Ellie Leyland was young and pretty. She was also an enthusiastic and
conscientious doctor undertaking her first medical job in the days when newly
qualified medics were required to be resident in the hospital.
The first cardiac arrest to which she was called occurred at
three o’clock one morning and, knowing how important it was to reach the
patient and to commence resuscitation as soon as humanly possible, it took her
less than sixty seconds to rush from her bed in the residency to the scene of
the patient’s collapse on the ward. Kneeling on the floor beside the lifeless male
patient, she commenced resuscitation in textbook fashion, administering external
cardiac massage with gusto.
Unfortunately, whilst engrossed in this lifesaving work, she
overlooked the fact that, when rushing from her bed to the ward, she had simply
thrown her white coat over her skimpy diaphanous silk nightie and dashed
barefoot to the ward. She was completely unaware just how revealing the
view was from the front, or indeed of her rear.
The rest of the resuscitation team were
male and understandably were significantly distracted and had difficulty
concentrating on the job in hand. This
was particularly true of the anaesthetist who was attempting to pass an endotracheal tube with Ellie’s bounteous boobs bouncing like balloons on a restless sea with every
chest compression six inches from his nose. But despite this the resuscitation was
successful, at least initially.
Where the patient thought he was on being returned to the land of
the living by this nubile young woman is not known, since unfortunately he
collapsed a second time and sadly died shortly afterwards, some say from
overexcitement.
It is reported that
later, a rather stern night sister took Ellie to one side and explained to her
that it was permissible - indeed advisable - to pull on a
pair of slacks and a sweater even when answering an emergency call!
-----------------------------------
Quotations of the
Day
The report of my death was an exaggeration Mark Twain 1835 - 1910
Either he’s dead, or my watch has stopped. Groucho Marx 1890 - 1977
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