THE NIGHT I SAVED THE QUEEN
“Wake up, David.”
“Huh?”
Your phone’s ringing.”
“What time is it?”
“2 am.”
“Oh, bugger.” I picked up the phone. “Dr David Hardy speaking.”
“Dr Hardy, it’s Brian Futsulli.”
“Yes, Brian. What can I do for you?” I was awake now. I knew Brian Futsulli well. He ran a very up-market and very successful Bed and Breakfast, Futsulli’s de la Mer. I knew that Brian would not be calling for trivial reasons. I also noted that his voice had a tinge of desperation to it.
“Um, I wonder if you could come and see a sick, um, person, who is staying here?”
“Sure. What sort of sick?”
“A gastric attack, I think.”
“OK, and the person’s name?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone. If you could just hurry…”
“Oh, OK, a bit odd, but OK…Not a druggie, is it?”
“No, definitely not a druggie. Just hurry, please.”
I felt that there was a hint of a smile in Brian’s answer. “Alright, I’ll be there in 15.”
Futsulli’s de la Mer was situated just south of Old Bar Beach. Four acres of resort accommodation, it had won several awards, not just for its hospitality and care of its guests, and not just for its food, but also for its environmentally-friendly set-up. Its owner, Brian Futsulli, was widely regarded as a very genial man. But it was a very anxious man that greeted me when I arrived in my battered old ute.
“Thank God you’re here! Come with me.”
I got my doctor’s bag and followed Brian as he walked down the track towards a large bungalow. “You’re obviously very busy at the moment, Brian. A lot of cars parked out the front.”
“All belonging to one person.”
“Really?”
Brian stopped and turned around to face me. “I’ve got the Queen staying here.”
“What, you mean Gary Kelty?” Gary Kelty was a well known purveyor of fine fashions in town.
“No, you nong. The Queen.”
“The Queen? But isn’t she in Sydney?”
“That’s what everyone is supposed to think. But she’s here, and she’s sick, and you need to fix her.”
I knew, as pretty much everyone in Australia knew, that the Queen was out on a Royal Visit. It was probably the last time that she would make a visit to Australia, and the crowds at her public appearances had been huge. Tonight was supposed to be her last night in Sydney, staying at Government House, before travelling to Brisbane the next day.
“Her office rang four months ago and organised this visit,” Brian explained. “A chance for Her Majesty to have some rest and privacy before continuing her public appearances. Her stay here is very hush-hush. Everyone is meant to think that she is staying at Government House tonight.”
“And what about this gastric attack?”
“Well, her whole party has come down sick. Vomiting, the lot of them. It must be whatever meal they had in Sydney before they arrived. You know, I’ve spent a week preparing a banquet for tonight and no-one has been well enough to have any of it.”
“But doesn’t she have her own doctor?”
“Yes, but he’s crook as Rookwood. The only one who is minimally affected is the nurse, and she feels that Her Majesty is deteriorating, and that’s why she asked me to get a local doctor.”
“Well, thank you for thinking of me!”
“You’re welcome, and we’re here now.”
Brian led me through the front door, where we were greeted by a tall, thin middle aged woman. “This is Dr Hardy,” said Brian.
"I’m Sr Lindsay, and I’ve been Ma’am’s personal nurse for 22 years now, and I’ve never seen her this unwell.”
“Tell me about her illness,” I said.
“We started to feel squeamish about an hour south of here. Sir Basil, Ma’am’s personal secretary, was the first to be sick, then Dr Sutton, then the rest of the staff one by one. Dr Sutton asked me to give some metoclopramide injections to help stop the vomiting, which I did, but that hasn’t helped much, and people have been confined to their beds. Ma’am was alright when we arrived here, but over the last 2 hours, she has been vomiting and complaining of a lot of abdominal pain.”
“Have the other patients had much abdominal pain?”
“Not really, just Ma’am.”
“And she is usually in good health?”
“Oh, she is in wonderful health.”
“OK, lead me to her.”
The figure lying on the bed was a very familiar one. She’s tiny, I thought, smaller than she appears on television. She was obviously in distress. Her eyes were closed and her face was contorted, and she was trying to lie as still as she could. Sr Lindsay went to her. “Ma’am, the doctor is here.”
“Thank you for coming, doctor.”
“You’re welcome, Your Majesty. I’m Dr David Hardy. Sr Lindsay has told me what’s happening. Um, could you tell me where your pain is?”
“All over.” She waved her hand over her abdomen.
“Ok. I’m going to have to examine you, Your Majesty.”
I must tell you, I was very nervous. I kept expecting a guard to burst in and drag me away for “assaulting the Queen.” But that didn’t happen, of course, and at the end of my examination, I could tell that I had one very sick patient on my hands.
I turned to Sr Lindsay. “She has a high fever, a rapid pulse rate, her blood pressure is low and her abdomen is rigid. I don’t see any abdominal scars, so my conclusion is that she has a perforated appendix and has peritonitis. She is one crook Majesty.”“I thought as much,” said Sr Lindsay, fortunately ignoring what I had realised as a potential slur on the Queen’s morals. “She’ll need surgery.”
“She’ll need surgery, indeed,” I replied. “And as soon as possible. What is the protocol now?”
Sr Lindsay explained that the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney was geared for any Royal emergency, but that calling a retrieval chopper and transferring her back there would take too long. “You have good surgeons here?”
“Excellent ones,” I replied, getting her meaning straight away. Her Majesty’s best chance lay with immediate surgery. Getting her to Sydney might jeopardise her life too much. “I’ll make some phone calls. You call the ambulance. Let’s get the ball rolling.”
I rang the hospital switchboard. “Hi, Rosie, it’s David Hardy. Who’s the surgeon on-call?”
“Oh, hi, Dr Hardy. You’re out early. No rest for the wicked, obviously.” Rosie chuckled. “Dr Sami’s on, and you’re in luck, cause he’s in the hospital somewhere, and I’ll page him for you.”
“Oh, that’s terrific, thanks.”
I was in luck. Dr Sami was Dr Dilmah T. Samisweet, a wonderful surgeon, and the fact that he was already in the hospital was a bonus. Soon, his voice was on the phone. “David, what can I do for you.”
“Dr Sami, I have a patient with a burst appendix and peritonitis. She’ll need operating on.”
“Oh, that sounds serious. Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I explained the clinical findings. “I’ve got the ambulance on the way.”
“All right, I’ll get the operating theatre ready. I’ll meet the ambulance in casualty. Who’s the patient, by the way?”
“You won’t believe it. It’s the Queen.”
“What, Gary Kelty?”
“No, no, no! The real Queen! You know, Her Majesty, and all that. She’s staying out at Brian Futsulli’s place, a secret period of rest.”
“Well, I’ll be blowed. I better have another cup of coffee.”
While I waited for the ambulance, I went round to the other patients at the resort. All of them were stable. I gave some more injections and reassured them. Dr Sutton and Sir Basil particularly needed reassurance about the proposed surgery and about Dr Sami’s credentials. “He’s an excellent surgeon. Technically very good. My patients love him. He will really look after Her Majesty. And Sr Lindsay will stay with her.” Eventually, both men were mollified.
The ambulance arrived. I knew both of the officers. They were very surprised at who their patient was, but soon had her safely bundled in the wagon. Sr Lindsay went in the wagon as well, and I followed in my car. Before I left, Brian Futsulli gave me a huge hug. “I’m so relieved, David. The way Sr Lindsay was talking, I thought the Her Majesty was going to cark it in my best bed.”
“She’s not out of the woods yet, but she should be alright now. I’d better go. I’ll keep you in touch.”
Dr Sami was waiting in the ambulance bay at the Accident and Emergency Department as we pulled in. “Take her over to that cubicle and I’ll have a look at her.” After he had examined her, Dr Sami came over to me. “No doubt about the diagnosis. I’ll take her up straight away. Everything’s ready. I’ve even called Dr Hines in.” Dr Hines was an Intensive Care specialist, which is where the Queen would go after the surgery.
“Do you mind if I assist you?” I asked. “I wouldn’t want to miss this for quids and it’s not every day that you get to see the inner workings of the Royal family, so to speak.”
Dr Sami smiled. “You’re more than welcome. Let’s go”
An operating theatre is really like a well run circus, same sort of characters: the Ringmaster, the Strong Man, the Acrobat, the Juggler and the Clown. People would think that these would represent the Surgeon, the Anaesthetist, the Theatre Sister, the Scrub Nurse and the Orderly, respectively. In reality, it is more like the Theatre Sister, the Orderly, the Scrub Nurse, the Anaesthetist and the Surgeon. But however named, it is an immensely skilful area, and as an outsider, it was fascinating to watch how smoothly Her Majesty’s operation went. The diagnosis was spot on, of course; the appendix removed, the peritoneal cavity washed out and the antibiotics commenced. The operation lasted an hour, then Her Majesty was transferred to Intensive Care, where she was attached to more machines that went “ping” than I thought existed. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, and in any case it was 6 am by now, so I rang my wife and told her all about what happened. She didn’t believe me at first, but had to concede when I got Dr Sami on the line.
About 8 o’clock, Dr Sutton and Sir Basil arrived. Both still looked pale, but said that they were feeling better.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Sir Basil. “Your quick action saved the day.”
“Nothing that I wouldn’t have done for anyone else,” I replied.
We all looked at the peaceful figure of Her Majesty.
“I suppose,” I said, “That she’ll be transferred today.”
“Yes,” said Dr Sutton. “I’ve already arranged for her transfer to Royal Brisbane Hospital. No disrespect to here…”
“Oh, we knew that she would be transferred. Don’t have any worries about that. I suppose we can’t tell anyone, Official Secrets, all that sort of thing.”
“Not really,” said Sir Basil. “It will be too hard to keep this quiet. We have learnt some lessons in recent times! Ha, ha!” Sir Basil looked at bit pained when he said this. He went on: “The media will be briefed shortly. The rest of her Royal Tour will have to be cancelled, and Ma’am will stay in hospital till she is well enough to fly home.” He turned to me. “My advice to you is to go home, have a shower, ring a media agent, close your surgery and send your family out of town. After the Press conference, all hell is going to break loose…”
And so it proved. I did as Sir Basil advised. For the next week, I was besieged by the media. It was a lot of fun. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Everyone wanted me for an interview, buy me a drink, feed me. A lot of money sloshed my way (a fair percentage found its way into my agent’s hands!) Dr Sami and the hospital staff all had the same experience. Brian Futsulli’s place was booked out for the next two years. (He joked that the “Appendix Special” was his biggest seller.) Eventually, the hubbub subsided, my family returned, I re-opened the surgery, and life fell back to normal. I was disappointed, though, that I had heard no further word from the Queen. Nothing since I spoke to her before her operation. Until…
I opened the door. It was Sir Basil. “Well, hello,” I said. “Long time no see. Six months, it must be.”
“It is good to see you, too, Dr Hardy. I hope you are well.”
“I’m very well. Come in.”
After we sat down and some tea and bikkies procured, Sir Basil got down to business. “Ma’am is very pleased with your actions and has asked me to tell you that you have saved her life. She took a long time to recover her strength and appetite, but she is back to normal now. She will not be coming out to Australia in the near future, so is disappointed that she can’t thank you personally. That is why I am here. Ma’am notes that you have not furnished an account for your attendance on the night, so I am authorised to present this cheque as payment for your services.”
He handed over the piece of paper. I looked at it and nearly fell off the chair. “Well, that’s the mortgage taken care of,” I thought.
“I am most grateful for this very generous cheque,” I replied.
“Your actions were of the highest quality that night. You deserve it. Now, in times past, your actions would have led to some form of Regal recognition, probably a Knighthood.”
I had wondered about that. Dr Sami and I felt that Knighthoods should be given. Sir David and Sir Sami (“I’m not going to be Sir bloody tea company,” Sami had said) had a nice ring to it.
“Unfortunately, in this day and age, we don’t do that sort of thing,” went on Sir Brian, immediately dashing the look of my business card. “But we did want to give you and your family a little something extra.” He opened a folder. “Here are first class air tickets to the UK, a lot of spending money, and a private meeting with Ma’am at Buckingham Palace. She will be delighted to see you.”
I was speechless. I hadn’t had a decent holiday in years. This was fantastic and more than I deserved. But I wasn’t speechless for long. I rose from my chair and started running through the house. “Pack your bags. Pack your bags. It’s like that nursery rhyme.”
My wife and children came out. “What on earth are you going on about, David?” said my wife.
“The nursery rhyme, it’s come true!” I replied. “We’re off to London to visit the Queen.”
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