Does your doctor have a protocol for fairy touch prevention for stroke prevention? It has only been hundreds of years for your doctor to come up with a prevention solution for fairies. Is hundreds of years enough time for your doctor to do something?
The dead fairy sign
Insight
is reflecting on the words of others. In medicine this means listening
to your patients. My memorable patient was a little old lady, who
remarked towards the end of a long Monday morning surgery, “Oh, doctor,
you have just killed a fairy.” Wondering if my ears needed syringing, I
was creating a list of possible psychiatric diagnoses as the patient
continued, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you, every time you sigh you
kill a fairy?” I was forced to admit that she had not.
This
was surprising because a childhood spent in Cornwall had given me a
healthy respect for, and knowledge of, the unworldy. I had recently
bought my wife, whose family was full of such odd sayings, a copy of A Dictionary of Omens and Superstitions. This book provided no reference to sighs, fairies, and death.
From
then on each time I started to sigh mental images of fairies falling
from the skies, dying in mid-flight, began to haunt me. These were not
the fay, gossamer winged creatures pictured by Arthur Rackham that are
again in fashion. My fairies were the original Celtic fairy or piskie.
These are amoral creatures, childlike in nature, and capable of great
malevolence. In folklore they were held responsible for those otherwise
inexplicable episodes of misfortune that afflict us all. Indeed, until
recently, being touched by such a fairy was commonly recognised as the
cause of a stroke. These were not creatures willfully to destroy,
for—like bees—would not the death of one cause the rest of the swarm to
fall on you? My sighing days were over and I began to observe others.
Within
the practice it struck me that certain patients singlehandedly slay
fairies at an almost genocidal rate. On entering the consulting room
they have slaughtered several before seating. More lie mortally wounded
as the first sentences are uttered. These patients usually present with a
list of multiple symptoms or complaints. These patients are difficult
to manage, frequently returning with yet more worries or symptoms. My
newly discovered mental imagery now revealed a trail of fairies, dying
fairies, spiralling down like sycamore seeds in the autumn winds, as
these patients left the room.
I now understood why,
whatever the advice I proffered, they would soon return with yet more
woes. For dogging their steps, growing ever more malicious, were the
surviving fairy brethren. Angered by the untimely demise of their
kinsmen, they would now ensure misfortune to guarantee the patients’
return. It dawned on me that a chance remark by a little old lady had
revealed a new category of patient. These were not just depressed,
stressed, or heartsink. They were fairy killers.
Some
patients, caught early enough may, like me, benefit from this novel
insight. The more Rambo-inspired all seem to have been blinded (by the
fairies?) to any possibility of insight. An attempt at explanation only
lead to the sort of puzzled look I originally gave the little old lady.
Any effort to push the concept is unnecessarily dangerous. The patient
could leave the list or, worse still, the local community mental health
team might begin to pay me undue attention.
However,
now as they leave the room from a supposedly final consultation I can
unfailingly spot the patient who will shortly return with yet another
tale of woe. For as the surgery door closes, there lying on the floor
(visible only to those with eyes to see) and gasping its last breath is a
small dying fairy.
And the little old lady? I never saw her again.
No comments:
Post a Comment