A Surgeon, A Midwife - A Family

by Gill Sanderson

  'Our future?'

  'Yes. We need to—'

  'Mr Sinclair, we've got a bit of a problem with Baby Nelson and we'd like you to have a look.' A rather scared-looking young nurse had appeared.

  'Be right there, Rebecca.' Jack looked at Miranda. 'Work calls. See you later.' Then he was walking away.

  In fact, he didn't see her later. There was a message on her phone—he was needed at the hospital, would sleep there and go straight to the airport in the morning. Not to forget to book the time off for when he came back. Oh, and he loved her.

  Miranda sighed. She had some thinking to do.

  Later that night she lay in her own bed and felt lonely. There was something about sharing a bed with a man that you loved. Not just the passion, though that was wonderful, it was the togetherness. The warmth of his body when he was asleep. The rhythm of his breathing. The drowsy smile he gave her first thing in the morning.

  He was going away for a few days and when he came back they were going to London. It would be their first ever holiday together. He had said they'd get away from constant work and pressure and think about their future. She suspected she knew what that would mean. He would ask her to marry him.

  She desperately wanted to marry him.

  But she couldn't give him babies. And of all the men she had ever met, she knew that Jack was the one who most needed to have a child of his own.

  She knew he would say that it didn't matter she couldn't have babies, it was her that he loved. And he'd mean it. But in time she was sure that he'd come to feel the loss more and more. Perhaps even resent her...

  What could she do? The good, the strong thing to do might be to leave him. Tell him to find some other woman. But even as she thought about it, she knew she wouldn't have the strength. And he wouldn't let her walk away from him. He was Jack Sinclair, he knew exactly what he meant to her.

  What could she do? Her brain was going round and round. It was a pointless exercise. There was no solution and she was driving herself mad.

  And just as her wearied brain could take no more, and she was dropping off into a fitful sleep, the vaguest of thoughts slipped into her mind.

  What about America?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She had to do it while she still had the courage.

  Next day she got into work early, checked the rosters. Annoyingly, Carly had the day off. But there was a list of home numbers in the office, so Miranda phoned her.

  'Carly? It's Miranda. Are you at home all day?'

  'A rare day off,' agreed a cheerful voice. 'I shall spend it sleeping and studying. What can I do for you?'

  'Could I call round after my shift?'

  'It would be great to see you. You can look at my tiny home. Is there any special reason why—?'

  'Got to go. See you then,' said Miranda, and rang off. She had done it now, there was no turning back.

  Carly had leased a small one-bedroomed flat for a year. Miranda stood outside the block, looking at the new bricks and paintwork. Under her arm was a red plastic folder, which she'd carried to work that morning.

  She could still turn back, of course. No, she couldn't. She rang Carly's bell.

  Carly seemed pleased to see her, 'Hi, sis,' she greeted merrily.

  Miranda blinked. 'Sis?'

  Carly grinned. 'I've always wanted one. Two brothers, one girl, it's not good enough. Who can I have girlish chats with? Now, I've got the tea things laid out in the kitchen, I'll make us some tea in a minute. Sit down on the couch.'

  She looked thoughtfully at Miranda. 'You've got a look,' she said. 'I've seen it on mothers sometimes when they're about to give birth for the first time. A combination of determination and fear. And if you're here, it must be about big brother.'

  She grinned again. 'Not pregnant, are you?'

  Miranda bit her lip, tried to keep the hurt out of her eyes. She saw the smile fade on Carly's face. 'I've said the wrong thing, haven't I, Miranda? God, I'm so sorry, Come on, tell me what it is. You're not really pregnant, are you?'

  Miranda offered her the folder. 'I'll make the tea,' she said. 'You be a doctor and read this.'

  When Miranda returned with the tray of tea, Carly just nodded and carried on reading. Miranda didn't mind; she recognised this switching-off technique. She'd seen it in Jack sometimes. Concentrate on the facts. Once you'd mastered them you could think about the emotional implications.

  In the back of the folder was a set of X-rays. Carly took them out, held them up to the light and pursed her lips. Just as Miranda had seen Jack do. She drank her tea at the same time.

  Carly got to the end of the folder, turned back and looked up a couple of details. Then she looked at Miranda with that assessing look that Miranda had seen doctors give patients before. 'An interesting case,' she said. 'You were lucky to survive.'

  'I suppose so,' said Miranda.

  'But you've made a very good recovery.'

  'Parts of me have. Carly, could...? Is it possible...? This new technique you've been working on in Chicago.' The microsurgery. Could it work on the bits of me that were damaged? Could they be repaired so I could have babies again?'

  Carly looked shocked. 'Oh, Miranda. Is that what you want?'

  'Definitely,' Miranda replied staunchly.

  Carly sighed at the determined expression on her friend's face and ran a hand through her straight, dark hair, her grey eyes full of concern. 'Well, you know it's experimental, it's dangerous, it's expensive,' she said. 'Let me expand. We don't know the long-term prognosis. Whatever good is done might just disappear. And it doesn't always work. So far it's about fifty-fifty, with some people it's successful, with others it isn't. And we don't know why. One poor lady was left in a wheelchair as a result. And in no way do you get it done for free. This procedure would be in the USA, it's not available in the UK. Though I hope in a few years that the technique might come back to this country with me.'

  'I got thirty thousand pounds in damages after the crash,' Miranda said. 'I've never touched it. I'll happily spend the lot on this operation.'

  'The risk? The chance of the rest of your life in a wheelchair?'

  'I'll take the chance. Remember Jenny Donovan? She was in a wheelchair, she's getting about now.'

  Carly considered. 'I'm supposed to counsel you but I'm not quite sure how to do it. What does Jack say about this?'

  'He doesn't know and I'm not going to ask him or tell him. This is my decision.'

  'What? But the two of you are—?'

  'Yes we are. But it's still my decision.'

  Carly winced. 'You know he's a surgeon, he cuts babies—people—open for a living. But he's never more happy than when he can say it's not necessary. He doesn't like being invasive. And another thing. Whatever is being decided, he likes to be consulted.'

  'I know that, too. I don't want to argue with him.'

  Carly looked apprehensive. 'Think what he'll say to me when he thinks I've gone behind his back.' Then she smiled. 'Got a pound coin?'

  Curious, Miranda found one in her purse, handed it over.

  'Now you've paid me and I'm your doctor. Patient confidentiality and all that. This is a consultation.' Then she was serious again. 'Miranda, I think you should tell him.'

  'I know what he'd say.' Miranda was definite. 'He'd say that it wasn't worth the risk and I was just doing it for him and that I wasn't to. Well, he's wrong. I'm doing it for me. So will you help me?'

  Carly stared at her for a moment. Then she reached for her phone. 'It's morning in Chicago now,' she said. 'I'll phone my old professor.'

  Miranda met Carly again the next day. They sat in Carly's flat again, drank more tea.

  'What did your old professor say?' Miranda asked eagerly.

  'We'll come to that bit in a minute,' Carly said. 'There's other things to be considered first.' She reached for the red folder, flipped it open and studied a page. 'Remember what you felt like when you were in hospital?'

  'I remember. The staff were great, I was o
ne of their own, but I never want to go through anything like that again. The pain and the discomfort and the nurses and doctors messing me about—I hated it. And I'd lost the man I was going to marry. I thought I'd never cope.'

  'But you're willing to go through all that again? Even though it might be unsuccessful?'

  'Yes,' said Miranda.

  Carly flipped further through the red folder. 'I have to tell you that I faxed copies of this folder to my professor and he's not too keen on performing the operation. The odds aren't good. Your surgeon had to cut perilously near the sciatic nerve. You know what would have happened if there'd been much trouble there?'

  'Paraplegia? Lower half of the body paralysed?'

  'Exactly. If you have this new operation, you'll be risking that again.'

  Miranda scowled at her friend. 'I know what you're trying to do and it's no good. If there's any chance, I want that operation!'

  Carefully, Carly put away the sheet she had been holding. 'There's a good chance that you'll come home from this operation in a wheelchair. Jack will get out of you what you've done—and he'll know why. Then he'll insist on marrying you because—'

  'Carly! I want that operation! If he asked me right now to marry him, I wouldn't. Because he needs to have babies. And let me guarantee you one thing. If I come home in a wheelchair, I will not marry your brother. No matter how many times he gets on his bended knee.'

  'That I would like to see,' muttered Carly. 'OK, Miranda, I've been as clear as I can. If it was me, I wouldn't have this operation. But it's your choice.' To Miranda's surprise Carly came over and kissed her. 'I hope my brother realises how lucky he is.'

  Even though Miranda was a bank nurse and not required to give notice, the next morning she went to see Jenny Donovan. 'Jenny, I wanted you to know what's happening,' she said. 'I have to leave for a while. But I've loved working here and I would like to come back. I'd love to have a job here, too, if that was possible.'

  Jenny looked at her calmly. 'We want you on the staff here, for all sorts of reasons. Do you want to tell me why you are going?'

  Miranda was blunt. 'I'm going to America for an operation that might make me capable of having children again.'

  She could tell Jenny was shocked at that, but she hid it well. 'You've thought hard about it, measured up the chances and so on?'

  'Yes, I have.'

  'Good.' Jenny looked at her thoughtfully. 'You look a bit tired,' she said.

  'I was awake all night, wondering and worrying. I've got to do this now or I'll never do it.'

  'What does Jack think about it?'

  'Jenny! This is my body! I make the decisions about it.'

  'Is there anything I can do to persuade you to at least talk to him?'

  Miranda's shoulders slumped. 'I know what he'd say. He'd try to talk me out of it and I'm afraid I'd give in. Jenny, I need this chance.'

  Jenny looked at her in silence for a minute, then apparently made up her mind about something. 'Then good luck. And keep us all posted. We all think a lot of you here, Miranda.'

  Two days later, three days after Jack had left, Miranda boarded a plane at Manchester airport, bound for Chicago. Carly, Annie and Jenny were the only three people who knew where or why she was going.

  Miranda winced when she saw the facilities that were available in the Chicago Dana Hospital. The car park was vast, the building was sparkling, the staff efficient and pleasant. Inside, every possible medical or surgical need was catered for—in abundance. Money appeared to be no object.

  But she soon found out why. Most of her money was disappearing—a little had gone on the air fare, the rest on medical expenses. Fortunately, Carly had done some negotiating for her. She had got her a guaranteed price for the operation and all possible eventualities. And she had found her a discount. But still it made Miranda heartily thankful for the NHS.

  She liked Larry Laker, Carly's old professor, the surgeon who was pioneering the treatment. A genial man in his late fifties, with half-moon glasses and a mane of white hair, he looked just like a television surgeon. But under the amiable exterior she could tell there was an incisive mind.

  'If you had been working for me for a while,' he said, 'I could have arranged a really large discount. Do you fancy working in the USA?'

  'It's an interesting idea,' she muttered, 'but I'll see what it's like from the patient's side first.'

  'An interesting idea! Every doctor should be a patient .sometimes. It would give some of them a shock. Now, are you ready to start this afternoon?'

  It began here. 'As soon as possible.'

  'Good. There's a whole battery of tests, scans, X-rays, investigations that we need to get out of the way first. It'll be uncomfortable and undignified, but I know you know about things like that. Then I'll have a good look at the results and come and have a word with you again. I hope we can do well for you, Miranda!'

  So she had the tests. They seemed to happen incredibly quickly, and the results came back in hours instead of—as some of them did in the UK—in days. And then Professor Laker came to her bedside with a large pad and a pencil.

  'We could start tomorrow morning,' he said. 'You'll be prepped and then I'll see you in Theatre. Now, I'm a firm believer that people should know what's happening to them. And medical people especially. And I like to know my patients. I have this foolish feeling that if the person under the knife is known to me as a person, not just a case, then I'll operate better.'

  Miranda was interested in this. 'I've known surgeons who think exactly the opposite. That they work better if they're.. .passionless?'

  'No surgeon is passionless, it's just that some hide it well. I like to chat to my patients. But each to what suits him. Now, I've read your notes, I've checked and double-checked all the investigations we've made. I know Carly Sinclair has spoken to you. And I've got to tell you this, Miranda. This operation is a risk that I normally would not take. There is a chance we might be able to put things right for you. But there's a chance we can do very little. And there's a definite chance you'll finish up a paraplegic.'

  Somehow, now it all seemed more real. And perhaps for the first time Miranda faced up to what could happen to her. The rest of her life in a wheelchair? But she had come so far. 'I know that,' she said. 'It's a risk I'm prepared to take.'

  'You know I'm going to ask you to sign a release form—in effect, you sign your life away. I'm going far too close to the sciatic nerve to be comfortable, your lower limbs could be paralysed.' He looked weary. 'One of my patients still is in a wheelchair. And I'm not sure that I know why.'

  'I trust you and I'm willing to take a chance.'

  'Do you mind telling me why?'

  Miranda liked this man and didn't mind confiding in him. 'I believe that the man I hope to marry will only be fully complete, fully happy if he can see a child of his own.'

  'Has he said so? Sent you to have this operation?'

  'He doesn't even know I'm here,' Miranda told him.

  'But surely he should at least be consulted?' The professor was obviously surprised.

  'Some decisions are best made by just one person.'

  The professor nodded. 'Perhaps. Well, whoever he is, he must be one amazing person for you to go through with this. He's a lucky man, and I hope he'll still be lucky when the operation is over. OK, see you in Theatre tomorrow morning.'

  'When...when will I know if the operation is successful?'

  'We'll have a reasonably good idea after forty-eight hours,' he said.

  * * *

  Next morning she should have been nervous; she seemed to be so far away from friends. But it didn't feel that way. The decision she had made, the chance she was taking— it was all so great that she distanced herself from it. It was done now. All she had to do was lie there and hope.

  She was prepped, a trocar slid into the vein in the back of her hand. Then a smiling anaesthetist came to bend over her, make a last check. She knew that she...

  *

  The anae
sthetic hadn't worked. She felt fuzzy but still awake, she'd better tell someone. 'I'm still awake,' she grumbled to a vague white-coated figure. 'I need another dose.'

  'Honey, it worked all right. The operation is all over. You're done.'

  'Oh,' said Miranda, and went back to sleep.

  Some time later she woke up again. Sort of woke up, and she decided that being asleep was much better. She didn't really know what was happening. She had a headache, her mouth tasted terrible, her sight was still bleary and there was a pain down below.

  And sitting by her bed was Jack.

  Jack?

  She blinked several times then screwed up her eyes tight. When she opened them he was still there. She tried to remember. She was in Chicago and had just had an operation; he was in Barcelona. This must be some kind of hallucination. Her fuzzy brain was seeing things that were impossible. But when she reached out a tentative hand, she could feel his arm, his sleeve. A pretty solid hallucination.

  'Jack? What are you doing here?'

  'I've come to see you. How are you?'

  'I feel terrible. I'm fine.' It was a struggle to get her thoughts together. Jack shouldn't be here, she was going to tell him about it afterwards when... 'Jack, has it been a success?'

  'I don't know. I'm not sure what's happening.' Even in her vague state she could tell there was a touch of harshness in his voice. 'I've not been consulted, have I?'

  A nurse came over. 'I think that's enough now, sir. The patient needs rest. If you could wait outside.'

  'Can't I sit here with her and just keep quiet?'

  'She won't rest if she knows you're here, and she needs sleep.' There was a pause and then Miranda heard the nurse go on, 'And if you don't mind my saying so, sir, you look as if you could do with a rest yourself.'