A plea

I’ve done a lot of lifting tonight. I try to avoid it if I can, but when faced with a genuinely ill patient there is only one option. The problem with my particular part of London is there are a lot of flats, and a lot of them don’t have lifts (or have lifts that don’t work) One particular job tonight involved a gentleman who had chest pain, he lived on the third floor and there was no way we could walk him because he looked like he could collapse at any second. He was lovely and as we got to the first flight of stairs he apologised that we would have to lift him, I assured him I’d had my weetabix and that dropping him wasn’t an option as it causes more paperwork than I like to do and so we negotiated the first set without a problem. As we arrived on the landing though he told me how much he weighed, suddenly he felt much heavier… Somewhere in my head my brain had told my arms that he was close the maximum I could lift. This made the next two flights of stairs hard work. My plea is this, if I ever turn out to you NEVER tell me how much you weigh – my brain doesn’t like it!

Thanks

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~ by Laura on January 7, 2007.

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