Someone To Save you

by Paul Pilkington

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Sam said, resting against the wall of the building and watching as taxis and buses splashed by. He’d spent the past few minutes since the interview reflecting on the caller and his words. What sort of person gets their kicks out of that sort of thing? ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s not good news,’ Doug replied. ‘I was going to tell you when you got back, but I thought you’d want to know straight away.’

  ‘Go on,’ Sam said, moving out into the heavy rain, already looking for a free taxi. It had to be something at the hospital.

  ‘It’s that young patient of yours, Sophie Jackson. She’s gone downhill, and they’ve rushed her into theatre. Sister Keller told me that it’s not looking good.’

  ‘Shit,’ Sam said as he scanned the road – all the cabs were taken. ‘Who’s operating? Mr Khan?’

  ‘Miles,’ Doug replied. ‘Prof. Khan is on his way.’

  This was not good. Miles was technically a good surgeon, but not in the Professor’s league and Sam only wanted the best for Sophie. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You can see why I called.’

  ‘Sure, thanks Doug, I appreciate it. I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

  7

  She lay down on the thin, uncomfortable mattress, staring at the ceiling that was flaking and black from damp. The room, bare except for the double bed, smelt like the cellar in her house. One time she had wandered down there, looking for fairies, only to panic in the darkness as the door closed behind her. Her mum had come to the rescue, chastising her for tackling the steep set of stairs at the age of five. Rescued from that total, all-encompassing darkness, she had never been as relieved in all her life.

  But this time her mother wasn’t here to save her.

  She sat up against the limp, stained pillow and held her head in her hands. She didn’t know what time it was, or how long she had been in the room. They had taken her watch as soon as she had arrived. There were no windows, so she couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. It must have been hours and hours since the last meal, and her stomach growled, even though she didn’t feel like eating. Her hair, usually kept so pristine, was greasy and unwashed, as was her face.

  Then, next door, she heard a noise. A man’s voice, muffled, but definitely the deep voice of a man. She put her ear against the wall and recoiled as she heard moans and groans, this time from both a man and woman. Placing her hands tight against her ears, she began to cry.

  And then a lock clicked, and the door to the room opened.

  She scrambled back against the bedstead, like an animal trapped by its prey.

  ‘Is okay,’ the young woman said, edging into the room, holding out a hand. ‘I not hurt you.’

  She watched as the woman, wearing a short, tight leather skirt and tightly fitting red top, moved towards her, beckoning her with both hands.

  Could this be a trap?

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I help you out. Get out.’ She reached out her hand to the frightened child. She was pretty, but would be prettier without the over liberal make-up. ‘Come. Not afraid. Your name?’

  ‘Amy,’ she said, without hesitation. It was the name of her best friend in school. Amy Long. They’d been friends since play school, meeting for the first time on a play frame.

  ‘Come, Amy. My name is Yvette. We go. But quick.’

  She took Yvette’s hand. It was rougher than she expected.

  ‘Good,’ Yvette said, as they made their way for the door. ‘Quiet. No noise, please.’

  She nodded as they left the room and emerged into a narrow corridor, flanked with doors. It was the first time she had seen it, being blindfolded on her arrival. As they passed the door to the adjoining room, she heard the man inside let out a loud moan.

  ‘Come, in here,’ Yvette whispered, passing through a door into what looked like a large store cupboard. But at the back of the room, past the bed sheets and boxes, was another door. ‘Stairs,’ she said, pointing at the door. ‘Lead outside. Please, go, go now, quick. Otherwise they come.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming too?’ she asked.

  Yvette shook her head. ‘Please, go quick,’ she repeated.

  She nodded and pushed at the door, emerging into a dimly lit stairwell. The metal stairs wound around a central post, like a helter-skelter. She looked back just as the door closed, then turned and began running as fast as was safe down the steps.

  She neared the bottom, but on the last turn she realised too late that he was waiting for her. She tried to turn back, but he thrust out a powerful arm and grabbed her ankle. She tried to kick out, but instead slid down the steps, smacking her head against the handrail. He pulled her up, held her firm, and smiled.

  Never get too emotionally involved in your patients. Always keep a distance, for your own sanity. As a doctor you can’t afford to get too attached. Sam had always struggled to follow the rules that had been outlined to the class at medical school by their course leader on that first day of undergraduate studies. From those first days on the wards he realised that emotional attachment was a double-edged sword. Yes, it gave him sleepless nights, worrying about how a patient was doing. There had been times when he’d travelled back to the hospital late at night to check on their progress. It also increased the pain of losing people. But it made the job more fulfilling, more human, to feel something for the people under his care. They and their family put so much trust in you, so the least you could do was give something of your emotional self in return.

  But the way he felt about little Sophie Jackson was on another level. Sam knew he had got too close, closer than ever before, and that for this reason the stakes felt so very high. She was more than a patient. He searched frantically left, then right, looking for an available taxi. It should take about ten minutes to get back to the hospital, and another five or so to get prepped for theatre. Maybe he could get back in time. But with the deluge of rain, there wasn’t a free taxi in sight. Then, just down the road, on the opposite side, he saw a black cab pull up, having been flagged down. He raced diagonally across the road, darting between the traffic, narrowly missing a moped which had to swerve to avoid him. Car horns blared as he weaved in between two cars that had stopped, stunned by Sam’s presence in the middle of the road.

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted at the suited man, who was just getting into the back of the cab. ‘Wait!’

  The man saw him approach, but ignored his cries and closed the door.

  ‘Wait!’

  Without thinking of the implications, Sam raced up to the cab and stood in front of the vehicle, his palms flat against the warm, wet bonnet. The driver stared back at him with a look of bemusement.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ Sam explained through the windscreen. ‘I need to get to St. Thomas’s hospital. It’s an emergency.’

  The driver just looked back at him.

  ‘A little girl might die if I don’t get there right now.’

  The driver turned around and said something to the man in the back. He turned back to face the front then put his head through the open window.

  ‘You’d better get in then, doctor,’ he said.

  Despite the driver’s heroic efforts, taking back streets, speeding around tailbacks, the drive back to the hospital was agonisingly slow in the choked late afternoon London traffic. Sam watched the time and the meter tick by with growing frustration and concern.

  They came to a standstill just north of Westminster Bridge.

  ‘Looks like an accident up ahead,’ the cabbie observed in the rear view mirror. ‘Sorry doc, no way around this.’

  Sam looked up ahead. A bus had collided with a lorry. It didn’t look serious, but it was enough to block the road completely. The police were on the scene.

  They were so close to the hospital.

  Sam paid the driver and jumped out, splashing through oily puddles as the rain continued to fall, dodging and weaving through the umbrella wielding crowds. He skirted past the Palace of Westminster with Big Ben his reminder t
hat time was not on his side. Thankfully he was physically fit, having been in training for months for a half marathon that Doug had persuaded him to run in, taking place in eight weeks’ time, so he traversed the busy Westminster Bridge as quickly as the crowds would allow him, taking to the road in places. Sprinting up to the hospital’s front entrance, he drew glances from patients and staff who were milling around outside as he raced into the main lobby towards the lifts. He pressed the buttons hard several times but then decided to head for the stairs, taking them two by two. Sweat was pouring from him and he felt a burn inside his chest as he burst onto the fourth floor, nearly knocking over a cleaning trolley.

  ‘Sorry!’

  He continued running down the corridor to the surgical ward, dodging surprised nurses and other healthcare staff. Reaching the doors, Sam flung them open.

  Doug was waiting for him on the other side, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

  Sam knew straight away that the news wasn’t good.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, looking for a miracle in Doug’s eyes. ‘Please say she isn’t...’

  ‘She’s still alive,’ he said, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘But she’s critical. It’s not looking hopeful.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, feeling an equal sense of relief that she was still alive, but concern about her condition.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Doug admitted. ‘I’ve only just had word from one of the nurses. She’s on life support up on ICU.’

  ‘Where’s Miles?’

  ‘In his office,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think it’s a good idea…’

  ‘I need to find out what happened,’ he said, brushing off his attempt to stop him.

  ‘Sam, don’t.’

  He strode past the front desk and headed for the office. He didn’t bother knocking. Miles looked up from the paperwork that lay on the table.

  ‘Sam,’ he said, seeming inconvenienced by his appearance.

  ‘What happened?’ Sam asked.

  ‘To who?’

  ‘You know who. Sophie Jackson. What happened?’

  ‘She suffered internal bleeding as a result of a ruptured artery,’ he explained, putting down his pen. ‘I managed to stem the flow and patch her up, but the next few hours will be crucial.’

  Sam tried to take in the news. Having got past the first few crucial post-operative days, Sophie should have settled down. The setback highlighted the perilous state of her cardio-vascular system. It was an extremely worrying development. ‘How do you rate her chances?’

  ‘Not good. Maybe ten, fifteen per cent, but I did my best,’ he said, picking up the pen and looking down at the paperwork. ‘Sam. I really have to deal with this, and I’ve got to prepare for another operation that starts in twenty minutes. So if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Sam ignored the hint. ‘Where are Tom and Sarah?’

  Miles looked confused. ‘Tom and…’

  ‘Sophie’s parents, are they here?’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘They’re in the family room across the corridor. I’ve already spoken with them and explained the situation.’

  ‘I want to talk with them too,’ Sam said.

  ‘Always competing,’ Miles muttered, shaking his head.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Miles looked up. ‘Sam, I’ve already spoken with the parents. I know you’re upset that you missed out on things, but you made your choice.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your radio appearance.’

  Sam felt an up welling of anger. ‘Do you know, Miles, you’re a real…’

  ‘Sam, walk away.’ Doug was standing at the open door. ‘Come with me and we can talk about it.’

  ‘It’s good advice,’ Miles said. ‘You allow yourself to get too emotionally involved with your patients. You just can’t afford to do that in this profession.’

  ‘Whereas you just don’t give a damn,’ Sam replied.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come back into work so soon, Sam,’ Miles said, getting back to his notes. ‘Give yourself a break.’

  ‘C’mon, Sam,’ Doug said, steering him out of the room. He let himself be led; feeling detached from the situation, as if he’d been possessed and things were only now coming back into focus. He didn’t know whether it was grief, shock, or just pure anger, but something had really taken hold.

  ‘Sam,’ Miles said, just before they exited the door. Sam stopped but didn’t turn around. ‘I don’t expect you to listen to my advice, but really, ask yourself whether you should be here.’

  8

  Sam peered through the glass of the door to the family room, steeling himself for the conversation to come. Tom Jackson was in the corner, alone. He was staring straight at the facing wall, his face blank, emotionless. Sam had seen that face a thousand times before in his years as a doctor – a face of total emotional shutdown in response to extreme grief. It was a sight he never got used to.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door. Tom looked across at him, and Sam nodded a hello as he pulled up a chair. He didn’t say anything. Experience had taught him that this part of medicine wasn’t about making people better – they didn’t want to feel better in the immediate aftermath – it was about listening.

  For around half a minute the two men just sat there. Sam glanced across at Tom. Tom and Sam were the same age, his wife Sarah three years younger. But the three years of heartache and chronic worry had taken its toll, aging the couple prematurely. Their daughter’s fight was sucking the life out of them, mentally and physically. Both Tom and Sarah had had spells on antidepressants, and their as yet unsuccessful attempts to produce a brother or sister for Sophie had added to the strain. Sam looked down at the toy rabbit Tom was holding in his hands. His fingers were stroking the fur of what was Sophie’s favourite toy.

  ‘I really believed everything was going to be okay,’ Tom said finally, still looking straight ahead at the wall. ‘I never doubted it – not for a second. Ever since she was born, since the first time the doctors told us that she had problems. Something deep down inside made me believe that it was all going to be alright.’

  Again they sat in silence and Sam waited.

  Tom shook his head, still absentmindedly stroking the rabbit. There were no tears. His face was a mask, hiding the torment. ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that our little Sophie, she, she might not make it. Our Sophie, we might never see her smile again. Never look her in the eyes. I just can’t get my head around it. It won’t sink in.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tom,’ Sam offered.

  Tom pinched his eyes to stem a single tear. He looked at Sam. ‘Was I just deluded, believing that it would all be okay?’

  ‘No,’ Sam replied.

  ‘You believed it too?’ he said. ‘You thought she’d be okay, didn’t you? You really believed.’

  Sam nodded, then added, ‘there is still hope.’

  ‘She’s a fighter, Sam,’ he continued, almost pleading. ‘You could see it from the very beginning. That first look she gave me in the delivery room, when I held her for the first time. She’s strong, isn’t she?’

  Again Sam nodded.

  Now the tears were really falling, dripping down onto Tom’s lap. ‘She’s a fighter, Sam, she wants to live. She wants to grow up – go to school, get married, have children – she wants that, I know she does. She’ll battle for it, we all will.’

  Sam brought a comforting arm around Tom’s back. ‘We’ve got to stay positive, but there’s also a chance that it might just be too much for her. You have to prepare yourself for that.’

  ‘If only a heart had become available last week, last year,’ he said, ‘maybe she’d be okay now, living a normal life, like she should be living.’

  ‘I know,’ Sam agreed.

  ‘Will we have more chance now, now that her situation’s worse?’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘Will we have mor
e chance of finding a heart quicker, now that it’s critical?’

  Sam shook his head, reluctantly puncturing Tom’s hope. But it could do untold damage to raise false hopes. ‘Sophie was already at the top of the list.’

  ‘What are the chances?’ he said, ‘that a heart might become available in time?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ Sam admitted. ‘But if Sophie is too ill, we might not be able to operate even if a heart is there.’

  ‘I just can’t understand what happened,’ he lamented. ‘I can’t understand it. She was doing well, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She was,’ Sam confirmed. ‘But her heart is weak, and there’s always a possibility that something like this could happen at any time.’

  ‘I don’t know what went wrong.’

  ‘What did Mr Churchill tell you?’

  Tom put a shaking hand to his head, clinging to his greying hair. ‘I can’t really remember. Something about, oh, I don’t know - something about internal bleeding. You weren’t in there were you, in the theatre?’

  ‘No,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sorry…really sorry I couldn’t have been there.’

  ‘Could you have done better, I mean, if you’d been there? You know her better, you know her case. Would you have done anything differently?’

  ‘Dr. Churchill is a highly skilled surgeon,’ Sam replied. ‘I wouldn’t have done anything differently. It wouldn’t have made a difference. I’m sorry, Tom.’

  And that was true. Even if Mr Khan had been there himself it would have probably been the same result. So why did he still feel so bad? Why did a part of him, deep down, truly believe that if only he’d been around, that wonderful little girl would now have a better chance of surviving? Was it just the surgeons’ mind-set that you could always do better, or was it guilt?

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Tom said, as if reading Sam’s mind. ‘You’ve always done your best for us, Sam. You have always been there for us. We couldn’t have asked for more from you.’

  Sam felt like shouting out that he was a fraud. He had failed Sophie. While she had been fighting for his life, he had been doing a radio interview. But instead he just said nothing.