Others who have had Dupuytren’s include, to my horror, Maggie Thatcher and Adolf Hitler. I must remember to take a close look at Donald Trump’s hands. On the positive side, I am told that those with the most propensity for this condition are descended from the Vikings. I am quite excited by that, having just finished watching the excellent History Channel drama series The Vikings on Netflix. I feel like going out and buying a sword.
Anyway, after a referral from my GP I was given one week’s notice to present myself at Whangarei Hospital for a corrective operation. I was told that I would be operated on in the afternoon and would need to stay overnight. I would also need to be driven home. Arrangements were duly made.
And I duly present myself at the assigned time having dutifully had “nil by mouth” since 6.00 that morning, but having substantially fortified myself with scotch the previous evening. My wife was able to accompany me through all stages of the process, except the actual operation, and she and I were treated by Whangarei Hospital staff with great courtesy and consideration. They are a friendly mob down there. And casual.
How casual though I was not to find out until the point I was wheeled into the anaesthetist's room next to the operating theatre. There I met my surgeon for the first time. Down to earth and informative he told me at length about the operation after first examining my right hand. He then asked to look at my left hand—remember, I also have the condition on that hand, though not as pronounced. The subsequent conversation went like this:
He: How about we do that one, as well?
Me: When?
He: Now.
Me: At the same time?
He: Why not? I got time. And I guess you are not going anywhere for the next hour or so. We’ll fix that one up too. Take an extra five minutes, that’s all. Then we’ll send you home.
Me: Home? I thought I was staying overnight.
He: Nah. You’ll be good, as long as you are not driving.
At which point, and with a wide grin, he left me and I was wheeled into the theatre. Now the point about that theatre was it contained a cast of thousands—well, six people really. More than I expected. In my time as an actor I have performed before much smaller audiences—and I said so. Does everybody have a permanent grin at Whangarei Hospital? The grins faded though when they saw that the principal surgeon had marked the “wrong” hand.
“Thought we were doing the right hand,” a nurse said. “We are,” I said, “but he has told me he is now going to do both hands.”
“Oh,” said the nurse and threw a knowing and slightly ruffled glance at the rest of the team. “Well,” said one. “Two for the price of one. That’s Whangarei for you.”
The grins returned.
So I had both hands done. I did have to stay overnight, but that is another story. As I write this the operation was successful. My hands ache and I have difficulty typing (ironic, given this is the longest Fryday I have written) but my fingers have noticeably straightened and I am told they will stay that way—no more quizzical glances after shaking hands with men who are left wondering whether I am a Mason or coming on to them.
But the point I would like to make about the surgeon and indeed the rest of the team is this. First the surgeon. The two groups you want to see calm, informative and relaxed are pilots before you take off and surgeons before they put the knife in—am I right? And as for the team? Calm, reassuring, professional, laid-back and flexible. All the traits that I believe epitomise New Zealanders generally.
I never thought I would say this—It was good to be in Whangarei.
In fact, it was good to be a New Zealander.
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