The New Policy.

At work, I'm sometimes assigned to admit patients. When I say 'admit', I mean getting them ready for surgery, and making sure that they have done their pre-op preparation (things like fasting, blood tests, so on and so forth). Of course I'd rather be assisting in surgeries, but you get the occasional odd assignment when someone is sick.

This particular day, I was getting ready to admit a patient waiting for plastic surgery which I won't divulge any details here (I'm not allowed to anyway). As per routine, I brought my patient, a 40ish year-old man, to a private consulting room, checked his obs (i.e., blood pressure, pulse, blood oxygen saturation, etcetera, etcetera) and told him to change into one of those patient gowns with a dressing gown atop.

Patient: "You want me to take my clothes off and put these on?" (Pointing to the gowns).

Me: "Yes."

Patient: "How about my underpants?"

Me: "That as well."

Patient: "But I kept them on the last time I was here."

Me: "Well, it's the new departmental policy, as it was found that some fabric conduct electricity when the diathermy (a device for cutting and cauterising tissues) was used.

Patient: "Alright...."

So, he obediently swapped his clothes for the hospital's, and I showed him to the waiting area where he chose to sit on one of the huge, cushioned chairs lined against the wall facing the entrance of the operating rooms.

Minutes passed; a colleague came to me (her expression jovial) and whispered something into my ear.

"What?" I said, straining to hear what she just mumbled.

At this point, I was with another patient in the admission room so, I excused myself so that my colleague and I could talk privately outside.

"What did you just say?" I asked again.

"Your patient's bits are exposed," she repeated herself, still wearing the same jovial look.

"Who?" I said.

"The gentleman you just admitted." she said.

"How did you know that his, erm, bits are showing?" I said, failing to think of a more appropriate term other than 'erm' and 'bits'.

"I walked right past them!" she replied, with a wink.

"Oh dear. Should anyone tell him?" I must've have looked a little lost or worried, because another colleague who walked past us asked if everything's okay.

We told her what happened, and she bravely volunteered to investigate the scene for us.

"Yup, said goods still on display," she affirmatively reported the sighting back to us.

"Did you tell him?" I asked.

"Nope. Was I supposed to?" she responded, her eyebrows raised.

I don't know about you but I love reading quotations - especially those that give me a sense of conviction. Although I've always had difficulty remembering them word-for-word, for some reason, on this day, the words of one of my heroes - Elie Wiesel - holocaust survivor and the author of 'Night' (one of my favourite books) struck me like a lightning bolt.

"Indifference is the epitome of evil."

As the words replayed itself in my head, I got all revved up.

"We can't let him sit there and be humiliated like that. We have to do something," I told my two colleagues in a 'holier-than-thou' tone.

Before they could say anything, I'd walked right up to my patient, ignoring all aforementioned "exhibits" and asked him in a concerned manner, "Excuse me, Mr. Ferguson (not his real name), are you cold? Shall I get you a blanket to cover yourself?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine. In fact, I'm feeling rather warm in these layers!" he replied, totally unaware of his own impropriety and my true intention.

"Are you sure?" I asked again, kicking myself for coming up with such a lame strategy as a question in disguise.

"Yeah," he answered, his legs wider than ever.

By now, an older, more experienced colleague (let's call her Adele - also not her real name) had joined my two colleagues, and they were watching me fail miserably at my circuitous attempt to make my patient decent.

"Shirley, subtlety won't work." Adele said to me.

I looked at her with an expression that must have oozed naivety because the next thing she said to me was,"I'll show you."

She marched right up to my patient, and instead of asking some defeated question like I did, she stretched out her right hand, pointed her index finger right at where the topic of interest had been, and hollered,"SHUT THE GATES, MATE!"

I wished I could show you my patient's countenance when he realised the faux pas, but I couldn't, and it would be a breach of patient confidentiality.

However, I can tell you a few things post command:

1) The "gates" were promptly closed and never reopened again.

2) Incidentally, a new directive was passed that 'all patients to be given a blanket in the waiting area'.

3) Adele (the "gatekeeper") still basks in the new-found respect I have for her.