A piece of cake!

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.