Wealth and buying Health

The kid had a tiny laceration to his forearm. Three stitches should do the job. The problem was that dad was not happy. "I want a second opinion" he said to myself as well as the junior doctor working with me. The doctor's name was Russell.

"What do you think Russ? Where we gonna get a second opinion on a Sunday night?" I managed to stop myself from smiling as I said this.

Russ looked ready to let loose on the man making such ridiculous demands. Russ was a big Scotsman known to have a fiery side. "There is no need for a second opinion" Russ was losing control of his temper and the volume of his voice rose an octave or two. "It's a plain, simple laceration which any doctor could treat. I'm not going to call my consultant out of bed at ten o'clock on a Sunday night."

I might as well go and get the patient complaint form for dad to fill out, because Russ wasn't going to back down. But instead of getting angry in the usual way, like threatening to lay a complaint, yelling, or even getting physical, Mr Trite did something quite unique. "I'm willing to pay for a private consult. I don't care how much. I don't want my son to have any scarring. Get me a plastic surgeon."

Russ and I were speechless for a moment. "Alright" Russ finally said. The fight seemed to have gone out of him.

An hour later the hospital's head of plastics waltzed into the department. He was in fine form, chatting with Dad about almost everything but the kids arm. Subjects touched upon included golf, yachting and which was their favorite place to ski in Switzerland. It took less than five minutes to suture the laceration and another twenty minutes for Dad and the consultant to finish their conversation.

"I need a pen" Mr Trite said as he fished out his cheque book, making sure everyone knew he was about to hand over a bunch of money. Russ handed the man a pen. "How much was it again?" he asked the surgeon, to which he replied "three thousand."

Three thousand pounds for five minutes work.