel tells her as if praising a dog. ‘We need to drain the blood out of the penis first. Treat it like a case of priapism.’ She turns to me. ‘Are you comfortable with treating priapism, Tilly?’

‘Comfortable enough,’ I assure her. ‘It’s not something we treat regularly, but I’d numb the area with local anaesthetic and then drain from as many sites as required using a needle.’

Maurice obviously doesn’t like the sound of this at all, as his face turns ashen.

‘You mean you’re planning to stick needles in Maurice Minor?’ he asks, horrified.

‘It’s that or risk having to amputate,’ Dr Patel tells him matter-of-factly. ‘The longer we let this go on, the more danger there is of permanent damage to your penis. It may already be too late, but we won’t know that until we deal with the current situation. Are you happy to sign a consent form for us to proceed?’

The threat of amputation has obviously had the desired effect, as Maurice nods mutely and Blessing disappears off to sort out the paperwork. I take this as my cue to go and fetch the relevant equipment for the procedure.

‘Right,’ Dr Patel announces when I return with a trolley and Maurice has signed the form. ‘I’m going to give you an injection to numb the area, and then Tilly here will start draining the excess blood from your penis. Hopefully, once that’s done, we’ll be able to see what we’re doing to get the washer off. Any questions?’

Maurice shakes his head and closes his eyes as Dr Patel inserts the small needle and delivers the anaesthetic. After a minute or so, she flicks Maurice’s penis lazily with her fingers.

‘Can you feel that?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Good. Off you go then, Tilly.’

‘Please be very careful,’ Maurice begs.

‘I’m always careful,’ I assure him as I insert the needle and begin to draw off the blood. After a while, Maurice Minor is still far from pretty, but it’s a lot less swollen and we’ve got a much better view of the washer. Dr Patel hands me what, to all intents and purposes, is a miniature pair of bolt cutters. At the sight of them, Maurice looks like he might faint.

‘Be particularly careful with these,’ Dr Patel warns me. ‘We just want the washer, nothing else.’

‘Dear God,’ Maurice groans, and I swear I spot the faintest trace of a smile playing on Dr Patel’s lips. She’s enjoying herself, the sadist. To be fair, I’ve worked with her for a number of years and, while she’s held in very high esteem for her encyclopaedic knowledge of the human body and her ability to stay calm under pressure, she’s also known for having zero tolerance for fools. It’s no wonder she’s not impressed by Maurice.

I’m concentrating hard as I ease the bolt cutters into place but, despite our efforts, Maurice’s penis is still a little too swollen for me to get reliable purchase on the washer without risking catching his flesh in the jaws at the same time.

‘Blessing?’ I ask. ‘Can you stretch the skin a bit to give me a better view, please?’

‘Sure.’ She carefully grasps Maurice Minor and pulls the skin on either side away from the washer. Maurice sighs heavily.

‘Is everything OK?’ I ask him.

‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘I was just thinking about the irony of two beautiful young women handling Maurice Minor and him being totally unable to enjoy the moment.’

‘Are you for real?’ Blessing asks him, outraged.

‘Sorry. An attempt to lighten the mood.’

‘I would suggest that you keep your humour for a time when there isn’t someone about to attack your nether regions with a bolt cutter,’ I tell him blandly. ‘Ready?’

He closes his eyes tight shut as I manoeuvre the cutter onto the washer and carefully close the jaws. Annoyingly, the cut doesn’t go right through the metal so, after checking that I definitely don’t have anything in the path of the jaws that oughtn’t to be there, I take a second cut. This thankfully does the trick.

‘Very good, Tilly,’ Dr Patel observes. ‘What now? Prise the metal apart or make a second cut?’

We study the washer together for a moment. Although we might just be able to prise the metal apart far enough to get it off, it’s quite thick.

‘I think, on balance, I’d go for a second cut,’ I tell her.

‘Me too,’ she agrees. ‘Blessing, can you lift the penis so Tilly can get to the underside?’

As I close in with the cutters again, I can see what Dr Patel meant about broken skin. Maurice obviously tried very hard to remove the ring himself, as it’s practically raw under here. Very carefully, I manoeuvre the cutters into place and, when I close the jaws, I’m rewarded by a satisfying ‘ping’ as the washer splits in half and flies off.

‘Great job,’ Dr Patel says. ‘Right. I think our work here is done. Are you happy to take over now, Blessing?’

‘Yes, thank you for coming over.’

‘No problem.’ She turns to the patient. ‘Maurice, I wish you all the best with your recovery. Whatever happens, don’t have sex or attempt sex for at least four weeks. That includes masturbation, do you understand? And if you have the urge to experiment with cock rings again, do us all a favour and buy one that’s designed for the job from a shop, will you?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he replies meekly, but she’s through the curtain and heading back towards Majors before he even stops speaking.

‘Total waste of my fucking time,’ she hisses as we cross the waiting room, and I’m aware of a few ears pricking up. ‘I do this job to help genuinely sick people, not DIY perverts.’

‘I expect he’s learned a valuable lesson,’ I whisper back. ‘And it did give me an opportunity to practise some skills I haven’t used in a while.’

‘Hm. Shame you didn’t slip and chop his cock off. People like that don’t deserve to be put in charge of such a delicate organ.’

‘I’m not sure the claims department would agree with you,’ I tell her with a smile. ‘Plus, you know how much everyone loves a good sexual injury story, and that was a cracker. I’d put it up there with the woman who came in with a hen’s egg up her vagina.’

Dr Patel smiles grimly. ‘Bloody Gwyneth Paltrow has a lot to answer for. Do you remember the poor woman who tried to copy the vaginal steaming routine using her kettle? If there’s one part of the body you don’t want cooked medium to well done, it’s that. That was nice work on Maurice, by the way. Well done, Tilly.’

I smile back at her. At moments like this, I truly love my job.