Now, those of you that know me
will know that I tend not to get embarrassed that easily, and I freely admit
that this is something that I find fundamentally liberating.
Of course I would love to tell
you that this was a result of some confidence-building, life-sorting workshop
that I attended way back when; that would have been an ideal situation. However,
the ACTUAL reason that I rarely glow red and emit awkward radiation these days is
simply that, in the past, I have been in some of THE most perplexing, cringe-worthy,
in the hole so-deep-a-JCB-couldn’t-dig-me-out-situations, and, now, the small humiliations
which occur in day to day life seem somewhat trivial (such as the coffee I dropped all over myself - and the poor chap sitting next to me - in this morning’s
lectures…although he did gain a double chocolate muffin for his troubles).
Anyway, back to the story. In my
eyes, Mr Fitzsimons is one of the few remaining old-school, checked-shirt,
quilted-gilet, peak-capped gents of the veterinary profession; the kind that
elderly women with nine or more cats might leave a house and all their worldly
belongings to in their last will and testament. I guess ultimately his reaction
to my little outburst has helped forge my opinion.
His expression of puzzlement was
soon followed by one of realisation. “Are you…?”
I replied with a silent nod. Uttered
“Oh! Ohhh! I see, okay! Not a
problem. Just one second now, bear with me,” he stated whilst becoming
increasingly more uptight and awkward. His face now beginning to turn a
wonderful tomato red. Then, he started frantically searching the surrounding cupboards
as if he was going to find the answer in one of them, eventually grabbing the
x-ray record file and hurtling out of the room, leaving me with whatshisname the
dog who was now staring at me curiously, no doubt wandering how on earth he
ended up getting dragged into this!
Eventually, after what seemed
like forever, he returned with what most men must see as the most ingenious solution
to a problem - a WOMAN! Head vet nurse, Judith, to be precise.
“Louise, I just have to pop out -
I will leave you with Judith, but I will get speaking to you before the end of
the day.” Then off he darted as fast as his loafers would carry him, leaving
Judith, the dog, and I to all stare blankly at one another.
“Oh dear,” I said, with a fretful
look on my face.
“Well I’m not quite sure what he
wants me to do, Louise! But, anyway, congratulations,” she said whilst breaking
into a jittery sort of laugh.
“Thanks…do you think I’m going to
get the sack?”
“No, of course you’re not.”
I really wasn’t quite so sure.
Realistically it’s quite a bit of
hassle, time, and expense when a staff member you have invested time and effort
into just ups and offs for nine months (repeatedly) with really little
guarantee that they will come back. I guess, looking back on it now, knowing
the hassle it would cause was probably what was making me so reluctant to tell
them.
We found a kennel for the dog (poor
thing still hadn’t had his x-ray) with an inevitable question mark beside his
name on the hospitalisation sheet, followed up with “HE IS NOT A STRAY or a PTS!!!”
in capitals.
We withdrew to the quiet of the
office, where I began to sob and apologise profusely for not telling anyone,
whilst poor Judith had to hand me tissues in production line fashion.
I suppose now would be a good
time to mention that this office was no ordinary office. Okay, yes, the chairs
are fairly ordinary, and the desks are standard, but this office itself is home
to two extremely rare breeds (I’m going to be in quite a bit of trouble for
writing that…!). In the form of Sarah Barry and Danielle Shields, who have together
acquired the most unsuitable sense of humour to deal with basically whatever
life has to throw at them, although they would profess this to be a result of
them being “institutionalised” to the practice.
So there I was, feeling very
sorry for myself and fearing for my livelihood, with Judith trying to console
me, when Sarah Barry, who had obviously got wind of the latest drama, comes bursting
around the corner with an orange shoulder length examination glove on and a
bottle of ultrasound gel, shouting from the rafters, “Danielle, come here quick!
Put her in the crush till we get her scanned!” in her native farmer’s daughter
brogue.
We erupted into hysterics (even
through stream of tears and sniffling). She then gave me a jolly hug and told
me I would have made quality dairy stock (which I have decided to recall as a
bizarre compliment…!), Danielle then gave me an enormous hug and told me to
look on the bright side, I can eat as much cake as I want and tell everyone it’s
the baby.
Interestingly none of my female
colleagues at that time were married or had children, which is why the degree
of support they offered during all of my time there still amazes me to this day
- but perhaps this is down to them being genuinely great people.
Mr Fitzsimons hadn’t returned
before I left for home, so I knew I would have to cross that bridge in the
morning.
I drove to work the next day with
Garth Brooks playing so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think - a tactic I have
used frequently going into stressful situations (works quite well I think).
I arrived and began to go about
my business as usual - if anything, trying to be particularly efficient. I was determined
to prove my worth and make sure they knew that I wasn’t going to use pregnancy to
become work-shy. I was fit and well, and, although there was inevitably going
to be some things I wasn’t going to be able to do, there was also a shed load
of things I could do.
Just before tea time, I
accidently barged into one of the consult rooms, where Mr Fitzsimons and Mr
Grant were in discussion, Mr Grant was the youngest of the partners, who,
unluckily for him and for no official reason, was our go-to boss if so much as
one duck wasn’t in a row.
“Hello Louise”, he said in his usual
cheerful tone.
“Hello,” I answered with an uncomfortable
smile.
“I heard your news,
congratulations!”
On this cue again, off
Fitzsimons went like a hare into a hole. I can’t say I blame him though - I
would have been out of there with him if I wasn’t scheduled to face the music.
I braced myself for the blow…but
then, as if some crazy woman took over my vocals, I blurted out, “Do you want
me to resign???”
Mr Grant looked surprised. “What?
Why, were you planning on leaving?”
“No! No! I’m sorry, I mean, I
don’t know why I said that. I want to stay! I can work right up until due date,
then I will be back once I finish maternity leave.”
“Hmm. Do you really think you are
going to be able to manage that, with two other children as well?” He wasn’t
being patronising, he was being realistic. This was subject he was an absolute
expert on - he and his wife each ran their own businesses as well as having 4
young children and a farm.
His question was valid.
“Yes,” I replied, “I can.”
(I suppose a bit of the story you
haven’t yet heard yet was that, not so long before all this pregnancy malarkey,
I found myself sitting in his office, with no significant qualifications to my
name, a house , a family, responsibilities, bills, and a car that needed 2 new
tyres and a wiper blade, telling him that I was going to get myself onto
arguably one of the toughest degrees in the country , places for which require
you go into metaphorical battle with some of the best and the brightest obsessive-compulsive
veterinary have-to-be’s in the country. PIECE OF CAKE!...)
He looked at me in disbelief, no
doubt thinking that perhaps I had taken leave of my senses.
“Louise, do you have any idea how
difficult that would be for you?”
“Hmmm, sort of…but I am going to
do it, you know!” I said with a cheerful smile.
