by Jenni Ogden
“Better?” Jackie asked quietly.
I opened my eyes and looked up at her. Other gowned figures were crowded into the small room. A glass of water was pushed into my hand and I gulped it down.
“It was so stifling in there. I don’t know what happened. I think I might have had an arrest.” I was almost whispering, my face hot, as Jackie shooed the others away.
“Christ, what’s happened to the patient?” I began to stand but Jackie pushed me down again.
“It’s OK. David has taken over and it’s all going well. You need to sit quietly and rest a while. Can’t have you arresting over the operating table,” she said, smiling at me.
I wiped my hands across my damp face, pushing off my paper cap. “Sorry, Jackie. I haven’t been sleeping too well lately. Not that that’s any excuse.”
“I think you might have started over-breathing. Perhaps it was brought on by your being too hot in there.” Jackie sat beside me and covered my clammy hand with her warm dry one. “It can happen to anyone. I really don’t think it was your heart, but get it checked out if you’re worried.”
“I feel so stupid. Everyone must think I’m a right basket-case.” My face was still burning.
“Everyone is thinking no such thing. Only Gina and Polly were here and they’re not going to turn it into some juicy gossip, even if you do want to be in the limelight for a change.” Jackie grinned at me and I tried to grin back.
“Seemed like the room was full of people.”
“Well it wasn’t. That’s just an embellishment by your fertile little mind. Only we three gals were here and we ain’t talking, so stop worrying.”
“I need to scrub up again and get into theater to give David a hand.”
“No way. David’s a big boy now; he doesn’t need you in there nursing him. And truly Georgia, don’t stress over this. I had a panic attack once and I thought I was dying, so I know how frightening it is.”
My pulse was thundering in my head again. “Perhaps I did get into some hyperventilation, but that’s not the same as a panic attack.”
“Of course not. I just meant that it could happen to anyone— hyperventilation I mean. Doesn’t have to be anything to do with panic. Even if it were, it’s no big deal. I only had that one and it’s never happened again.”
I looked at her, her usually bright expression clouded with concern. “Thanks Jackie. I’ll be fine.”
“What about having a chat to Simon Armstrong? I know him a little and he’s a good psychiatrist. A sweet guy too. I think if something like this happens we staff are meant to at least check in with him.”
“Shit. I know that. Do you think it’s necessary just for this?”
“Come on Georgia, you know I have to report it. It would be better if you saw Simon now and didn’t wait. Looks better that way and Simon will treat it in confidence, you know that. The longer you wait the more likely the gossip machine will get hold of it and turn it into goodness knows what.”
“Sprung. Just try and keep it from Jim Mason. Wouldn’t he just love it.” I tried to keep my voice light and gaily unconcerned.
“No one will hear anything from me, and I’ll make sure Gina and Polly understand that they mustn’t get into any talk about this.”
“Thanks Jackie. And can you please tell David I’ll phone him tonight?”
Chapter 5
Thirty minutes later I was in Simon Armstrong’s office. He was talking to me about taking a break from surgery and seeing a psychologist who specialized in therapy for panic attacks. Like a zombie I heard myself agreeing with everything, and taking a referral letter for a therapist that Simon had written on the spot, and a prescription for Valium and even some sleeping pills. I was damned if I was going to tell him I already used them occasionally.
Now he was being reassuring. “You’ll be fine after a few weeks of therapy and back operating in no time. Probably the result of overwork and job stress,” he said, as calmly as if he told neurosurgeons this every day. “Burnout, we call it. You’re fortunate to get this warning symptom so you can sort it out before it gets too serious. If you ignore symptoms of burnout, you risk losing your career for good.”
Cheerful fellow. I’d known Simon for years, although not that well. He was always pleasant and he had a good reputation. He was still prattling on.
“Don’t worry about what your colleagues and Admin will think. No one needs to know you had a panic attack. We’ll tell them you’d been overworking and you need some time out from surgery. You can continue with other aspects of your work if you feel up to it.”
“Some of my colleagues will know what happened. They saw me in theater.”
“Come on Georgia, they’re not going to talk. I know Jackie, she’s one of the best theater charge nurses in the hospital, and she was right to send you to me. She’ll make sure her theater team keep this confidential.”
“I know she’ll try at least. Anyway, I’ve got more to worry about than a bit of gossip; like whether I’m going crazy.”
“I hope that’s your poor attempt at humor. I know that you neurosurgeons think the mind is only a theoretical concept, but I trust you realize that it takes more than a panic attack to make you crazy.”
“Yes, Simon, I’m aware of that.” And I’m not telling you why.
“There must be something worrying you that has precipitated this. That’s why you need to see a psychologist, to find out why it happened. Then you can work on ways to prevent it happening again.”
“And if I can’t, I’ll never be able to operate again.” I could taste my fear.
“Don’t even think that. The chances that you won’t get over this quickly are almost nil I’d say, as long as you’re willing to look seriously at why this panic attack happened. Sarah Waring is an outstanding therapist—the best in the field.” Simon’s look was sympathetic. “I’ll call her later today and let her know you’ll be in touch.”
“Even if therapy is any use, I don’t see how I can possibly find time for it. Even if I’m not operating I still have a full schedule.”
“Georgia, you know you’re already finding excuses not to work on this, but you can’t go back to surgery until you have a clean bill of health from me, and you won’t get that until Sarah tells me you’re OK.”
“So it’s not quite so voluntary after all. This is an ultimatum.” My fingernails dug into the palm of my hand.
“There’s no need to think about it like that. You know you can’t operate safely until you’ve sorted this; you don’t need any ultimatums from me.”
I looked away, blinking hard to prevent my eyes from watering. Simon sat quietly. I leaned over and pulled a tissue from the box on the table between us and blew my nose while I got myself together. “I know. I know I have to deal with this. It’s just a bit hard to take on board.”
“I can imagine. If it helps, come and see me any time.”
“Thanks, Simon. Here’s hoping your therapist friend can sort me out and next time you see me I’ll be back to normal.”
I snuck out of his room and ignoring the elevator took the stairs up to my office, my head averted from the people coming down. What had happened to the poor woman I’d left mid-way through surgery? What about the tumor removal I’d scheduled for later this afternoon? I looked at my wrist but my watch wasn’t there. I was still dressed in my blue scrubs. At least I’d changed my gumboots for clogs. Retracing my steps I pressed in the digits on the security pad that opened the hallowed operating suite doors and walked rapidly towards the change rooms, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone. I glanced through the window in Theater Eight as I passed and saw David’s tall form crouched over the microscope, intent on the brain beneath his hands. Bile surged into the back of my throat. Shit, shit, shit.
When Adam arrived home from the university I had a roasting chicken in the oven and the gas fire warming the big open living space. The table was set, complete with wine glasses and candles, and Lara and Finbar were in the family room watching someth
ing loud on the TV.
“Mmm. Smells good.” Adam's face shone with pleasure as he bent to kiss me. “How come you’re home so early on a Tuesday night?”
“I wanted to surprise you and I didn’t have any ops this afternoon.” I ignored the turmoil in my stomach.
“It’s a lovely surprise.” Adam kissed me again, his lips cool from his walk from the station in the crisp evening.
The kids were in high spirits over dinner, Lara in top form as she recounted the latest in a series of stories about her French teacher, a particularly disgusting male—if Lara could be believed—with a habit of spraying the front row of students with saliva as he lisped and stuttered through the French verbs. I felt for him, the constant butt of teenage girls’ jokes. Still, I couldn’t help chuckling at Lara's clever impersonations of the luckless fellow, and for a few seconds it felt as if everything were normal.
After the dinner dishes were stacked in the dishwasher and the kids had gone upstairs to do their homework, I cornered Adam.
“Adam, we need to talk.”
“We do? Why, what’s the matter?” The anxious look that flickered in his eyes shook me. He was still on tenterhooks about what I was going to do next.
I lowered myself onto the couch and pulled Adam down beside me. I screwed my eyes shut. “I’ve really messed up now.” I opened my eyes and forced myself to look at him.
“Messed up? What do you mean?” Adam asked, and I could hear the plea in his voice —you forgot to pay the rates, missed a dental appointment…
“I had an anxiety attack halfway through an aneurysm clipping this morning.”
“Sweetheart, that’s awful. What happened? Is the patient all right? Are you all right?” Adam laid his hand on my cheek.
“Yes, of course the patient’s all right.”
Adam dropped his hand.
I touched his arm. “Sorry. I’m just upset. David took over the operation and the patient’s fine.”
“But what about you?” Adam asked, the look in his dark eyes bringing me to instant tears.
“I’m, I don’t know. I had to see Simon Armstrong. I think you’ve met him; he’s one of the psychiatrists. He’s nice enough but it was pretty difficult…” My voice tailed off and we sat silent, looking at each other.
“You’ve exhausted yourself, that’s the reason for this.” Adam sounded almost angry. “What did Armstrong say?”
“He seemed to think that it was a panic attack. He thinks I should see a psychologist. He can’t see me professionally as he’s a colleague.”
“Did he refer you to someone?”
“He recommended Sarah Waring. Have you heard of her?”
“Her name sounds vaguely familiar. I could ask Frank. He knows many of the clinical psychologists in London I imagine, because he has to organize all the placements for the clinical students,” Adam said.
“God no, don’t ask anyone at the university. I don’t want everyone knowing.”
“OK, OK. But you know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Did you tell Simon about your history?”
“My history?” I felt my eyebrows go up.
“Georgia, don’t be like that.”
“No, I didn’t tell him about my history. He’s not my therapist, he’s a work colleague. He might feel he has to report back to Peter, especially when the department directorship is being decided.”
“Perhaps you should rethink that. It’s not long since you had that meltdown when Lara wanted to find out more about Danny. Don’t you think your body is trying to tell you something?”
“You’re not my therapist either, so stop trying to analyze me. You know how hard I’ve worked for this. And I don’t want anyone to know; at least not just yet, not even the kids.”
“I won’t tell anyone until you’re OK with it. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, that’s all.”
I winced. His tone was the one he used when he was trying to placate me. “That’s not the worst of it. I’ve been banned from doing any surgery until the psychologist gives me a clearance, so that’s going to look awfully strange to everyone.”
“Oh love, that’s hard. But it’s sensible to stop surgery for a bit,” Adam said. “Are you on sick leave or something?”
“Mental health leave, you mean.” I looked up and saw Adam's concerned expression. “Sorry, I’m just so mad at myself. I’m still allowed to do everything else, just no surgery. David will have to cover all that, poor man.”
“He’ll revel in it. It’ll give him heaps more experience, and you’ve always said that he’s a good surgeon.”
“He is, I suppose. He’ll only be able to do the basic stuff though. A lot of my caseload will fall on the other consultants, as if they weren’t stretched enough. Christ, Jim Mason will be crowing. He’ll have to take over all of Peter’s ops and I’ll be left with all his admin jobs. I may as well forget about applying for the Directorship.” Standing up, I began to pace, pushing my hands through my hair and letting its weight slither through my fingers.
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself. I’m betting you’ll only need a couple of therapy sessions and you’ll be fine. You know how to control panic attacks; all you need is a refresher course. So the sooner you see this psychologist and start therapy the better.”
“What if it gets out that I have a history of them? That’ll be the end of my entire career.”
“Bollocks. Peter knows that you had some issues years ago, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but only because he was on the selection committee when I first got the consultancy. Once he retires, the next Director mightn’t be so understanding. Not if it’s Jim Mason. Once he sees my full record, that’ll be me, history. “
“Come on Georgia, it’s only April. There’s months to go before the Directorship is decided. You’ll be back to normal long before that. No one will even know that your time off surgery was any more than what it is; a sensible precaution while you sort this out. And surely doing all the Directorship admin will be a plus if you do decide to apply for the position? You’ll have really proved how good you are at that side of things.” He grinned. “All those powerhouse meetings; come on, you love ’em.”
I stopped pacing and stuck my tongue out at him.
“And bonus, at least you’ll be able to spend more time with us, Sapphire Eyes.” Adam stood up and pushed me down on the couch. “Now sit there. I’m getting out the whisky. I think we deserve a dram or two.”
On Saturday night we’d been invited to a dinner party at Sonja and Mike’s posh Notting Hill home and Adam insisted that we go, in spite of my glum mood. I’d finally got up the courage to phone Sarah Waring and my first appointment was on Monday at one o’clock, so until then there seemed nothing much I could do. David had phoned me on Wednesday, and although our conversation was awkward I felt relieved afterwards. He was obviously fully aware of the situation and was genuinely concerned about me; either that or he was a bloody good actor. He managed to stutter out that he and the other theater staff who knew something of what had happened would be discreet. Not that I was entirely convinced. Who didn’t enjoy gossiping? Even if hospital staff knew they shouldn’t. Not about patients of course, but doctors were delicious targets. And good old Jim would be in there, boots and all, with his unsubtle barbs. I could almost hear him. “Poor Georgia, she’s having a rough time. That stuff-up with the young chap with the aneurysms knocked her around. All the extra workload is simply too much for her to handle. I heard that she’s feeling guilty about never being there for her kids, too, and that doesn’t help. We’ll all need to pitch in and support her.”
At Sonja and Mike’s warm house I began to relax, the strong G & T Mike thrust into my hand no doubt helping. The other six guests were an eclectic mix of old and new faces. Our oldest and dearest London friends were the perfect hosts and as always seated their guests strategically at the long antique dinner table in their glorious conservatory—Mike and Sonja at opposite ends and boy, girl, boy, girl along each side wit
h partners carefully separated. Everyone had guests on either side of them, chosen by our hosts on the grounds that stimulating repartee would be almost inevitable. At mine and Adam’s rare dinner parties, where everyone sat was entirely random as I never seemed to have time to think it through in advance, and the rice was usually boiling over and the fish burning around the time everyone was flocking to the table. Giggles aside, Sonja’s seating arrangements did seem to enhance everyone’s pleasure, and as always she took great care to avoid pairings that might cause friction between partners.
The table glowed with elegant silver candles and clusters of sparkling glasses at every place setting, and as I ate my way through the four perfectly plated courses served on dramatically colored hand-painted Italian dishes, each with a different pattern, I realized I was enjoying myself. There was something to be said for having lots of loot and being happy to share it.
I smiled at the slightly balding man seated on my left, introduced as Will. Adam was diagonally across from me, sitting next to Will’s wife. I gathered from Mike’s remarks that Julia was some sort of big shot criminal lawyer from Dublin, in London for six months to advise about some major policy changes in criminal court procedures. She looked ridiculously young for such a role. But she was probably not much younger than Adam and I; early forties perhaps? Good for her. Adam was being very attentive. She did have a rather lovely Irish accent.
Will—who had a marked Yorkshire accent—turned out to be quite a charmer himself. He and the talented Julia had two children, and, inevitably, a nanny, though their kids were twelve and ten. Our own nanny had been vanquished the minute Finbar turned three and deemed old enough to spend all day at preschool.
Will was also a lawyer of some sort when in Dublin, but seemingly part-time to allow his involvement in all manner of arty charity things, including being on the board of a major Dublin art gallery. I got the impression that he also spent considerable time and money on renovating their country house and extending their ten-acre garden. He seemed fascinated by the idea of neurosurgery, and I started raving on about the amazing technological advances that had revolutionized our surgery equipment and techniques over the last few years, and explaining how some of these had developed out of the NASA space program. Good old Will managed to stay awake.