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#Post#: 239--------------------------------------------------
Story
By: Rebbonk Date: March 17, 2021, 8:04 pm
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A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words
I was very young when my father died. In actual fact I was only
two, coming up to three. I barely remember him; I certainly
couldn't put a face to him. He was a pilot and was killed in a
training accident. His aircraft, a Sea Venom I believe, crashed
into the sea; neither he nor the aircraft were ever recovered.
There was an inquest, but nothing was proved, and mother hardly
ever spoke of him again.
So I grew up without a proper father figure really. Mum didn't
remarry and didn't have any men friends. Mind you, from what you
read in the papers maybe this was for the best. So the only male
influence I had in my life was mum's brother Jimmy, and as I was
Jimmy's only niece we had a great time. He used to take me
everywhere with him when I was younger. He was a lorry driver
and I went to all sorts of places from Scotland down to
Cornwall. We'd stop here and there, eating ice cream or chips;
he really was very good to me.
Jimmy even gave me away when I married. Sadly my husband died
early and we didn't have children, but life goes on. Uncle Jimmy
was always there for me. He helped me through.
Then, last month my mother died. She had been ill for a while,
and bravely fought on, but in the end, I must confess that it
was a blessing to see her go.
After the funeral, I had to clear her house. There was nothing
there that I wanted, so I asked Uncle Jimmy if he wanted
anything. He didn't but offered to come and help me clear the
house anyway. Jimmy's good like that, always willing to help. We
cleared the living room first, progressing slowly up the house
until we did the last bedroom.
"Ok, then. Finished?" I asked Jimmy.
"What about the attic?" Jimmy replied. So up I went. Well, I
couldn't send Jimmy, not at his age. There were a couple of
boxes up there, not much, just small coloured cardboard boxes. I
handed them down to Jimmy, then climbed down myself.
Jimmy had opened the boxes and was surrounded by photographs. He
waved one excitedly in his hand.
"Hey, look at this," he cried. "It's a photograph of your third
birthday party."
I took the offered photograph and looked at it with interest. It
was the usual family group. Mum, Jimmy, Grandma, Grandpa, some
of my friends who I hadn't seen for years. We were all standing
under a homemade banner that declared to the world that Jemma
was three today.
"Who's this Jimmy?" I asked pointing to a man standing at the
back that I didn't recognise.
Jimmy fished out his glasses and took the photograph over to the
window for a better look.
"Good Grief," he exclaimed. "This can't be right."
"What's up, Uncle Jimmy?" I asked.
"This man, here in the picture, he's your father!"
#Post#: 240--------------------------------------------------
Re: Story
By: Rebbonk Date: March 17, 2021, 8:11 pm
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Death in the Operating Theatre
It was three o'clock in the afternoon; the operating theatre was
in full swing. The body on the table was that of a young man
involved in a road accident less than twenty minutes ago. He'd
taken a terrible blow to the head as a speeding car hit him. The
ambulance crew had been swift, getting him to the hospital and
rushing him through accident and emergency. He was now being
operated on by the best team in the hospital.
Dr Carvelle, the surgeon was working busily away; Dr Chauhan,
the anaesthetist keeping track of the vital signs, making slight
adjustments as time went by. Johnson had come with the patient
from the ambulance and was hovering around the operating theatre
trying to dodge out of everyone's way.
"Pulse rate increasing," announced Dr Chauhan. Carvelle looked
up at the monitors, cursed and went back to his task. The
automatic alarms sounded on the life support; measures were
taken to try to save the patient.
"Give it up guys," said Johnson from the back of the operating
theatre. "He's gone." Nobody answered, keeping up their attempts
at resuscitation. Adrenaline was administered, but the body
remained lifeless, no vital signs present.
For the next twenty minutes techniques were tried to bring the
body back to life. Nothing was successful. Every few minutes,
Johnson would urge them to stop. Nobody reacted to his requests;
they were professionals and had undertaken an oath to preserve
life and if they could possibly save a life, they would.
"OK enough," said Dr Carvelle. "He's gone; we can't do any more
here." He removed his mask and rubbed his eyes.
"About time too," Johnson said. Carvelle ignored him saying,
"Thank you all for your efforts here; I'm sorry but he was too
far gone. The accident caused a brain haemorrhage; we couldn't
stop it, but at least we tried. We tried hard."
The anaesthetist shut down the now silent support systems, the
nurses tidied away the various instruments.
"Before you go, can we agree on the time of death please?" asked
Carvelle.
"I made it three forty-five," said Chauhan.
"OK, I'll complete the records with that," said the weary
surgeon.
"You damned idiots," yelled Johnson at the top of his voice.
"Why didn't you listen to me? Why didn't you let go? I told you
it was hopeless, you've spent time and effort quite needlessly,
you should have let him go without all of this trauma and fuss."
Nobody took any notice of him; they carried on with their tasks.
Losing a patient on the operating table was never easy; they all
knew that there'd be an inquest; each hoped that they'd followed
procedures correctly. It was a worry they could do without.
Just as the nurse was pulling a sheet over the body, Johnson
looked down into the face of the deceased. "Goodbye old son," he
said, "You were a good body to me; sorry I let you get so
damaged at the end."
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