28 February 2013
‘I think we should stop. Does everyone agree?’
Around me, my colleagues nod. As deaths go, it’s not unexpected. The patient is in her eighties and there is probably a Do Not Attempt Resuscitation order somewhere in the system, but there wasn’t time to locate that when she arrested halfway through the paramedic’s handover.
The bay empties, and a nurse begins to clear away the detritus that goes with trying to shock someone back to life. After all the noise, there’s a stillness now in the space bordered by the curtains, though beyond the fabric the hum of A & E continues as though nothing has happened.
‘Is there any family I need to talk to?’ I ask the nurse. Sophie. Stephanie. Something like that. I should probably remember by now, I’ve been working with her for almost a month.
‘She came in alone.’
‘Good, I need a coffee.’
The nurse frowns and leaves the room. Did I sound cruel? I should probably follow her and explain, but there are patients who’re approaching the four-hour waiting time-limit. There are always more patients.
Not that I mind. Now I’m an F2, I’ve finally started my emergency medicine rotation, and it’s everything I expected and hoped for: the bright, noisy chaos, the complete unpredictability, the constant challenge, the shifts that go by in a flash . . .
As I head off to check who is next, I overhear my colleagues talking about plans for tonight. It’s one of the other junior doctors’ birthdays, but I won’t go, and they have no idea it’s my birthday in four days. There’s nothing in my job description saying I have to bond over tears or tea or G&Ts in the pub round the corner.
I prefer a glass of wine alone; that way, if I get mopey, I don’t inflict it on anyone else.
My current low mood is just a phase. I did complete the PHQ-9 out of curiosity, and my scores were a tad high, but it’s not actual depression. I don’t cry or anything. OK, there are days when I feel like I’m going through the motions, but there are other days when this job makes my heart soar.
Though when was the last time I had a day like that?
I shake my head to rid myself of my thoughts – too much introspection is a bad thing – and go to find that coffee.
‘They’re knocking the bungalow down?!’
I don’t come home often, so I never even saw the FOR SALE sign. I haven’t seen the builders move in, or the barriers erected.
‘Are you sad?’ Mum says, standing behind me as we look through the lounge window at the shell of the building: the windows have been removed and Elaine’s favourite toile de Jouy wallpaper is just visible through the holes left behind.
This is dangerous territory, but I check myself. I feel nothing. ‘No. Though we had some good times there.’
When Tim asked about selling, so he and Maria can buy a permanent place now they’re going through the adoption process, I didn’t mind. He insisted on giving me a percentage, even though I never thought of the place as mine.
‘You do know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you, Kerry?’
I spin round to face my mum. ‘Why do you say that?’
She shrugs. ‘Well, I worry. It’s a mother’s prerogative.’
‘Do you worry about Marilyn?’
‘Ha! No. She’s an open book.’
‘And I’m a closed one. Doesn’t mean there’s anything sinister buried in my pages, does it?’
‘Sorry. I’ll button it again now.’ She mimes it, pressing her lips together.
‘Mum, I’m fine.’
‘Auntie Kerry, come through, we’re doing karaoke,’ Ava calls through from the family room. She’s my sister’s minime but all the qualities that drove me mad in Marilyn when we were kids – the preciousness, the demands to be the centre of attention at all times – seem utterly adorable in my niece.
She’s already loading ‘Crazy in Love’ onto the Wii. I told my parents I didn’t want any fuss for my birthday, but I’ll forgive Ava. She loves parties and I missed her ‘epic’ eighth birthday do last November, along with most of her previous ones, Mum and Dad’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary extravaganza and countless other dos. My family have stopped giving me a hard time about it, though I’m sure Marilyn thinks I do it on purpose.
Maybe I do . . .
It’s not only the unpredictable hours that separate me from normal people. Sometimes I feel like a soldier coming back from the war, unable to explain what I’ve seen and incapable of taking pleasure in the everyday routines of the rest of the Smith family. How can I tell them that as lovely as it is being at home, it seems monochrome compared to the work I was born to do?
I could try to tell my family some of the day-to-day details: wounds debrided, X-rays read, bleeding located, clots busted, mysteries solved. They’d laugh at what we’ve called the Fifty Shades effect: the increase in chafing injuries each weekend, caused by patients trying to improvise handcuffs from household supplies.
With a little more effort, I might even be able to remember some of the people behind the symptoms. The drunk man, younger than my father, whose swaying turned out to not be the alcohol but the subtle pressure of a tumour inside his brain. The woman my age who had chosen the wrong pills for her cry for help and was sent to HDU to see if they could keep her comfortable while her organs failed, one by one.
It was a deliberate choice not to let emotions cloud my judgement, but even I never thought I could be this effective. It’s given rise to my latest nickname: instead of Vampire, I’m now Robodoc. I pretended for a while that it was affectionate, but who am I kidding?
Sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me.
‘Crazy in love!’
‘Crazy in love!’
But as Ava and I build to a tuneless finale, I glance back at the bungalow as the wrecking ball takes away a corner in a powerful blow. It reveals the garden behind, with the swing Tim’s dad erected a few months before he buggered off, leaving his son as Elaine’s sole carer and emotional punchbag.
And I experience the unfamiliar pang of something lost. Tears are building behind my eyes and I have to cover the break in my voice with a yell.
Turns out I can feel something after all.
Before I leave, Mum gives me a pile of post to read on the train back to London. I’ve moved digs half a dozen times in the last few years so all the important stuff goes to Brighton, along with the increasing pile of medic-related junk mail.
Once I’ve settled on the train, one of the envelopes stands out: A4, with my name handwritten on the front. I’m curious enough to open it now, but it’s just another brochure. I’m about to add it to the recycling pile, when I see that the letter paperclipped to it is personalized.
Dear Kerry,
Happy birthday!
Do NOT throw this away. Because this is not a circular, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to learn to fly.
I shake my head in irritation at the sales bullshit. My eyes skim the rest of the note.
You have been gifted three one-to-one flying lessons in a Piper PA28 aircraft by a benefactor who wants to stay anonymous.
This is your chance to take to the air. Many of our PPL trial students have gone on to get their licence – some even make their living now as commercial pilots.
Your voucher is valid for six months so do NOT delay. We look forward to helping you make the most of this amazing gift.
I call Mum straight away. ‘This is so lovely of you. But why didn’t you give it to me in person?’
She plays dumb and when I read out the letter, she insists they had nothing to do with it. ‘We couldn’t afford anything like that. It must have cost hundreds. You got a secret admirer?’
‘I doubt it very much.’
‘A grateful patient, then? It beats a box of Milk Tray.’
‘They wouldn’t have my address, plus I’m not really that kind of doctor.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘I’m too junior.’ And too stony-faced for anyone to give me presents. ‘I can’t accept.’
‘Bollocks, Kerry. You used to love madcap stunts.’
I’m transported from the sweaty carriage to somewhere high above, remembering how much I loved the flight for my parachute jump. How amazing would it feel to sit in the pilot’s seat this time? ‘It might be cool.’
‘Well, then. All work and no play has made Kerry a dull girl. And if you don’t go, I’ll go myself!’
I think about my mother’s driving. ‘It’s my duty to the people of southern England to make sure that doesn’t happen.’
It’s another fortnight before I get back down to Sussex again to take my first lesson. I try to persuade my instructor, Des, to spill the beans on who paid for my gift, but he tells me only the office would know, and they’re more secretive than MI5.’
As I climb into the cockpit alongside him, my body tingles as though my blood is starting to carbonate. I went on some white-knuckle flights after my elective in Africa while I was a student, but this is different. This is good scary.
Pure.
As Des taxis, he talks me through the controls but I’m struggling to focus on his commentary. I want to be up in the cold and the blue. The plane speeds up and I’m aware of our weight and that of the metal fuselage. Even though I understand the basic laws of aerodynamics, it seems impossible that we are about to leave the tarmac and take off . . .
But now we do, and it feels so right.
Des is still gabbling about lift and drag, and of course it matters if I am ever to do this myself – and I want to. Yet there’s something almost sacrilegious about interrupting this moment.
‘Please, can I just . . .’
‘You’re here to learn and—’
Finally, he does fall silent. The engines roar but apart from that, this moment is perfect.
So perfect I can’t believe it.
Who gave this to me? Maybe this does come from a stranger whose life I saved after all. Except how would a stranger know this would be my idea of heaven?
In the distance, I can see Brighton. The poor old pier keeps shrinking as the waves bite into her metal skeleton. Just inland, the turquoise roofs of the beach huts form one stripe, and the bright green Lawns another.
I try to dismiss the name that comes into my head. Ridiculous.
And yet he seemed as shocked as I was when I saw him again at New Year. Is this an apology, or thank you, or—
‘Am I allowed to speak again yet?’ Des asks.
‘Yes. Sorry. It was because . . .’ I don’t have the words to describe why this is so faultless. Perhaps it’s that no one can get to me here. There are no expectations. No demands. Just sky and land and sea. And us in between.
‘Special, isn’t it?’ Des says.
‘You’ve no idea how amazing it makes me feel.’
After the flight, I meet Ant for coffee at the Girasol. He’s rebranded it as The Dizzy Sunflower and gone upmarket, everything organic and fair trade and the rest. His wife Ellie bakes incredible cakes and they have three-year-old twins, Lola and Mia, who look like they’ve walked straight out of the Boden catalogue.
‘How was it?’ he asks.
‘Sensational. The perspective it gives you is incredible.’
‘Where’s your selfie?’
I shake my head. ‘Ugh, what is it with this selfie stuff? I don’t need a photo because I’m never going to forget how that felt.’ I look up at the sky and decide it’s now or never. ‘Ant, do you think it could have been Joel who arranged it?’
He frowns. ‘He hasn’t said anything to me.’
‘Fair enough. Silly idea.’ I know Ant and Joel must meet up regularly. ‘Does he . . . does he ever mention me?’
Ant looks surprised. ‘You told me you didn’t want to talk about him.’
‘I don’t. Not really. But being up there, seeing the beach and the Lawns . . . it brought back memories.’
‘Well, he doesn’t really talk about those days either, and the few times he has, I’ve steered him away. I thought you’d probably prefer that? But he’s doing well. The TV stuff has taken off and he picks projects that don’t take him away from home too often, for Leo’s sake.’
‘Leo?’
Ant stares at me. ‘His son.’
‘Oh.’ He always said he didn’t want kids. It’s why he abandoned that girl when she got pregnant. Why we split up. Sadness engulfs me and I have to work hard not to show it. ‘How lovely. Is Leo’s mum in TV too?’
‘Joel’s raising him alone. He has nothing to do with his mum, she was a bit of a mess. But Leo turned eight at Christmas and he doesn’t miss out at all, he’s a great kid . . .’
Eight years old at Christmas . . . For a split second, I am back in a dingy pub, crushed by disappointment that Joel was not the man I thought he was.
Leo must be the child he wanted to forget about. Realizing Joel did the right thing in the end should be a relief, and yet it stings horribly.
No. It burns.
‘Is he happy?’
Ant smiles. ‘Yeah! Loves being a dad. The kid has a few issues because his mum was taking drugs. But he’s done very well.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m amazed you didn’t know. Your mum’s nose for gossip must have failed her.’
‘She probably knew. But she also knows I don’t like talking about the past.’
‘Ah.’ He points at the wedge of walnut cake still on my plate. ‘Ellie’s going to have the hump if you don’t finish that.’
‘It’s lovely but . . .’ But my throat is dry. ‘The flying, you know. My tummy’s still full of butterflies.’
He transfers it onto his own plate and pats his belly, which is round, almost middle-aged. ‘Maintaining this takes dedication, but customers never trust a thin cafe owner, right?’ He takes a bite. ‘What about you, Kerry? Are you happy?’
‘Medicine is great. Everything I hoped for.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
I summon up a smile, even though the news about Joel has made me want to hit the bottle. ‘I’m getting there.’
‘OK. Well, I have a failsafe plan to speed things up. Let me get you a bag of Ellie’s salted caramel brownies to take away; they never fail to induce happiness.’