Doctors in Flight

by Meredith Webber

  He reappears, striding back down the veranda in his stockinged feet.

  ‘Come on, Blue!’ he throws over his shoulder. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  When you’re born with hair the colour of a rusty water-tank, you might start life fighting people who call you Blue—especially when your surname’s Green and Blue Green sounds like a name invented for a country music singer or a stand-up comedian—but it’s a losing battle, so I just follow, thinking it would have been nice to check out the bathroom facilities.

  ‘You can use the bathroom at the airport.’

  He’s standing at the bottom of the steps by now, pulling on worn elastic-sided boots. Tall, lanky, a bit dusty from the sale yards, black hair with a few gleams of silver where the sun catches it, straight thinnish nose propping up the silver-rimmed glasses, good chin. Not your average, everyday mind-reader.

  ‘Do I need to take anything?’

  He raises an eyebrow as Michael slides past us and heads for his car.

  ‘Your stethoscope if you prefer to use your own, but apart from that just yourself. We’re quite civilised out here, Blue. Gilgudgel is an old hospital but it’s well maintained and stocked. There’s no point in having this service, or the flying surgeon, if the hospitals don’t have up-to-date equipment we can use.’

  My stethoscope—where did I pack it? Glancing at the pile of luggage doesn’t help in any way and I can’t see GR waiting while I unpack the lot.

  Do I really need it, apart from using it as a prop to make me look like a doctor rather than the cleaner?

  Uncertainty makes my stomach churn so I forget the thing and hurry to catch up with the boss.

  He’s headed towards a dusty Range Rover pulled in beside Michael’s car. Determined not to trot along at his heels, I take a couple of huge strides to catch up and, it being the kind of day it is, trip over an uneven edge on the concrete path.

  I have to give him full marks for reaction. His hand whips out and grabs my arm, saving me from landing face down on the path.

  ‘Steady on. The hospital can’t afford compensation claims, though I suppose if you’d broken something I could have sent you back.’

  ‘I could try again,’ I snap, wanting to shake his hand off my arm before the buzzing sensation drives me mad. ‘What kind of a break would you like? Wrist, arm, shoulder? Do you have any preferences?’

  His snort of laughter sends the pink and grey galahs, feeding on grass seed in the hospital lawn, swirling into the air, but at least he drops my arm—so quickly I nearly fall again.

  ‘A temper to go with the hair, eh, Blue?’ He’s grinning now, apparently delighted to discover this very small character flaw.

  ‘Only when provoked,’ I tell him, as he opens the car door for me.

  I edge past him, catching again that strange evocative scent of man and dust and sweat and cattle, glancing up involuntarily to make sure it isn’t my grandfather, though it would have had to be reincarnation—Granddad having been dead these many years.

  G—Richard Prentice makes an unlikely angel, I decide as I watch his progress around the bonnet of the vehicle. With his thin, dark face, he’d be closer to a devil. I picture a couple of small horns sprouting from his head and am smiling at the image when he climbs in beside me.

  ‘Gilgudgel is about forty-five minutes’ flying time from Bilbarra. It’s an eight-bed hospital, staffed by half a dozen local RNs and some agency nurses working on contract. The medical superintendent was injured in a car accident four weeks ago and hasn’t been replaced, although there’s talk of a locum coming next week.’

  He’s telling me this while driving through town at a pace that makes me wonder if there’s a higher than average motor vehicle accident rate among outback medicos. I cling to the prayer bar and make promises to God. If I get out of it alive, I’ll phone Gran and tell her I love her. First thing! Before anything else, even using the bathroom at the airport.

  We reach the airport and, of course, I head straight to the bathroom, and when I finish with necessities I splash my face with water and run my wet hands through my hair. I’m quite proud of my hair as it represents the single greatest economy I’ve ever discovered. It curls, you see, as well as being red, so I used to spend a fortune at the hairdresser trying to tame it.

  Then the ‘Shave for a Cure’ idea came in. You know, a fundraising idea where you promise you’ll get your head shaved if people give you money, and the funds go to the Leukaemia Foundation. Well, the big hospitals all have a mammoth effort each year, and usually get a noted hairdresser or TV star to do the shaving. All I need to do is collect money from doubting colleagues, then line up for a shave while those same colleagues hoot and whistle. I’m then bald, which is a minor irritant for a month or so, but everyone understands it’s for a great cause, and my skull’s a good shape. Then my hair starts to grow back. Right now, a couple of months post-shave, it’s the perfect wash-and-wear length, about an inch and a half long all over. By the time it’s so unruly it really needs attention, the twelve months are up and I line up again.

  I must have been a little longer congratulating myself than I realised because I emerge to find GR Prentice waiting right outside the door.

  ‘You told me to go,’ I remind him, embarrassment vying with anger. ‘And the foot-tapping routine is superfluous. Your facial expression shows enough impatience for me to get the message.’

  He ignores me, again leading me at a furious clip through the deserted terminal and back out into the eucalypt-scented air.

  Which has grown hotter!

  ‘That’s our plane.’

  He points to a shiny silver aircraft with a state badge on the side, and waves his hand to indicate the middle-aged man standing by the nose.

  ‘And that’s Dave over there with Michael. Dave’s one of two pilots we use. Dave, Blue—Blue, Dave.’

  I’m about to tell Dave I’ve got a real name, and perhaps warn him about shortening it, when I glance at GR and realise that’s exactly what he’s waiting for me to do.

  So’s Michael.

  I clamp my lips shut, tilt my head in a superior fashion and climb into the plane, taking the seat behind the pilot’s.

  She’s a little beauty. A four-seater Cessna, workhorse of the west. Touching the hot vinyl on the seats, smelling the avgas, I wonder if I made the wrong decision, going into medicine instead of the air force. The never-fading thrill of delivering a healthy newborn baby instead of living with the adrenaline rush of flight.

  Not that an O and G’s job doesn’t have its own adrenaline rush…

  Michael gets in next and settles beside me, putting on his harness then pulling a book out of the pocket between the seats. He’s making it very clear he has no intention of talking to me on this jaunt. In case it puts him offside with the boss?

  Could he really be that weak?

  ‘You comfortable back there?’

  The man they call ‘the boss’ hasn’t asked because he wants to know—I can tell that from his voice—so I guess he’s trying to remind me of my place in the scheme of things—my unimportance.

  Don’t goad him, I remind myself, but I’ve never listened—not to me or anyone else.

  ‘What’ll you do if I say no? Shift back here and let me have the window seat?’

  ‘You’ve got a window,’ he points out, and turns away, adjusting his harness, ignoring me so pointedly I want to stick out my tongue and waggle my fingers in my ears, pulling childish faces at his back.

  I don’t, you’ll be pleased to hear. I’m not that childish! But I do strap myself in, then I lean back and close my eyes, trying to work out why the man is irritating me so much.

  Because I was forewarned he doesn’t like working with women? Is that why I feel compelled to get in first with the smart comments?

  Or are my smart comments an automatic reaction to the buzz? A form of self-protection?

  I’m wondering why he doesn’t like working with women—mainly to avoid thinking about the buzz—a
s the plane taxis forward, picks up speed, then lifts like a bird into the air.

  ‘Frightened? Never been in a small plane?’

  He’s not only interrupting my train of thought, but the hand he’s rested—very briefly—on my knee when he turned again is zapping me.

  ‘I’ve flown planes bigger than this,’ I tell him, shifting my knee although he’s already lifted his hand. However, it’s still hovering in the general direction of my left leg so I shift a bit more to be certain I’m out of range. ‘I was thinking about the patient—about work.’

  ‘And?’ he prompts.

  ‘How much do you know? Enough to assume we’ll have to do a Caesar? And, if so, do you have a preference for anaesthetising patients for it? Epidural or a light anaesthesia?’

  ‘Epidural every time. Most women who’ve opted for normal birth are stressed by not being able to deliver normally. At least seeing the baby at the earliest possible moment is some comfort to them.’

  So he behaves better towards his patients than he does towards his staff! Although that isn’t entirely fair. He’s been punctiliously polite to me. I know I should be pleased about his attitude to patients, but when I decide to not like someone I’d prefer them to be unlikable all the way through. Not that I share this thought with GR.

  In fact, I close my eyes again and lean my head back against the head-rest, though this time not to think but to shut out the man who is still turned towards me, studying me as if a closer inspection might change me into something more acceptable—like a man!

  We land, smoothly, at an airport not much bigger than a cow paddock, and as we taxi to a halt, a white station wagon pulls up beside the plane. The woman driver greets GR with a hug—so it isn’t all women he’s against—and shakes hands with Michael, who is very quiet and looking a bit green. Then, as I clamber down, she comes forward.

  ‘I’m Callie, duty sister. Gregor tells me you’d just arrived when he whisked you away. Sorry about that, but it’s a first baby and she’s been in labour, as far as we can make out, for eighteen hours and is just about exhausted.’

  So, his name’s Gregor—unusual but nice—but before I can dwell on whether I’ll ever be allowed to use it, something else strikes me.

  ‘As far as you can make out?’

  Callie ushers me into the car.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind the back seat—the boss’s legs just don’t fit if I put him in there.’

  She shuts the door and goes around to get in behind the wheel, while ‘the boss’ climbs in and sits in front of me—great view of back of male neck and hair in need of a trim. Michael gets in on the other side, puts on his seat belt then rests his head against the window.

  No one says anything so I guess this behaviour is normal for Michael.

  ‘She’s on the road with her husband,’ Callie adds. ‘They’ve got cattle in the long paddock.’ She turns as she pulls on her seat belt. ‘You know about the long paddock?’

  Do I ever! I spent one entire Christmas holiday—that’s two months—riding herd on a mob of breeding cows and calves as Granddad drove them down the grass verges of outback roads, finding enough feed to keep them alive when the paddocks back home were bare.

  ‘How long have they been on the road?’

  Callie smiles at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘As far as I can make out, right through the pregnancy. Out here we talk about kids born in the saddle—well, this one was practically conceived in it as well.’

  Gregor Richard hasn’t offered any comment, which is OK with me. If he’s not talking, he won’t be stirring me up.

  That’s not entirely true. It must be the electricity overload he carries because, just sitting there, he’s stirring me up. I can’t believe this is happening. Not now. Not here! Not at my age.

  In case you’re wondering, I’m twenty-seven and you’d assume I’d be well passed the danger age of being a hostage to my hormones. Actually, I spent most of my adolescent and adult years making damn sure I wasn’t ever going to be hostage to my hormones!

  I turn to Michael, but he’s peering desperately out the window on his side, and a suspicion that all is not well with him finally begins to form in my head.

  Travel sickness? And he’s working in a position that has him travelling four days out of five? Does he throw up on a rough flight?

  I decide I’m glad GR has taken the front seat in the car focus all my attention on the view beyond the window.

  Gilgudgel looks just like most small country towns I’ve visited, but once again the hospital is a surprise. Despite the fact the countryside around the town is parched and dry, the hospital is surrounded by brilliant green grass, while a scattering of large shade trees makes the area look like parkland.

  ‘The hospital has its own bore. Before a dam was built five years ago, the whole town relied on bore water,’ Callie explains. ‘Terrible to shower in—your hair always smells.’

  ‘Rotten egg gas!’ I say sympathetically, and she laughs.

  ‘You’ve been here before.’

  ‘Used bore water, anyway,’ I tell her, but the boss and Michael are already out of the car and disappearing into the hospital. With a sigh, I follow, tiredness from last-minute packing the previous night, plus two flights and a load of sensory stuff I could live without, making every step an effort.

  I must be sighing, or maybe whining quietly to myself, because Callie says, ‘I don’t know why he dragged you along, given that you’ve just arrived.’

  ‘I think he decided to throw me in at the deep end—probably in the hope I couldn’t swim,’ I mutter at her as we push through the front door, and, of course, GR has stopped to ask her something so he catches my bit of the conversation.

  ‘Can you?’ he asks, dark eyebrow rising.

  ‘You’d better believe it!’ I tell him, then we continue on our not-so-merry way.

  The patient is a thin slip of a woman, so small the bulge of her stomach seems to have taken over her body like an alien force. She is pale and sweaty, but the young man by her side, clinging tightly to her hand, looks far more worn out.

  ‘This is Wendy, and her husband Paul,’ Callie says, and GR settles himself on the other side of the woman and takes her hand. He talks quietly to her for a moment, then introduces me.

  ‘Dr Green has just arrived from the Royal Women’s and has all the latest training and information. You couldn’t be in better hands.’

  I shake Wendy’s hand, listening to Callie as she reads out the details of Wendy’s labour, the slow dilatation of the cervix in spite of increasingly close contractions, then the cessation of all activity in spite of drugs which would normally encourage it.

  I spread my palm on Wendy’s belly and press gently, feeling for the position of the baby through the taut skin.

  ‘Wendy’s been here eight hours,’ Callie says. ‘At first everything went well, although the descent has been very slow. It had stopped completely when I phoned you.’

  She passes me the chart, and I check the drugs that have been given, then I look at Gregor.

  ‘Your decision,’ he says.

  ‘I’d do a Caesar,’ I reply. ‘Right now, before Wendy suffers any more pain. And though I’d love to show you just how good I am, I was up most of last night cleaning out my flat, then left for the airport very early this morning. As I don’t officially start work here until tomorrow, I think you should do it.’

  OK, so I’ve probably blown it, pushing the op onto him when he’s obviously brought me with him so I can do it and he can judge my competence, but this is the life of two people we’re talking about here—Wendy’s and her unborn baby’s—and though I’ve operated tired before, why do it when there’s a wide-awake, full-blown specialist available?

  The silence in the room can’t last more than a couple of seconds, but it feels like a lifetime to me. Then GR smiles, not a whole smile but a funny little quirk of lips on one side of his mouth.

  ‘Good judgement call, Blue,’ he says, then turn
s to Callie, giving directions for Wendy to be wheeled into the OR.

  Relieved—even a wee bit flattered—but uncertain what to do next, I explain to Paul what’s going to happen and why.

  ‘I should think they’ll let you stand in there with Wendy,’ I add. ‘Just give them time to get her ready.’

  He doesn’t seem overjoyed at the prospect of watching a surgeon slit his wife’s belly open so to take his mind off it, I ask him about the cattle.

  ‘Is there someone with them or have you had to yard them?’

  ‘We’ve got an electric fence around them. My dad’s there, and the dogs, but you can’t move them on with only one person. He’s got the horses and the truck. He’ll just stay where he is until this is over.’

  I can imagine the scene, inch-wide plastic tape with a conductive wire running through it strung on pegs along the road, the ends connected to a battery which feeds a charge through it. Paul’s father, watching the cattle, anxious lest a calf get under the tape, anxious, too, no doubt, about his daughter-in-law.

  ‘And then?’ I ask, and Paul shrugs.

  ‘Wendy says it will be OK. She’ll take over the truck and Dad and I’ll do the riding for a few weeks.’

  ‘OK, Blue, you can bring the father-to-be in if he wants to come. Make sure he’s gowned.’

  Gregor’s order reminds me I’m a doctor, not a cattle-drover.

  ‘You OK with this? Do you want to go in there?’ I ask Paul, and he swallows then nods.

  ‘Reckon I’ve seen worse with cattle,’ he says, and gamely accompanies me as I head in the direction the others took, finding a small changing room and a gown, mask and slippers for the two of us.

  Michael’s asking Wendy about allergies as we come in, then he explains about the drug he’ll use and how she’ll need to lie on her side so he can insert the needle into the space around the fibrous outer covering of the spinal cord.

  It’s all systems go. Michael has regained some colour in his face and is working swiftly and competently—the theatre is an anaesthetist’s domain, although most surgeons think it’s theirs. He helps Wendy roll onto her side and inserts the needle, effectively blocking off all sensation to the parts of her body below her waist.