Three cardiologists stood around Abbe and the ultrasound machine when we entered room 3, that weird day in March. The day we learnt that Abbe had a heart-condition.
There was this young guy doing the scan and telling the others what he saw. Another was a senior lecturer, and the last one the head of the ward. When the young guy left, the senior lecturer did another scan and kept talking to his colleague. I didn’t get all the terminology but I did gather that the young guy was new and that the other two were impressed by his diagnosis. “Not bad, how he could see this and that.” We later found out that the guy who left had just become a pediatrician and that he was now specialising in cardiology.
During our return visit we found out that the new guy was to be Abbe’s doctor. Of course. So bloody typical. Of all the merited and experienced doctors on the children’s cardiology ward, it had to be the rookie. The beginner. The inexperienced. It’s my child’s life you’re messing with, god damn it.
Today I regret ever having reasoned like that. Abbe’s doctor is great. He’s ever so kind, deeply committed and he handles Abbe brilliantly. He helps out dealing with all the other specialists, even when it’s got nothing to do with Abbe’s heart. Whenever he feels the need to, he consults the other cardiologists. We’re lucky to have him.
I was wrong. I'm sorry.