The Doctor Calling

by Meredith Appleyard

  ‘Four-hour round trip to have your toenails cut?’

  ‘That about sums it up. And it’s only the tip of the iceberg. Because people have to travel for health services, they wind up doing their grocery shopping, going to the hardware shop and wherever else they have to go while they’re there. Local businesses miss out all round.’

  ‘Wow. You’re all fired up after one day on the job.’

  Laura gave a dry chuckle. ‘Sorry, but I can’t help thinking these people do it tough. Today was the first day for years that people have had a choice of GP at the health centre.’

  ‘Yeah, we take all those things for granted. Anyway, I still have work to do before I go home. I just wanted to make sure your first day went okay.’

  ‘It was all good. Thanks for giving me the nudge I needed to get back to work. Love ya.’

  They disconnected and Laura made the short drive home. If it wasn’t for the hospital emergency work, she could have walked to the health centre, but the hospital was on the outskirts of town, a fifteen-minute walk from the health centre.

  When she turned into her street, her heart missed a beat at the unmistakable shape of an ambulance parked in Neill’s driveway. The rear door of the vehicle was open, the stretcher missing. Neill’s house was open, the unlatched screen door banging against the wall. Braking hard she pulled into the kerb, jumped out of the car and flew up the drive, heart pounding, and then was almost light-headed with relief when she heard voices followed by a burst of laughter. Neill lived, at least.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, as two volunteer ambulance paramedics manoeuvred a laden stretcher into the hall.

  Neill was strapped into place and as white as the sheet drawn up under his chin. He lifted a hand in greeting, voice muffled by the oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. ‘Milt reckons I need a blood transfusion,’ he said, breath wheezing between each word.

  It was a booked admission, not an emergency. Laura looked from one paramedic to the other. ‘I’m his neighbour,’ she said. ‘When did all this happen?’

  The person who seemed to be in charge was an older woman. She was thin, haggard and enveloped in green overalls a size too big. Her lank grey hair was pulled into a tight ponytail.

  ‘I dunno. We was booked to pick him up and take him to the hospital this arvo. We’re late because we had to transfer a patient to Port Augusta. Dunno anything else, darl. Sorry.’

  She frowned. Jess or Neill hadn’t mentioned it . . . or perhaps they had and she’d been too preoccupied over the weekend to take it in. Neill lay on the stretcher, his eyes closed, life seeping out of him with each laboured breath. She put her hand on his arm and he opened his eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to come to the hospital with you?’

  ‘No need, lass. Will you see to the dog?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘There’s a spare house key on the hook in the kitchen, but I should be home tomorrow.’

  Laura glanced at the paramedic and the woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You might be in a day or two longer than that, Mr Finlay,’ she said, and with a nod to the other ambo they began to wheel the stretcher towards the front door.

  ‘Is Jess coming into the hospital later?’ Laura said, squeezing around furniture to stay beside the trolley.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper above the hiss of the oxygen.

  The paramedics eased the stretcher out of the house, manoeuv­ring it down the verandah steps. When they’d loaded him into the back of the waiting ambulance, she stood by as the thin woman climbed in and fiddled with his mask and the oxygen tubing. The other ambo, a short barrel of a man with a head like a hard-boiled egg, slammed the rear door and heaved himself into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I’ll come up and see you later,’ Laura called as the ambulance pulled out of the driveway, knowing he wouldn’t hear her.

  She walked back to the car. Two weeks ago, when she’d had the meeting with Milt Burns, she’d suggested Neill might benefit from a blood transfusion. Milt had scowled, pulled at an earlobe and not said a word. But he’d obviously heard her, and with a unit or two of blood in him, Neill would feel a lot better . . . until he needed the next unit or two. The ambulance was out of sight when she turned the corner into her own driveway.

  Although she’d spent the day sitting at a desk Laura was beat, worse than after a day spent painting, gardening and sanding floors. Without dwelling on it, she changed her clothes, laced her running shoes and picked up the dog. She hadn’t run that morning and if she didn’t do it straight away she’d be tempted to pour herself a glass of wine and put her feet up.

  When she let herself into Neill’s backyard Skip strained on his chain and wagged his tail so hard the kennel moved. She kept him on the lead until they’d passed the outskirts of town and he took off like a rocket when she let him go. The run was hard work. It was hot and humid and halfway through the wind came up, swirling dust.

  After their run she collected Skip’s bowl and dry food and took the dog home with her. She checked Neill’s house was secure, nothing left turned on, and locked up after herself. In the growing gloom of evening she looked around his deserted backyard and wished for the umpteenth time that Jake Finlay would come to his stubborn senses and return home to finish saying goodbye to his father. He was fast running out of time.

  The outreach nurse brought Neill home from hospital on Thursday, his respirations were less laboured and he had a hint of colour in his sunken, sallow cheeks. It was almost seven when Laura let herself through the gate into his backyard that night, laden with Skip’s bowl and dry food. The daylight savings sun was still hot on her bare arms.

  ‘How was it?’ Neill said, meeting her at the back door, his rheumy hazel eyes gleaming with curiosity.

  She knew full well he was talking about her first days consulting at Potters Junction Health Centre. They hadn’t had a chance to talk about it.

  ‘It was good.’

  ‘And?’ He stood back and held the door open for her.

  ‘Just a tick.’

  She filled Skip’s bowl before stowing the bag of dry dog food in the laundry, took the food out to the dog, checked his water bucket was clean and full.

  ‘Come on, tell me all about it,’ Neill said the moment she stepped back in the door.

  She washed her hands at the laundry trough. ‘The health centre is really nice,’ she said and followed him into the kitchen. ‘It’s modern, there’s plenty of room and up-to-date computers. You could hold a party in the lunch room.’

  Neill flicked on the kettle, it took only seconds to re-boil, then he poured water over the leaves waiting in the teapot.

  ‘It was busy. Milt Burns and I were both consulting. Kaylene Curtis keeps everything under control, runs the place with military-like precision, and I like the practice nurse.’ Laura went to the fridge for the milk. She stood back to appreciate the fact that it had been restocked with fresh food.

  ‘Jess did the shopping,’ he said.

  ‘How is she? I haven’t seen her since Monday night when we were visiting you at the hospital.’

  He took the teapot to the kitchen table and sat down. ‘I dunno,’ he said and took a moment to catch his breath. ‘She seems flat.’ When Laura opened her mouth to speak he held up his hand. ‘I know she’s upset because of how things are with me, but this is something different. And I think she’s lost weight.’

  ‘How are things at home? That’s the first question I’d ask a patient.’

  Neill raised his eyebrows. ‘You might be right. That Darren . . .’ His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘The girl could have done better for herself.’

  ‘She fell in love. When that happens we tend not to take much else into consideration. Especially when we’re young.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about any of that,’ Neill mumbled.

  ‘What, you’ve never fallen in love?’

  He shrugged and she watched as he stirred sugar into his tea, thought how fond of h
im she’d become in a such a short time. She fervently hoped she’d never have to treat him. She should have added that to the cons column when she’d been making the list of the pros and cons of working at the Potters Junction Health Centre. A few stitches in his scalp was one thing, managing his terminal care was an entirely different thing. The Australian Medical Association didn’t have protocols about treating close friends and relatives for nothing.

  ‘Do you reckon you’ll stay?’ he said.

  ‘What?’ she spluttered, almost spilling her tea. ‘Stay where?’

  ‘Here. In Potters Junction.’

  She ran her fingers through her hair, caught unawares, yet again, by the short, soft curls. She never should have listened to Alice. Every time she looked in the mirror it took a second to recognise who it was looking back at her.

  ‘I’m not making any big decisions yet,’ she said. Top of the list for now was rebuilding the confidence she’d lost. Although every­thing had gone smoothly, two days back at it was hardly long enough to know. She’d think about making long-term plans when she was a bit further down the track.

  ‘I suppose when the time’s right you’ll be off back to that practice in the city.’

  ‘Who knows what the future holds? I’m taking it a day at a time. And I know you understand all about taking things a day at a time.’

  ‘I do. And I like your hair like that. It suits you.’

  ‘I’m getting used to it. My sister —’ She stopped, fluffed her hair again. ‘The new me.’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with the old you,’ he said.

  ‘Try telling Alice that.’

  Neill laughed and that made him cough until he turned an unhealthy shade of puce. Laura passed him a glass of water.

  ‘Can I make you something for your evening meal?’

  ‘Toast is all I feel like tonight.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They fed me pretty well in that hospital, you know.’

  ‘All right, I’ll let you off this time.’ She stood up, began collecting their empty tea cups.

  He reached out, put his hand on her arm, his grip surprisingly firm. ‘I can do that,’ he said. ‘You go on home, you look tired. Thanks for looking after the dog.’

  The weekend passed in a haze of heat. No matter how much water she poured onto them, the tomato bushes were slumping listlessly by Saturday afternoon and the leaves on the zucchini plants curled and crisped around the edges. Having observed what other local vegetable gardeners had done, on Sunday morning Laura tied an old queen-size bed sheet onto dropper stakes as a makeshift shelter for the vegetables. She threw on another layer of pea straw mulch, and the plants looked quite perky by the end of the day. Next week she’d visit the hardware shop again to buy shade cloth and make a more robust shelter for the vegie garden.

  On Sunday evening she cut up a fresh fruit salad and took Neill a bowl.

  ‘It’s bloody hot for this time of the year,’ he said even though he wore his usual flannel pyjamas and thick dressing-gown. ‘I reckon we’re in for a stinking hot summer.’

  ‘Have you got the air conditioner on in the sitting room?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and she put the fruit salad in the fridge. He peered at her, concern deepening the lines in his face.

  ‘Are you all right? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘A bit too much sun, I think. I spent too long in the garden.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Positive. A cool shower and an early night is all I need.’

  The shower refreshed her, but she’d barely had a chance to slip off her robe and slide between the sheets when her mobile phone rang.

  ‘I damn well knew this would happen. She wouldn’t bloody well listen to me. She should have given up work weeks ago —’

  ‘Who is this?’ she said, elbowing herself up in bed.

  A moment’s silence and then a mumbled, ‘Sorry. It’s Sean Ashby, Meghan’s husband.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Her waters have broken. She asked me to ring you and tell you to get your arse, I mean backside, down here ASAP.’

  There was a scratching sound, a clunk like the phone had been dropped, and then Meghan was on the other end, her breathing ragged.

  ‘Laura, thank God you’re there. Believe it or not I’m in labour, contractions every three minutes. Can you come? This isn’t meant to happen. I’m barely thirty-seven weeks! I was going to Adelaide for the birthing.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ Her voice was calm but her hands were trembling, her mind racing – it had been aeons since she’d been in a labour ward, delivering a baby. There wasn’t much call for that in city general practice.

  ‘Bless you,’ Meghan said, and Laura could hear the relief in her friend’s voice. She crossed her fingers and hoped Meghan’s confidence wasn’t misplaced.

  ‘Do you need an ambulance? I’ll phone the hospital now, meet you there. Or would you rather come to Potters Junction? Milt Burns is around.’

  Meghan snorted. ‘No, I do not need an ambulance. And thanks, but the last thing I need is Milt Burns scowling at my private parts and telling me how to have my baby. I’ll go to Magpie Creek, I know Jayne’s on and she’s a midwife from way back when they delivered babies there. Sean can drive me in and I’ll —’ She stopped, groaned as a contraction took hold. ‘Hurry.’ The phone went dead.

  ‘Shit,’ Laura muttered, thoughts whirling. She pulled on underwear, capris and a t-shirt, forced her feet into sandals, phone pressed to her ear. Jayne, the RN at Magpie Creek hospital, answered and Laura identified herself.

  ‘Meghan’s in labour. Her waters have broken. Contractions are three minutes apart. Sean is bringing her to you now. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

  ‘You’re kidding! She only left here a few hours ago after seeing outpatients. Said she had backache and what she thought were Braxton Hicks contractions. Sean must be beside himself.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Laura said, grabbing her bag and keys. ‘See you soon.’ She slammed the back door and was on the road.

  Twenty-nine minutes later, she tore across the deserted car park to the front entrance of the Magpie Creek hospital. There wasn’t a breath of breeze. Moths and insects spun around the entrance light, a smattering of corpses on the step. The door was unlocked and an enrolled nurse was waiting at the nurses’ station ready to escort Laura to the makeshift delivery suite.

  ‘We’re set up in the palliative-care room,’ the nurse said as Laura followed her down the corridor. She’d never been to Magpie Creek hospital before. Milt had suggested she visit the place, get her bearings in case she ever had to cover call there. Well, she was visiting it now and quickly getting her bearings.

  ‘It used to be a two-bed ward but we took one bed out and added a recliner. Sean can stay afterwards if he wants to.’

  ‘When did they arrive?’

  The nurse glanced at her watch. ‘Ten minutes max. We’d barely got all the gear into the room. Doctor Kimble was wanting to push in the car. I reckon Sean must have broken every speed limit.’

  ‘What about their little girl, Lucy, where’s she?’

  ‘With friends. Meghan’s parents are on their way from Adelaide.’

  The nurse pushed open the door to the palliative-care room and Laura was assailed by the long-forgotten raw, metallic smells of a labour ward. Her heart leaped into the back of her throat and nearly choked her. Obstetrics had never been her favourite – too many things could go wrong.

  Jayne had one gloved hand resting on Meghan’s raised knee and was peering between her splayed legs.

  ‘Nearly there, sweetie, time to give it your all . . . You know the drum, push with the next contraction.’

  Meghan’s eyes were tightly shut, freckles harsh against the pallor of her skin, sweaty copper-coloured curls plastered to her forehead. Her hand was gripped firmly by a pale-looking Sean perched on a chair beside the bed. An emergency delivery bundle was open on a
trolley beside Jayne and a rudimentary infant resus trolley had been pushed into the corner.

  Jayne looked up when Laura entered the room. ‘You must be Doctor O’Connor. Everything’s okay so far. Foetal heart rate was one fifty.’

  Meghan opened her eyes. ‘Hi, Laura,’ she croaked. ‘Thanks so much for coming. I’m sure we would have managed but I’m glad you came.’ Sean acknowledged her with a nod. He didn’t loosen his grip on his wife’s hand and, noting the terror in his eyes, Laura wondered who was holding whose hand.

  ‘Do you want to take over?’ Jayne said and Laura shook her head, held up her hand.

  ‘No, no, please, you keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll take the baby.’ She dropped her shoulder bag and car keys onto the floor and went to the handbasin to wash up. She took a white cotton hospital gown and slipped it on over her clothes and mentally catalogued the equipment on the trolley, praying she wouldn’t have to use any of it.

  Meghan screamed, swore, her face purple as she pushed. Sean glanced at his wife, eyebrows lifting, holding on tightly when she tried to push him away. Jayne quietly coached and Laura stood by, ready to help, pulse thrumming in her ears as she watched the baby’s head crown, watched Jayne feel around its neck for the cord. In her mind she went over and over what she’d do if the baby was flat when it delivered. Airway, breathing, circulation . . . Apgars at one and five . . . keep baby warm . . . Should she have rung the Women’s and Children’s? Should she have let Doctor Burns know?

  ‘Doctor O’Connor, can you please give the oxytocic?’

  ‘Sure.’ Laura checked the drug with Jayne and drew it up into a syringe as the midwife delivered the baby’s shoulders. Meghan didn’t flinch when Laura swiped her thigh with an Alcowipe and jabbed in the needle.

  And then Jayne was holding the newborn up and it took one gasping, gurgling breath and let out a gutsy wail.

  ‘Thank God,’ Laura said softly, light-headed with relief. As Jayne gently put the baby into Meghan’s waiting arms and prepared to cut the cord, Laura felt the first prickle of tears. Happy tears, sad tears. Meghan was smiling, her eyes glistening, and Sean looked stunned.