The Surgeon's Meant-To-Be Bride

by Amy Andrews

  Satisfied that all seemed in order, he asked Harriet for a suture so he could close. She passed it to him and he listened to her and Siobhan doing a count as he began his layered closure.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  2000 HOURS

  HARRIET, Katya and Siobhan were cleaning up as Gill accompanied the mother and baby back to the medical building. They weren’t HDU candidates and they didn’t require evacuation either so it was back to Kelly and her teams.

  The battle was still intense in the distance as Gill and Megan pushed the trolley along the concrete pathway that connected the two buildings. There was no lighting so Gill was thankful for the gentle kiss of the full moon.

  ‘There’s a bit of a lull at the moment,’ Kelly said, as she accepted the patient from Gill. ‘I sent Ben a compound scrub of a fractured tib and fib. The leg was pretty messed up. There weren’t too many badly injured in this first lot but, as you can hear…’ she indicated over her shoulder to the noise still raging outside ‘…it’s not over yet. Next batch arriving in about half an hour.’

  Gill watched as Kelly took the baby from Megan and made cooing noises at the little bundle. He rolled his eyes. Funny, seeing Kelly with the baby didn’t have the same effect as having seen Harriet with her. Now he could view the baby as a cute but tragic part of war. But for a little while back in the theatre, with Harriet by his side looking at him with those big brown eyes, he hadn’t been so distant.

  ‘Biological clock ticking, Kelly?’ he teased.

  ‘Women’s clocks are always ticking, Guillaume. It’s just that we become more in tune with it. Who wouldn’t want one of these little darlings?’ she said, rubbing her nose against the baby’s forehead. ‘You and Harry thinking of having a baby?’

  Gill laughed the question off. He wished he had a dollar for every time they’d been asked since they’d got married when they were going to start a family. Up until two years ago their standard reply had been that they liked their family of two and were too selfish to share, but a lot had changed in a couple of years.

  Most people had been horrified by their assertion that babies were not on their agenda, including both sets of parents and especially Gill’s grandfather. But he and Harriet had remained unswayed, happy to remain childless.

  This notion had been reaffirmed many a time when one by one their friends had succumbed to their biological urges and one by one had dropped out of sight. Too tired to come to dinner. Too tired to have a coherent conversation. And even when it had been managed, it had usually been one of those frustrating broken dialogues constantly interrupted by a crying baby or an insistent toddler.

  No, their DINK lifestyle was much cherished. Or so he’d thought.

  A large milky white moon hung from the relentless blackness of the night sky and blanketed the harsh landscape in its glow, softening the ferocity of the desolate terrain. As Harriet scrubbed the used instruments at the sink at the back of the theatre, she stared absently at the view out the window. There was a strange beauty to the austerity and it was easy to forget that bad things were happening here.

  She looked at the moonlight coating the ancient soil and felt very small and insignificant. Even in a country as divided as this, life still went on. All around, the cycle of life inched onward with glacial patience. Men and women fell in love, babies were born, wars were fought. The barely perceptible forward motion of life made her feel like a tiny cog in a very big wheel.

  She had seen the good and bad of the cycle today. The highs and lows. She thought back to how devastated she’d felt only hours ago, witnessing Nimuk’s precarious hold on life and his mother’s anguish as he’d lost the struggle, and how death and life were intimate partners in a never-ending cycle. Someone died. And someone was born. It was the way of the world and in this big troubled land the cycle was relentless.

  She returned her attention to the job at hand. The instruments had to be thoroughly scrubbed to remove any blood or tissue traces before they went into the steriliser. Katya and Siobhan were on the other side of the door, prepping for their next case—wiping surfaces down with a chlorhexedine solution, getting out gowns and gloves and basic packs—and she was feeling restless after the C-section so scrubbing metal objects gave her something useful to do with her hands.

  Harriet’s heart fluttered madly every time she thought about Gill passing the newborn baby to her. She could have sworn he had been affected by the experience, too, and her heart leapt at the encouraging step forward. Too little, too late, Harriet, she lectured herself. And she knew it was but, oh, what a buzz!

  Gill found her a few minutes later, rinsing the cleaned instruments in the sink. He observed her quietly from the doorway as she rattled them around for a bit and then stopped to stare out the window for a long moment.

  ‘Penny for them,’ he said softly, and heard her sigh as she turned slightly towards him.

  She shrugged. Did she blurt out what she’d been thinking about just now? Tell him she knew how affected he’d been during the C-section and how just thinking about it had her heart hammering like a teenager before her first kiss?

  ‘Just thinking about nature. The cycle of life. One baby dies. Another one is born. Nimuk dies and a little girl is born. Don’t you ever feel small and insignificant? Like we’re all just part of one great master plan? Or is that just last-day blues?’ She gave a self-deprecating smile and turned back to the instruments.

  ‘You always get reflective on the last day.’

  ‘Do I?’ she asked, surprised, turning back again.

  He nodded. Her face was now mask-less and even though her hair was hidden in the cap, the moonlight streaming through the window behind her framed her beautifully. She looked like an exotic part of the ageless landscape that had infiltrated the glass and stepped into the building.

  ‘You forget, Harry, I know you. We can separate and even divorce but I’ll always be your guy. I’ll always be the man who knows you best.’

  Harriet didn’t doubt it for a moment. Maybe when she remarried and she and her husband had been together for many years, maybe then she could tell him he was wrong. But until then Gill was, as he had put it, her guy. He did know her and understand her better than anyone.

  ‘Then you know that holding that baby affected me. And I’m pretty sure it affected you, too. Don’t you forget that I also know you.’

  Gill rubbed his hands through his hair, removing his cap as he did so. ‘Yes, OK, for a moment I did think about a baby. About our baby. But…I’m sorry, I wish I could adequately explain why I don’t feel the urge to procreate—I just don’t. Kelly was holding the baby before and all I could see was an unfortunate victim of war. The…stuff I felt in Theatre when you were holding her just wasn’t there. I didn’t feel anything. I suspect it had more to do with you than the baby. And you know, maybe when I’m fifty, when I’m old and grey, maybe I’ll regret not having children. But I’m fairly at one with the decision now.’

  ‘It’ll be too late to do anything about it when you are old and grey.’

  ‘I can live with that, Harry.’

  Harriet felt the years of their disagreement well up between them again. She almost cried in frustration. She’d been through all this and had made a decision, but she could feel herself being sucked into the same old argument again. Trying to convince him he was wrong. Trying to make him see.

  For a brief moment during the C-section she’d thought he’d finally got it. And somewhere inside him a little light was dawning. But he was still letting his preconceived ideas suffocate the fledgling glimmer of light, and she didn’t have time to hang around and wait for him to get it. If, indeed, that was even possible.

  ‘Here you both are,’ said Siobhan, bustling through the swing door, oblivious to the atmosphere.

  Harriet turned back to the sink and began sorting through the instruments, packing them back inside the stainless-steel tray and grouping them neatly. Her side was really starting to ache now.

  ‘How’s the l
ittle one going?’ Siobhan asked.

  Gill rolled his eyes. Suddenly every female within range was clucky! ‘Fine,’ he said in an I’m-going-to-humour-you voice. He noticed Harriet still had her back to them.

  ‘Katya and I were talking and we decided we should give her a name.’

  Harriet turned at the suggestion. Yes, that’s exactly what they should do. ‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a great idea.’

  Gill looked from one to the other. ‘Ah, guys…I think it’s traditional for the mother to name the child.’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse,’ she rebuffed him good-naturedly in her lilting Irish accent. ‘How many times in these situations do you get to see such a positive side to life? We see too much death and dying. It’s nice to see new life for a change. How many C-sections have you done with MedSurg?’

  ‘Counting this one? One.’

  ‘Precisely. We need to celebrate life. Don’t you think so, Harry?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her chin rising as she looked him square in the face, ‘we do.’

  ‘Well, great, we’ll all drink too much champagne on the flight home tomorrow. Naming the child isn’t necessary. For a start it’ll have its own name and secondly we’ll never see her again. What’s the point?’

  ‘The point?’ asked Harriet, as another cramping pain gnawed at her side. ‘The point is that names are important. I know you surgeons have difficulty remembering that, but they’re what humanise us. It’s how we’re identified. And each one tells a story about the person and the origin of their birth.

  ‘Like your name, for example. Your Australian mother wanted a French name to remind you of your heritage but your French dad wanted you to fit in so he wanted an English name. They compromised, christening you with the French version of William but settling on calling you Gill for short. Your grandfather is the only one who calls you by your proper name.

  ‘See, Gill? A name’s not just what someone calls you to get your attention. It says so much about your family and your history. It contains your story. That’s important. And so was this birth, and I think Siobhan is right. When we talk about this night in years to come, we’ll be able to talk about the baby by name. It’ll make it that much more special.’

  Gill and Siobhan stared wordlessly at her for a few moments. ‘Yep,’ said Siobhan, ‘what she said.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Gill asked.

  Harriet frowned at him. She’d been so deep in concentration she hadn’t realised she’d had her hand on her hip and was absently massaging her abdomen.

  ‘Fine,’ she dismissed briskly, dropping her hand.

  Gill sighed and looked back at Siobhan. ‘OK, we name the baby. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Kat,’ said Katya as she joined the conversation, and everyone laughed.

  Harriet felt Katya’s watchful gaze on her. She raised her own gaze and smiled reassuringly at her friend.

  ‘What about Caesar, after the way she was bought into the world?’ said Siobhan.

  ‘Too masculine,’ said Gill.

  Harriet blinked in surprise. For someone who was reluctant to get involved, he was being very sensitive to the process. ‘Gillian,’ she said. It was perfect. ‘Name her after Gill, the doctor who brought her into the world.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Siobhan clapped her hands together excitedly. ‘That’s perfect Harry.’

  ‘Gillian…Gillian,’ said Katya, rolling it around her tongue a couple of times before nodding her agreement.

  ‘No, no,’ said Gill, holding his hands up. ‘We were all there. It was a team effort.’

  ‘Yes,’ insisted Harriet firmly. ‘Yours was the first face she ever saw. Do you know how special that is? You’re connected. Whether you like it or not.’

  Harriet liked it. She liked it a lot. Gillian wasn’t his child. She wasn’t their child. But somewhere in this world Gill was connected with a baby and she couldn’t think of a better memory to take away from her last day.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  2100 HOURS

  ‘BURR holes for probable extradural haematoma,’ said Gill, putting down the phone. ‘It’s on its way over.’

  The chatter about the newly named baby died down. And Gill was extremely grateful to be getting his team back to work. Even Helmut had been gaga over the baby…over Gillian. He supposed he couldn’t really blame them. It was something very different to what they usually dealt with and, as Siobhan had said, after a decade of dealing in trauma and hatred and death, it was exciting to be a part of life. To celebrate the beginning of life instead of mourning the end or trying to avoid it. Or at the very least delaying it.

  Harriet went back to the outside room and put a tray of neuro instruments into the steriliser. It was a portable unit that used steam and heat to disinfect surgical instruments. It had two shelves so two trays could be sterilised at any one time.

  It was quite an old machine, heavy and metallic, rarely used in modern theatres any more, but it did the job. Pop them in, shut the door, turn the wheel to seal the unit, turn it on and a few minutes at maximum heat and pressure and, bingo! Sterile instruments.

  The important thing to remember was to release the pressure valve and not to open the heavy door until the pressure had come back down to zero. Her student nurse days had been filled with horror stories about nurses who had been killed by heavy pressurised doors blowing out and hitting them square in the chest.

  Between that and watching the graphic film Hospitals Don’t Burn Down that all students had to watch, Harriet had seen hazards around every corner. As long as she lived she’d never forget the scene where the nurse opened the linen chute on the top floor and the fire, which had started in the bowels of the hospital, tunnelled up the chute seeking a new oxygen supply, and sprayed out at her, killing her instantly.

  Harriet shuddered, thinking about it now as she shut off the pressure valve. She supposed it had achieved its aim—fire awareness. She’d always been really careful and very watchful for potential fire sources. Vigilant was a good word. She’d even received an award at their end-of-training dinner for the nurse most likely to single-handedly evacuate an entire hospital in the case of fire.

  She had laughed and graciously accepted the beat-up old trophy someone had found at the dump of a fireman carrying a person in his arms. But deep down she’d hoped that her mettle would never be tested.

  Even at home in their Bondi unit she had insisted that they have a fire extinguisher, smoke detectors in every room and a fire blanket in the kitchen. Gill had always teased her, calling her his very own fire warden.

  He’d bought her a fireman’s hat for Christmas one year, although, as she’d found out, it had had little to do with fire and everything to do with wanting her to wear it to bed and indulge in a little role playing. That hadn’t worked for her but on him…now, that had definitely worked!

  Harriet blinked as she realised where her thoughts were heading and roused herself from the past. She removed the tray from the steriliser, using a long-handled, angled instrument designed exactly for the job, and took care not to contaminate any of the instruments. She plonked the tray down on a sterile towel she had laid out and waited a couple of minutes for the steam to evaporate and for the instruments to cool off.

  And for her to cool off. She didn’t want to walk into the theatre and have to look at Gill when a vivid memory of him in a fireman’s hat and nothing else had her shaking all over—despite the pain in her side. They’d had so many good times, laughed so much. She knew it would be so easy to go to him and tear up the divorce papers and be with him and love him for the rest of her life.

  But something would always be missing. Gillian had brought it glaringly to the fore again. Just because he looked magnificent in a fireman’s hat drawling ‘Ma’am’ at her, it wasn’t a good enough reason to sacrifice her wants and needs. She knew she could keep Gill happy but she also knew he couldn’t do the same for her.

  ‘Here she is,’ said Siobhan to Katya, as Harriet schooled her features into neu
trality and entered the theatre.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Is OK,’ said Katya.

  Bless you, thought Harriet. Katya had known that she had needed some time to herself. Once again she realised how much she was going to miss these people.

  The patient was already in the theatre and had been intubated by Kelly for decreased level of consciousness. Helmut was looking after his airway and hyperventilating him with mechanical breaths from a black bag attached to his tube. Hyperventilation was an important part of head-injury management. The theory was that carbon dioxide, a known potent cerebral vasodilator, was blown off, thus preventing excess cerebral blood flow and keeping intra-cranial pressure down.

  Gill and Joan were looking at the patient’s X-ray on the viewing box. Harriet saw the fracture of his left temporal bone.

  ‘So we’re not sure if he has an extradural, right?’ asked Harriet, joining them.

  ‘Can’t be sure without a CT scan,’ said Gill. ‘All we can go on is the clinical picture. Kelly said he’d been complaining of a headache and weakness in his right arm and leg after sustaining a blow to the head with a rifle butt. They did a skull X-ray and found the fracture then he rapidly lost consciousness and blew his left pupil. She tubed him then.’

  Harriet nodded, looking at their patient. Sounded like a typical cranial bleed picture. So they were going to have a drill a hole in his head and hope they could find the blood clot and evacuate it. If not, the patient’s problems were probably a lot more severe and, as Gill had said, without a CT, impossible to know for sure.

  ‘He looks so young,’ said Harriet, still not yet numbed to the fact that teenagers fought wars.

  ‘Fits with the extradural picture.’ Joan nodded.

  Gill scrubbed, taking his time to be thorough, despite the urgency. The last thing this young man needed was for him to introduce a pathogen directly into his brain. Burr-hole surgery could be quite successful and reverse potentially bad outcomes. If there was some blood between the skull and the dura, the first of three layers of protection around the brain, then removing it should be relatively easy. The patient certainly didn’t need his recovery hindered by a dose of meningitis.