Page 1 of Love, Accidentally

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&E; 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… awasher?’ 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 thatthingon 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.’

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