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plastic surgery clock felt as if it was part of one of those past minutes, one piece of the uncertain hours of my childhood. Unexpectedly, the buzzer behind the receptionist’s desk sounded frantically, breaking up my thoughts. Every set of expectant eyes in the waiting room looked towards the reception desk.
‘Mrs Preston for Dr Tranor,’ the receptionist called out over the heads of the people sitting patiently, waiting their turn. As I stood up and looked across at her, she acknowledged me with a small smile. I managed to smile back hesitantly, but my whole body felt as if it was going to fall apart.
I walked down the corridor past her desk towards Dr Tranor’s room. It was only a short corridor but I felt it was longer than it should have been, extending my journey by a few hundred feet. Each of the small steps I took felt like steps I’d taken whilst I was walking up one of my beloved Lakeland fells, each one more arduous than the last. As I look back at this fateful moment, I can still see the corridor, the reception desk, and everything else so clearly. It’s almost as if I was sitting looking at a photograph, newly created and captured through the lens for the first time.
I knocked gently on the door, opened it, and walked in. Dr Tranor sat beside his desk. I always liked his room. He had a small settee that had a blue cover on it with lots and lots of little toys, many of which were either hand-knitted or hand-made. It always felt homely and welcoming – each of the bookshelves always looked hugely chaotic, whichreminded me of our bookcases at home. The desk he sat at was up against a wall so he faced you when you sat to chat. He never spoke to you across the desk, and I always appreciated the way he deliberately tried to relate to his patients informally, as if we were friends. I always liked this. Dr Tranor was a wonderfully understanding doctor, with a caring, sensitive manner. That day I felt I was visiting him for the first time, when I knew all too well that wasn’t the case.
I had actually known him for almost two years. I first met him when I changed doctors and joined his practice. I was pregnant with Timothy at the time and I wanted a home birth, which my previous doctor would not agree to. Dr Tranor was the only doctor in my area that would take on patients wanting home births.
As I entered the room, he looked up, giving me his warm smiley greeting that always made me feel at ease.
Except this time I didn’t feel at ease. This time my visit was different.
‘Hello Sarah, what can I do for you?’ he began warmly.
I felt his smile would have to work overtime to make his there’s-nothing-to-worry about look make me feel better. I felt cheap, soiled and dirty. All the time I was wondering what he would think of me when he knew the truth. I just did not know where to begin. I had come to see him for guidance about where to find help and who to talk to about my abuse, but as I sat in front of this kind, caring man who I knew would understand what I was about to tell him, I felt my voice sinking away from me. Disappearing further and further, deserting my mouth,my unspoken words travelling at great speed through my body towards the floor.
He looked at me, realising that I was having trouble talking, trying to tell him about what was troubling me. He sat there not speaking, just looking at me with his gentle deep blue eyes, waiting for the first words I would say to him. He never prompted me with that familiar ‘take your time’ I had heard from so many other doctors before. He just sat patiently waiting. I knew he had other patients to see. It took time to form my words into any kind of comprehensible sense. When I whispered them silently in my head before actually speaking them out loud, they all sounded wrong. I was trying desperately to get them into some semblance of logical order before I spoke. In the end I just gave up. I knew I was taking up too much of his time so I just blurted it all out,