Crisis by Ken McClure Read Free Book Online

On the other hand, he had great respect for David Drysdale whom he had known and liked for five years. Drysdale knew and freely admitted the shortcomings of his speciality. He never hid behind meaningless jargon as Bannerman suspected so many of his psychiatric colleagues of doing. When he heard Drysdale describe electro-convulsive therapy as ‘wiring the patients up to the mains to see what would happen’ he knew that he had found a psychiatrist he would like. As he got to know him better, he discovered that the man had a genuine and sincere concern for the welfare of the mentally ill. It was his regret that so little could be done to help in so many cases.
    Drysdale’s office was two floors above the pathol ogy department. The walls were decorated with examples of schizophrenic art and a small print of Edvard Munch’s, The Scream. Drysdale, a sallow- skinned man with dark hair and heavy-rimmed spec tacles, which made him look like an East European student, invited Bannerman to sit. ‘What can I do for you Ian?’ he asked.
    ‘ I think I may need help,’ said Bannerman awk wardly.
    Drysdale considered making some comment about ‘not thinking he would see the day’ but thought better of it, seeing the troubled look on Bannerman’s face. Tell me about it,’ he said.
    Bannerman told him about his experience with the emergency section. ‘My hands were actually shaking,’ he said. ‘And then I had a nightmare about it last night.’
    Drysdale nodded and said, Tell me.’
    Bannerman related all that he could remember about the dream and then asked, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
    Drysdale made a sign with his hands that indicated resignation but not approval. ‘You should give it up,’ he said.
    Bannerman ignored the comment.
    ‘What else should I know?’ asked Drysdale.
    ‘Sometimes I’m sick after doing post-mortems.’
    Drysdale nodded. He had started making notes. ‘How old are you Ian?’
    ‘I’ll be thirty-eight next birthday.’
    ‘How do you feel about that?’
    ‘Rotten.’
    ‘Me too,’ said Drysdale. ‘I’ll be thirty-nine. Any other problems?’
    ‘Insomnia.’
    ‘You waken up at three in the morning and feel wide awake. You can’t get back to sleep for about an hour. This happens every second night on average?’
    ‘How did you know that?’
    ‘Sheer bloody brilliance,’ said Drysdale. ‘But apart from that, I recognized the symptoms. They’re text book. It’s depression not insomnia.’
    ‘So you think I’m clinically depressed,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘A little,’ replied Drysdale, ‘but the main problem is stress.’
    ‘Stella thinks it’s a mid-life crisis,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘She’s right,’ said Drysdale, ‘but there’s another factor involved and I’m not quite sure what it is. I’ll have to have a think about it.’
    ‘What do I do about it in the meantime?’ asked Bannerman.
    ‘ I can suggest pills but you know as well as I do they’ll just dull your senses so you won’t feel so stressed. That’s probably not such a good idea in our line of work. How about booze in the evening?’
    ‘I think I’ve used up that option,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘Me too,’ said Drysdale. ‘How about a break? A holiday might be just what you need.’
    ‘Stella suggested that. I’m considering going climb ing in Scotland.’
    ‘In January!’ exclaimed Drysdale. ‘You’re sicker than I thought!’
    To each his own, Doctor,’ said Bannerman with a smile. He got up to go.
    ‘ I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ said Drysdale, ‘but keep in touch. I don’t think it’s anything serious and Stella’s probably right about it being fear of forty but if you should begin to feel worse give me a call, any time, day or night.’
    Bannerman thanked Drysdale and promised to buy him a drink in the near future. He returned to the Pathology Department where Olive had left a package on his desk. It was marked ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ and had come from the Medical