by Jenni Ogden
“I thought you said you were OK? Is it Lara? Why are you in a hospital? Don’t keep anything from me, Georgia. I can’t stand it.”
“No, it’s not us. Lara and I were helping to evacuate patients from the hospital in New Orleans and we got a ride in the helicopter because they needed a doctor to look after the patients. There are still thousands stuck in New Orleans with no escape. We were lucky to get out.”
“Thank heavens. Trust you to get involved in hospital evacuations instead of looking after yourselves.”
“It’s a long story, but it’s OK. Lara has been incredible. I am so proud of her.”
“Tell her I’m proud of her too. And you. I’m proud of you both.”
I swallowed. “You should see us. We’re dressed in filthy theater scrubs because our clothes got soaked, and we stink. The lovely people here at the hospital have found a family who are going to take us in, and clothe and feed us. Evacuees we are now.”
“That’s good. We’re not having you back unless you’re clean. When do you think you can get home?”
“God, Adam, I have no idea. It’s chaos here and how easy it will be to get flights and where we can even get them from I have no idea. I’m too tired to even think about it yet.”
“I’ll start looking and book you on the first flight I can that’s going from anywhere near there.”
“Thanks, darling. That would be a relief. Find out the possibilities but don’t actually book anything until I find a way to retrieve our passports. They’re locked in the safe in our hotel room.”
“You didn’t think to take them with you?”
“Adam, we had no chance to think about taking anything with us. The Park Plaza is flooded. If it’s a while before they can be retrieved, then we’ll have to wait. It will still probably be faster than trying to get new ones.”
“I thought Park Plaza had stood up to hundreds of hurricanes?”
“Not Katrina. She’s broken a lot of records. And lives.”
For a minute I thought Adam had been cut off, but then he spoke again. “I’m sorry. I’m so bloody relieved that I’m being stupid. I’ll check out how long it will take to get urgent replacement passports for the two of you, just in case.”
“Thank you. And do check out possible flights for us if you can; that would be an enormous help. But we can’t hijack this phone any longer; it’s the main line out of the hospital. My mobile needs charging but I think it’s OK so I’ll be able to phone you from that soon. I had my trusty handbag with me, so I amazingly still have my wallet and credit cards. Never again will I keep our passports secure by locking them in a bloody safe.”
We were accorded gracious Southern hospitality in the Ryans’ pleasant suburban home, and felt one hundred percent better after hot showers, hair washes, and a huge feed. Brad looked rather lost in Louie’s clothes, but the pretty cotton dresses and matching sandals that Cheryl had taken from her own wardrobe for Lara and me were close to perfect. Lacy bras and matching panties were part of the package. It was the first time I’d taken on board that Lara was almost my size now.
“And I’ve got plenty more—I love pretty things—and another dress that will look much better on Lara than me,” Cheryl said. “Lucky you’re both about my size, minus a few inches around the hips.
It had been a few years since I’d had any underwear that matched, and as I checked out my grazes and bruises in front of the mirror, I decided that when I got home I would go on a lingerie shopping spree.
Cheryl also lent us her car. It was five that evening before Brad and I returned to the hospital, leaving Lara asleep on one of the twin beds in the room we were sharing. I checked on Janet who was feeling more comfortable in a crowded intensive care unit, her baby in the obstetrics unit nearby. Then I found my way to the OR Suite, hoping to find Karen Jenkins. I located her, a tall, middle-aged woman, in the small staff room. She’d just finished an operation and greeted me wearily, indicating that she had heard about our arrival. Pouring two coffees from the electric coffee maker, she told me, without emotion, that she didn’t have long. Donald was already prepping their next patient for surgery. He would be the fifth patient she’d operated on without a break, and the second patient today with a gunshot wound to the head. How I felt for her, so exhausted and no end in sight. The last thing she needed was an aneurysm to clip.
Karen collapsed in a chair, stretched out her legs, and pulled the cling-wrap from a pile of sandwiches she extracted from under a cloth on the table. Taking an unenthusiastic bite of her sandwich, she made a face and then looked over at me. “You’re a neurosurgeon, I hear.”
“Yes, in London. I was in New Orleans when Katrina arrived, and helped out with the evacuation at Memorial.”
“Duncan tells me you have a Massachusetts medical license? How come?”
“I was a senior resident at Mass General years ago, and for the past five years I’ve been back there for a few weeks every year to teach a specialist practicum in aneurysm surgery. So I’ve kept my Massachusetts license current.” My heart began to pump as I realized what Karen was thinking.
“That’s what I’d heard. We can get you a neurosurgery theater and an excellent theater nurse later tonight, if you can cope with a senior resident from general surgery as an assistant. Maurice is clued up, though, and he did a stint in neurosurgery as a junior. As for me, after my next op I have to sleep. I’ve been operating straight for twenty hours, and so has Donald. And tomorrow it all starts again.” Karen yawned, emphasizing her point.
“You mean you want me to clip her aneurysm?” I tried to sound calm.
“Why not? Seems the obvious solution to me. She could hardly have a better surgeon for the job.” Karen’s face expressed her surprise.
“But I’m not licensed in Louisiana,” I reiterated, trying not to sound relieved.
“So? Who’s going to worry about that? Not me, that’s for sure. Anyway, apparently Blanco—she’s the Louisiana Governor—is about to suspend all state licensure laws for medical professionals, so we can use the services of anyone we can get while we muddle through this mess.” Karen poured herself another coffee. “She hasn’t done it yet, but she will, and it will probably be retrospective when she does. So you should operate tonight, given it’s an acute. The CEO here said he’ll take full responsibility if there are any questions.”
For a moment, while Karen was speaking, I felt the familiar churning in the pit of my stomach. Then my head cleared and I knew I could operate—knew without a shadow of doubt that I wouldn’t have a panic attack. I could feel the grin splitting my face as I answered the exhausted neurosurgeon. “That sounds good to me. Is it possible to get another MRI on my patient? I have the MRI and angiograms following the initial hemorrhage, so I can go ahead on those if necessary, but I’d prefer to get a follow-up scan, given her re-bleed.”
“I don’t like your chances, but I’ll point you in the direction of neuroradiology and you can ask them. But you need to see the CEO first; he’ll have to check your credentials to make sure you’re not an imposter.” She grinned back at me. “Do you have any ID? We’ve got our IT systems running, so it’s easy to check on your Massachusetts license.”
“I’ve got it with me in my wallet. And can someone show me your theater? If I could meet the theater nurse and go over what I’ll need, that would be good.”
“No problem. Maryanne’s an experienced neurosurgery theater nurse, so you’ll be fine. She could practically clip an aneurysm by herself. She’s due back at seven-thirty this evening, so come back after you’ve seen the CEO and neuroradiology. The theater will hopefully be ready for you by nine tonight, so that will give you time to get your patient scanned and prepped.” Karen yawned again. “But I’ve got to get back in there now, for—thank the Lord—the last victim before I get to have some shut-eye.” She rose, still chomping a sandwich, and extended a hand to me. “Thanks so much. I do appreciate your help. Sorry I’m not being very sociable. Any other time I’d be in that theater
with you learning all I could from the expert.”
“It’s a pleasure,” I said, the adrenalin already racing through my body. “It will be good to get back. I’ve missed it.”
“That’s the trouble with we surgeons. Can’t even have a little holiday without pining for the scalpel,” she said over her shoulder as she exited the room.
I sank into the welcoming mattress and smiled up at the dark ceiling. It was four in the morning, Lara was snoring softly, and my mind was buzzing. Yawning, but not very convincingly, I extended both arms above my head and pushed my legs towards the base of the bed. Closing my eyes, I visualized every vertebra, every bone, every muscle and tendon in my body. The buzzing became a hum, and my limbs softened. I relaxed my lips but they sprang back to a smile. The thoughts started twirling again, taking not a jot of notice of my poor tired head.
I shouldn’t have had that tea. When Brad and I had arrived back at the Ryan’s house, a pajama-clad Louie had got up and made us tea and toast. He was such a sweetie. Lara and Cheryl heard us and joined in; it was almost a party. Everyone at the hospital had been so helpful, and they had taken Janet and Brad and their hurricane baby to their hearts, in spite of the fact that their hospital was overflowing and they were all run off their feet.
I screwed my eyes shut and took in a delicious breath and held it. I’d called Adam before I finally came to bed; it was nine in the morning in London. Thursday, September 1st. Finbar’s first day back at school. Adam had told him he could stay home if he wanted to—Adam had ‘compassionate’ leave from the university and had decided to extend it so he could check out passports and flights—but Finbar had bounced off, practically doing cartwheels along the road to his bus stop. When I told Adam about the aneurysm clipping, at first he seemed almost not to believe me. Hardly surprising. I could barely believe it myself. But then it sank in, and he sounded as choked up as I felt whenever I thought about it.
The operation had gone like a dream. A good dream. Not a single glitch, no flutter of anxiety or panic. No one in the OR could possibly have had any idea that only a few weeks ago I couldn’t hold a scalpel steady. It was as if I’d never had a panic attack. I’d slipped straight back into my old confident surgeon self from that moment when, talking to Karen, I knew, just like that, that it was over, done with. The panic attacks were a thing of the past. From that moment on, that I might fail or even falter barely entered my head.
And I felt cautiously confident that this was not simply a temporary cure born of the crisis situation I’d been faced with. I sighed, and gave my head a little shake. Humility I’d learned, that was for sure. No more taking my skills for granted. Sarah’s voice came floating back to me: Even when you get control of your panic attacks, you should always be on the alert for occasional relapses. In future I’d watch out for early indicators—a reluctance to take on certain operations for no good reason, for example. But my lips wouldn’t stop grinning. Right now a relapse didn’t seem remotely possible. And at least now I had some good old therapeutic strategies to fall back on. Heaven forbid that I would need them for more panic attacks, but they might come in handy for other problems. I smirked into the dark. Was I finally a psychotherapy convert?
Rolling over, I wound back my thoughts to the perfect hours in the Thibodaux OR, and luxuriated in each step of the surgery, the images still vivid in my head. Using the hospital’s handsome cutting-edge operating microscope was a joy, and dissecting my way into the sylvian fissure and along the carotid artery to the bifurcation felt like poetry. More delicate dissection, and there it was, the large, bi-lobed aneurysm at the anterior communicating artery complex. A few tense moments, and then I closed a nine-millimeter straight clip securely across the neck. Oh, the whoosh of glorious satisfaction I’d felt at that point. Not so long ago that minor accomplishment would have made it just another good day at the office. Tonight it had felt like reclaiming my life.
And then the closing. I’d especially enjoyed doing that myself. In London I usually left it to David, but the familiar dance had been a sort of closure for me: stitching up the dura; fitting the bone flap back and covering it with Gelfoam before securing the clips with two bio plates; suturing the temporalis muscle back in its rightful place after inserting a suction drain; and finally suturing the galea and stapling the skin before applying the dressings.
I stretched again, my whole body throbbing as I re-lived the mix of achievement, and relief, and plain, old-fashioned happiness that had filled me up during that last half hour. Lying in bed in this house far from home, I almost whooped out loud like a kid on a roller coaster, barely managing to contain myself. But Lara, bless her, needed her sleep. I reached for my wallet on the bedside table and slipped out my favorite photos. I kissed the one of Lara and Finnie frolicking happily in the snow in Austria last winter, and then gazed at the photo of Adam, taken years ago when he was much younger; when we found it impossible to keep our hands off one another. How could I hurt you so? You’re everything to me. My long ago love for Danny hadn’t even been in the same ballpark. Our love affair had been so brief we’d hardly had time to get to know each other. “I’ll be home soon,” I whispered to the photo, “and I’ll show you how much I love you.” With Adam’s smile in my head, I finally slept.
It seemed as if I’d only dozed off when my eyes opened on a bright room, strong sunlight filtering through the blind and seeping in under it, setting the dust motes dancing in the strip of light across my pillow. Lara’s bed was empty. I could hear traffic outside the window and the sound of a radio somewhere in the house. I checked my watch. Gracious, eleven already. In the big kitchen I found Cheryl and Lara at the table with an enticing-smelling plunger of coffee between them.
“Morning, Mum,” Lara said, her face looking rested at last.
“How ya doin’ babe? Sleep well?” added Cheryl.
I dropped a kiss on Lara’s head. “I did sleep well, thanks, brilliantly. As you can see from my late appearance.” I poured a coffee. “Where’s Brad? Isn’t he awake yet?”
“Wide awake. Louie dropped him off at the hospital about nine o’clock, on his way to work. He was anxious to see his wife and baby. I don’t think he slept much, poor boy.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s had a few exciting days. But I’m sure Janet is going to do well now.”
“He told us what a marvelous job you’d done. He couldn’t believe how Janet was awake and talking to him so soon after the operation. He was all cut up, just telling us about it.” Cheryl’s expressive face made no secret of her own feelings.
“Wait ’til you meet their little daughter. She’s a real cutie,” Lara said.
“I’d love to, and to meet Janet as well. When d’you think she’ll be well enough for visitors?”
“P’raps later today; I’ll let you know,” I said. “She would love having a visitor to admire her baby.”
“I love little babies. It’s about time my two started their families.” Cheryl moved over to the pantry. “Now, what can I get you for breakfast? Or perhaps it’s brunch by now. Pancakes?”
“Don’t tempt me. I can make some toast; that will be fine. I want to get to the hospital to make sure everything is OK.”
“You phone the hospital and check, while I whip up some pancakes. They’re what I’m famous for, and they won’t take me a minute. Lara, can you manage a few more?”
Lara groaned. “I wish. But I couldn’t eat another teeny mouthful.”
I patted my stomach. “You’ve twisted my arm. Who knows what crises might happen today? I might need them.”
I found Janet still in the crowded Intensive Care Unit, propped up in bed, a rakish bandage skimming her right eye, and her baby at her breast. Brad was by her side, sleepy and content.
“Hullo there, you three,” I said. “I would have been here earlier, but I slept the sleep of the dead last night.”
“That’s good, Georgia. Brad told me that you were operating on me half the night. You must have been exhausted.” Jan
et’s expression was still heartbreakingly fragile as she looked up from her infant.
“Actually, I didn’t feel tired at all. That was half the problem; it took me a while to fall asleep even when I did get to bed.” I looked at Brad. “I bet you’re done in.”
Brad yawned. “You’re not wrong. But I don’t care. It’s so good to be out of that hell hole and for Janet to have come through this.” His tender gaze made Janet blush. “And we have our perfect daughter.”
“Your cup runneth over.” I smiled at the little family.
“It does. But I might go back to the Ryans’ house soon and have a nap.”
I looked down at Janet. “Have you decided to call her Katrina?” I asked, gently touching the baby’s downy head. I caught Janet’s rapid glance at Brad, who nodded at her.
“Brad was telling me about your daughter’s dreadful accident. I can’t remember too much about yesterday but I remember how sweet she was to me. Is she completely better now?” Janet asked, her face pink.
“She is. She’s well on the road to full recovery and she adored your baby. She’ll be in later, hoping for a cuddle.”
“I’m glad. I can’t imagine how awful it would be to have something like that happen to your child.” She snuggled her contented baby closer. “Brad and I wondered if you’d mind if we called our baby after her? Lara is a lovely name, and if it weren’t for you, our daughter mightn’t even have a mother.”
My throat constricted. I could see that Janet was close to tears. “I’d be honored. And I know Lara will be too, when you tell her.”
“Oh thank you. That’s wonderful. And thank you for fixing me.” She reached for Brad’s hand.
