by Sonia Henry
thirty-one
Winnie and Max meet me at Sydney airport. I’m so surprised to see them waiting for me at the gate I nearly fall over.
‘How did you get here?’ I ask, knowing Max’s licence is suspended for at least six months and Winnie doesn’t like driving.
Winnie looks affronted. ‘We did a few practice runs. I was good!’ She turns to Max, who is keeping very quiet. ‘Wasn’t I?’
‘Really good,’ Max says encouragingly, then mouths from behind her shoulder, ‘I nearly died.’
We drive back to number 19, trying not to wince too obviously every time Winnie turns a corner.
‘We’re meeting at the pub,’ Max informs me. ‘Everyone wants to hear about your trip.’
‘I was only gone a week,’ I say. ‘Nothing that great happened!’
‘So what?’ Max retorts. ‘While you’ve been overseas having fun we’ve been at work, which has been shit as usual.’
Reality slaps me in the face like a brick. I suddenly forget about my jetlag and am desperate for a beer.
Max and I head straight for the pub on the corner. Con is in his usual form.
‘You know I get fined if I smoke outside?’ he says as I approach the bar. ‘What is this fucking city?’ He flings his hands in the air. ‘It’s like living in a fucking police state. I tell you, I’m going to go back to Kythira and leave all this shit behind.’
Con hails from Paradise Lost, aka the small Greek island of Kythira. He always shows me photos. It’s all turquoise water and bleached white stone houses. His favourite line is ‘This wouldn’t happen in Kythira’.
‘I just got back from Europe,’ I tell him, ‘but I didn’t make it to Kythira, sadly.’
The Godfather and Estelle appear on either side of me. ‘Thank God you’re back,’ Estelle says with relief. ‘Wining and whining wasn’t the same without you.’
I laugh. ‘I was gone for, like, a week!’
‘Felt like six years,’ the Godfather says. He shakes hands with Con then orders a round.
‘A trip to Europe and a great addition to your CV,’ Estelle says enviously as we carry the beers to our usual table.
Everyone is worried about trying to make their CVs look more impressive so we have a better chance at getting onto a good training program.
‘My CV is terrible,’ Max says gloomily.
The Godfather sighs. ‘Same.’
‘Did you hear about Matt Whittaker?’ Estelle asks. ‘He topped the neurosurg exam, got the highest mark in the whole of Australia and New Zealand, and he still didn’t get a spot on the training program.’
‘What’s he doing now?’ Max asks, looking horrified.
Estelle shrugs. ‘Still working as an unaccredited. This will be his fifth year.’
‘I can’t believe that I thought being a doctor would mean job security,’ I say. ‘If I’d known there was no such thing, I could have been a fucking actress and actually had some fun.’
‘I’m getting this paper published,’ Max tells us, though he seems strangely morose about it.
‘That’s a big deal, isn’t it?’ I ask him. Most junior doctors love bragging about publications in prestigious journals. These days, it’s becoming near impossible to specialise without a PhD.
Max lifts one shoulder. ‘I guess.’ He sighs. ‘I just don’t know anymore. I mean, it’s so much work and I don’t even know if I’ll get onto the program anyway. And the exam is six grand. I can’t even pay the rent—how am I going to come up with six thousand dollars?’
The general public is under the impression that doctors make exorbitant amounts of money. That might have been true back in the day, but not for our generation. Even if I pass the surgical primary exam, there’s no guarantee I’ll get onto the training program. Realising this, the government and the surgical colleges have created a system of ‘unaccredited registrars’. This means you can do the job, but you’re not on the program and there’s no guarantee you’ll ever make it. In fact, a lot of people we know are in this unfortunate predicament: they’re working as surgical registrars but don’t have the ticket to allow them to progress to being a consultant. This means years of being on call, working night shift, being shipped out to the middle of nowhere on a fairly paltry government wage, all without any kind of security for the future.
After our year as interns, my friends and I will spend another year in the hospital as residents, but then we’ll all be under pressure to decide which path we want to take: physician, surgeon, GP—whatever we decide, it will involve expensive exams and arduous training requirements, often far from Sydney.
No wonder I don’t have a personal life to speak of, I think to myself. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year, let alone three. It’s a bit hard to start planning a future when I can’t even take a lease beyond six months and all my money is going towards exams I don’t even know if I’ll pass, all to apply for a training program I have no guarantee of being allowed onto.
‘At least you’re not relieving on neurosurgery like Kitty,’ Estelle points out. ‘I can’t believe you’ve still got another few weeks with those people.’
‘Lucky I had the week away,’ I point out. ‘Even small reprieves are a blessing.’
Rather regrettably, before starting my internship I requested as many surgical terms as possible. Knowing that I had an interest in neurosurgery, admin kindly assigned me to that department for my relief month, which is a period when interns cover for doctors who are going on leave. I was thrilled to pieces by this initially, but all this means to me now is an extra month with the Joker and the Smiling Assassin when I could have just helped fill in on respiratory or something equally painless.
My next term after relief is emergency, which will be hard and tiring, and I wish even more that I’d used this month to take it easy. Hindsight is always such a powerful kick in the teeth.
‘At least I’ll get to see Dr Prince,’ I say, trying to find the silver lining.
Max looks sorry for me. ‘Nah, he’s away, mate. I heard them talking about it in theatre the other day. There’s some big conference in New York or something.’
‘Great, so it’ll just be me and the Joker and the Smiling Assassin then.’
Everyone looks at me sympathetically.
Estelle stands up, yawning. ‘I’m buggered,’ she says. ‘I’m going to head off.’ She gives me a quick hug. ‘Glad to see you back, mate.’
The rest of us stand up too. Max and I walk home, and find Winnie smoking a cigarette out the front of number 19.
‘I know I said smoking is disgusting,’ she says, ‘but my boss is being a bastard and I really need to relax.’
‘Good to know even non-doctors have a shit go as well,’ Max tells her, taking the cigarette from her and having a long drag.
Winnie rolls her eyes. ‘I’m calling in sick tomorrow,’ she informs us. ‘You guys should try it sometime.’
thirty-two
The next morning, I take Winnie’s advice and, for the first time in my life, I call in sick.
‘Everyone needs a mental health day,’ Winnie says sensibly, having just called her own office to inform her boss that her chronic gastroenteritis has struck again. ‘I don’t know why you guys don’t do it more often.’
Winnie’s gastro and my viral upper respiratory tract infection (caught on the plane, I tell the Joker in a text) miraculously resolve after we spend an hour sitting on the couch together.
‘Do you want to go somewhere for lunch?’ Winnie asks.
‘Let’s go to the beach,’ I say. ‘It’ll be too cold to swim but we can paddle.’
We call a taxi and head to one of the beaches not far from number 19.
There, Winnie and I stretch out on the sand and sigh simultaneously. It’s one of those perfect crisp winter days. There’s no wind, and the sun feels surprisingly warm.
‘God, this is so much better than work,’ Winnie says.
‘Beats being yelled at in theatre,’ I agree.
‘I don’t get why doctors are so nasty to each other.’ Winnie shades her face with her hand. ‘It really makes me wonder, you know …’ She pauses.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘About my mum,’ she says. ‘I remember the team of doctors that used to see her. They came around every day, and I used to think how professional and great they all were.’
‘They probably were,’ I reassure her. ‘I think I’ve just hit a bit of bad luck with my seniors this year.’
Winnie looks over at me. ‘But think about all our other mates. Max spends all his time trying to fit in more research to get onto surgery even though he’s already written so many papers, and Estelle had that shit experience when you were out in the country.’
‘Well …’
‘And the Godfather! He’s so smart, but all he wants to do is get himself so wasted that he can’t think anymore!’
‘Well, it’s a stressful job,’ I say weakly.
‘And your nightmares, Kit. It’s not normal, you know.’
I don’t know what to say. I feel defensive and embarrassed, and confused too. It dawns on me how it must look to Winnie from the outside. It’s easy for those of us who are living through it to lose perspective.
‘I know how it must seem,’ I say, ‘but don’t start questioning the way the doctors in England looked after your mum. I’m sure they gave her the very best care.’
I don’t want Winnie to think that the medics caring for her mother at the end of her life were jaded cynical burnt-out alcoholics who had stopped caring about their patients. I can’t blame her for thinking they might be, living with us, but I want to tell her that the patients are the single most important reason why I chose to become a doctor in the first place. I want to tell her I still think about Mr Wilde, I dream about the deaths I certify, I admire doctors like Dr Prince who care about their patients—but I don’t know how to. I feel like a fraud.
Winnie is watching the waves in pensive silence, and I presume she is remembering her mother. Pancreatic cancer is one of the worst cancers to get, with a terrible prognosis and a quick decline. They would hardly have had time to get used to the idea that she was sick before she was gone.
Winnie turns to me abruptly. ‘I never told you, did I, what happened at the hospital?’
I shake my head.
‘There was one doctor, this young guy called George,’ she says. She leans back again to stare up at the sky. ‘He was so nice and attractive—you know, like the doctor you think you’ll meet from stupid TV shows.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘And when Mum died, I was the only one with her. Dad and my brother had gone out for the afternoon, just to get away, and I said I’d sit with her.’
I nod. Winnie is lost in the memory.
‘Anyway, Mum started breathing sort of weirdly. The nurse came in and looked at her and said she was close to the end. I started crying and she went out to get me some water. She must have run into George, because he came in.’ Winnie shook her head. ‘And when Mum died—like, five minutes later—I just couldn’t stand up, I couldn’t do anything.’
I reach out and touch her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
‘So I sat on the edge of her bed and I just cried and cried. And that doctor, George, he must have had so much other stuff to do, and patients to see, and whatever.’ Winnie’s voice wobbles slightly. ‘But he just sat with me on the bed for, God, it must have been close to an hour. He didn’t say anything, he just sat with me.’
‘What a decent guy.’ I feel a sense of gratitude for Dr George, whichever hospital and whatever job he’s working in now.
Winnie looks over at me, as if suddenly remembering I’m next to her. ‘Yeah, he was. He was so kind to me. I’ve never forgotten it.’ She runs her hand over the sand. ‘Anyway, a few days later, when everything had calmed down a bit, I went back to the hospital to find him to say thanks, but he wasn’t there.’
‘Where was he?’
‘He hadn’t shown up for work so his girlfriend went to look for him.’ Winnie makes an odd sound, like a repressed sob. ‘He’d overdosed on some kind of drug he’d taken from the ward.’
I push my fingers into the warm sand, feeling the grains slip between them.
‘He killed himself,’ Winnie says, staring out into the endless blue of the ocean. ‘He must have been thirty? Thirty-two? And I thought, what on earth could have been so bad that he went and did something like that? My mum had just died, and my world had collapsed, but I still wasn’t anywhere close to wanting to … you know.’ Her voice trails off.
‘Maybe he had some other stuff going on,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe he had family problems, or debts—you never really know.’
‘Maybe …’ She doesn’t sound convinced.
‘Look, none of us are going to kill ourselves, all right?’ I jump up. ‘I know we drink too much and love whingeing about work, but I for one intend to remain in the land of the living. How am I going to have an affair with Dr Prince if I’m dead?’
This breaks the tension, and Winnie laughs. ‘Yeah, I know. I just remember that lovely doctor sometimes, and now, seeing the pressure you guys are under … I just get worried sometimes.’
‘Come on, let’s go for a swim!’ I urge, pulling her upright and dragging her towards the water. ‘It’ll do us good.’
‘It’s too cold!’ But I ignore her protests, and soon we’re both screaming with laughter as we fall into the freezing water and start thrashing around like beached dolphins before running back to the warmth of our towels.
‘Fabien reckons he’s going to come home,’ I say, as feeling gradually returns to my extremities. ‘I don’t believe him, obviously.’
Winnie laughs. ‘I love that guy,’ she says fondly. ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like him.’
‘You know what he’s like, though,’ I point out. ‘He’s got too much wanderlust.’
‘Speaking of …’ Winnie says, rolling over in the sand. ‘I know we drink too much, but alcohol is good for throat infections, right?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I say.
‘Let’s go to a bar,’ Winnie says, grinning, ‘and have some prosecco.’
I don’t need to be asked twice. We pull our clothes on over our swimming costumes and head to a bar around the corner, where we spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in the sun, drinking prosecco and eating chips.
‘Kitty,’ Winnie tells me seriously as we clink glasses, ‘this is the best sick day I’ve ever had. You’re such a good doctor. I’m cured!’
In that moment, I am completely overwhelmed with appreciation for my wonderful life.
thirty-three
I go to bed as soon as we get home, certain I will have a perfect sleep after my relaxing day. I’m lost in peaceful oblivion when my phone starts to ring.
Shocked, I sit up and start fumbling around, trying to find my phone. My sense of inner peace is washed away by waves of dread as I try to remember where I’ve left my scrubs.
When I finally locate the phone it has stopped ringing. I check the caller ID, expecting it to be the hospital number. I see that in fact it was Estelle—and it’s not the first call I’ve missed; she’s been calling me since eight o’clock and it’s now a little after ten. I was sleeping so deeply I didn’t hear a thing. I roll my eyes. She’s probably out drinking and wants me to join her.
Beep beep.
I open the text, already preparing my excuses.
Meet me at the hospital. Now. I’ll be in the utility room next door to the men’s theatre change rooms.
I stare at the words, confused. Why the hell does she want me to meet her at work at this hour? And in what’s essentially a cupboard? Is she fucking serious?
My phone beeps again.
I’ll be there in five minutes. I’ll wait all night if I have to. Please, Kitty.
I rub my eyes. What the hell is going on? I dial her number, but her phone rings out.
I’m on the verge of rolling over a
nd going back to sleep, convinced it’s all a big joke, when I hear Winnie’s voice in my mind. What on earth could have been so bad that he went and did something like that?
Estelle is not trying to be cryptic, I realise, and she’s not joking. She needs me. Now.
As a medical student I sat a lot of exams. As a junior doctor I will sit more, and to get onto specialist training more again. Doctors are examined until eternity, but this may be the most important test I ever face. I must not fail.
I scramble out of bed, pull on some clothes, grab my keys and slip out of number 19, shutting the door quietly behind me.
I hurry up North Avenue towards the hospital, which looms over the street menacingly in the dark. Whatever Estelle is going to tell me, I know it has to be bad. There’s no way we would be rendezvousing in a utility cupboard at this time on a Thursday night unless the situation had reached a crisis point.
I walk into the hospital, trying not to look too conspicuous. I rehearse in my head what I’ll say if I run into anyone I know. (‘Can you believe it? I left my wallet at work. I got so stressed out I had to come in now and look for it.’)
The hospital is deserted, the hustle and bustle of the daytime replaced with the eeriness of the dim lights of the after-hours shift. I go up the stairs and swipe myself through the door that leads to the operating theatres. As I get closer to the utility room, I see that the door is slightly ajar—Estelle has beaten me here.
I take a breath and steel myself for the worst.
When I push open the door I see Estelle sitting on the floor with a mop between her legs. She looks up and our eyes lock. For a moment I can’t say anything.