‘You’re full up, but I’ll make an appointment to see you next month.’
Somewhere in my head there’s some information that suggests this isn’t the answer, but I can’t retrieve it right now, and Pam’s already heading for the door to rustle up my first patient.
Jane Evans has been having heavy, painful periods since her first child was born, and I suspect fibroids. I can feel a mass when I palpate her abdomen, but she’ll need a laparoscopy to really tell.
‘We make a small incision in your abdomen and insert a little tube that carries a fibre-optic instrument that allows us to see what’s in there on a screen. If they’re small enough,’ I explain, ‘we can insert a laser through the same tube and remove them.’
‘And if they’re not small enough?’
‘You might require more extensive surgery.’ I’m hesitant and know she senses it, but she’s young, and probably wants more children, so I don’t want to mention the possibility of a hysterectomy.
She thinks about this for a moment, then decides she wants to know more. I love it when women make this decision for themselves, rather than having it foisted on them with a doctor giving too much information all at once. I’m guilty of having done that, I know, but I try not to repeat my mistakes.
‘We’re not sure why fibroids form,’ I explain, ‘but suspect it’s the result of some damage to the wall of the uterus during pregnancy that doesn’t heal properly, so a small, hard lump forms. These lumps are benign, but they cause problems like the ones you’re having.’
‘If they’re small enough,’ Jane says, repeating what I’ve said earlier. ‘And if they’re not?’
‘If we can’t get them through a laparoscope, then we could do a laparotomy, which means we make a bigger cut in your abdomen, as we would for a Caesarean operation, and get at them that way.’
‘So I can still have children afterwards?’
This is crunch time again.
‘Yes. Even without removing them you could have more children. The only problem is if they are very bad and cause you a great deal of pain. Then I might sometimes recommend a hysterectomy, and you’d have to think about whether that’s what you want.’
‘Well, at least I’ve got Will,’ Jane says, ‘and I was an only child and I don’t think I suffered because of it.’
I want to hug her, she’s so brave and forthright. I’d probably have howled like a baby if someone had told me that.
We discuss the laparoscopy some more and I tell her I’ll book her for it next month.
‘Will you do it?’ she asks.
‘I think so,’ I tell her, and realise why I won’t be able to see Pam on our next visit. GR will be doing the consulting!
I’m still thinking about this—the division of labour—when I finish with the patients. I’m running late, there’s lunch, then a plane trip to the next town for afternoon consultations.
‘I know it’s hard but you have to try to keep to the timetable,’ GR tells me as we head for the hospital car. The same guy who picked us up is waiting by it. I wonder what happens to our pilot while we’re in town. Does someone take him out a cuppa? Does he bring a packed lunch and Thermos?
‘Because of the flights and the restrictions on the pilot’s flying hours we can’t get too far behind.’
GR’s still talking while I’m worrying over the pilot’s morning tea. Then I remember what I was worrying about when I finished the morning’s work.
‘You said you used to go turn and turn about, operating and consulting, when you had a male registrar, but while you’re stuck with me, in case someone would prefer to see a woman, do you think we should do half and half so we both do some consulting each visit?’
‘No.’
He doesn’t say it rudely, just in such an uncompromising manner it should have ended the argument immediately.
Unfortunately, uncompromising manners tend to rile me.
‘No? Just like that? No discussion? No, is there some reason you’re asking? You just say no and that finishes things?’
‘Usually,’ he says, and sighs so loudly it’s a wonder he doesn’t blow the paint off the car.
Michael is smiling, though discreetly, and I’m sorry I wasted my sympathy on him earlier.
Then I think of Pam, having to wait two months before I’m consulting again. Two months of painful intercourse.
‘Well, now I understand that, would you make my excuses to Blythe? There’s someone else I need to see here. I’m sure the hospital will rustle up a sandwich for me.’
GR looks shell-shocked, as if no one ever argues with his plans.
‘And how will you get back to the airport?’
‘I’d have thought you could have the driver swing past here and pick me up. I’ll only be half an hour—it will take you that long to eat lunch.’
He’s about to argue—I can see it in the way he’s looking at me, so I rush into speech again.
‘Look, I understand about schedules, and keeping to them, and eating proper meals, and I guarantee I’ll get better at it, but this is Pam, the nurse who was working with me. She’s probably known you since you started the service from Bilbarra and feels embarrassed talking about something personal with you. I don’t want her to have to wait another two months to see me, which is what she’ll do if I don’t see her now.’
GR nods, but it’s one of those sharp, accepting kind of nods, not a kindly, understanding one.
So who cares? That’s what I ask myself as I hurry back to the hospital to catch Pam before she dashes off to some new duty.
‘No, I was writing up the schedules for next month’s visit,’ she tells me when I find her still at the desk outside the consulting room. ‘Then going to lunch.’
‘How about I examine you first?’ I suggest, and she looks surprised.
‘Oh, no, that wouldn’t be right. I can wait until next month,’ she says. ‘I know Blythe asked you all to lunch because there was a new registrar coming in. That’s you.’
‘I can talk to Blythe some other time, but I won’t be consulting next month, I’ll be operating,’ I explain, and Pam finally gives in.
‘I thought it might have been endometriosis,’ she explains as she strips off and climbs on the examination table. ‘But I don’t have any other symptoms, and last time I was in Brisbane I arranged to have a laparoscopy to check and there was no sign of it.’
She sighs then adds, ‘But knowing it wasn’t endo didn’t make the discomfort any better.’
A physical examination doesn’t reveal anything that could be causing the problem, so we talk sex for a while—whether she enjoys it, how much foreplay she and her husband indulge in, whether she enjoys regular orgasms.
See why she didn’t want to talk to GR! This is the kind of thing we have to talk about in cases of dyspareunia, which is the fancy name for painful intercourse.
‘Has Blythe run any thyroid tests?’ I ask after we’ve ruled out arthritic problems in the hips or lower back. ‘An underactive thyroid could cause a drying up of the secretions. In the meantime, I’ll write you a script for an oestrogen cream, which is better than over-the-counter creams, and I could easily be prescribing it for menopausal symptoms so you shouldn’t feel embarrassed getting it filled at the chemist. Use the cream sparingly—every second or third day—over the next month. I’ll let Blythe know and suggest the thyroid test and I’ll talk to you next month.’
I’m scribbling away—first the script, then the note to Blythe, as Pam’s GP.
‘I’ll get Blythe to do a referral, too, so the paperwork is in order,’ Pam says, then she adds, ‘Thanks.’
I’m waiting dutifully under a tree near the front drive when the car pulls up. We drive back to the airport in silence, which suits me, though inside I’m thinking of so many things my mind’s getting fogged up. Although this worked out for Pam, I’m not going to be able to see every woman who’d prefer not to see a man, any more than GR’s going to see all the patients who want to talk to a man.
I do
n’t mention these niggling concerns, assuming GR in particular would treat them with disdain. We had a lecturer at uni who was always telling us we couldn’t cure everyone.
‘You know we can’t possibly see every patient in western Queensland.’ GR confirms my unspoken thoughts as he waits for me to get in the plane.
‘No, but we can try,’ I snap, answering the lecturer from long ago as much as GR.
He looks startled, then smiles, and the smile starts heat driving downwards through my body and sending a cloud of redness into my brain so all rational thought ceases.
Gregor.
Although well aware of the dangers of even mentally acknowledging the effect he has on me, I try his name silently to myself. Blythe said it was a strong name and she was right, but it’s also unusual enough to help the bearer of it distance himself—if he happens to be that kind of man, which, in my limited experience of him, GR certainly is.
Though I have to stop the GR stuff I’m doing in my head, or I’ll inadvertently call him that to his face one day.
It’s at this stage I realise I’m maybe obsessing over him, and try to write a mental shopping list instead. Though when I’ll ever have time to shop, I have no idea.
The rest of the day is fairly predictable. No patient runs amok with a knife—that’s a rarity among O and G patients anyway, and more likely to happen in city hospital emergency departments than out here—the plane doesn’t crash, I don’t hurl myself in GR’s arms, though from time to time I wonder just how it would feel to have him hold me.
I’m lying about the ‘from time to time’. Practically all the time we’re together—in the car, in the plane—I think about it. I know it’s just an inexplicable physical attraction which, of course, I’ll resist. But I’m also just a teensy weensy bit jealous of those women I keep reading about in books who positively leap from one affair to another, not for an instant considering resistance, and relishing the opportunity to enjoy guilt-free physical satisfaction.
The problem is, those women weren’t brought up by my grandmother, who, while not big on guilt—never once did she criticise what happened when my mother gave in to physical attraction—somehow instilled in me a sense of personal responsibility. And then for so long there was Pete, so fooling around every time my hormones got a buzz from an attractive man wasn’t an option.
I try to remember an attractive man giving me a buzz—pre-GR, that is. These thoughts occupy the entire trip back from Grandchester to Bilbarra. Not exactly enlivening when I realise how few attractive men there’ve been in my life. In fact, if you want to know how many have cast themselves across my path in an agony of unrequited love, then it’s nil. I think that happens more to blondes and maybe tall, languid brunettes. Short redheads barely count in the greater scheme of lovelorn swains.
‘Did you leave lights on in the quarters this morning?’
I’m back in GR’s car—I think it’s kindness on his part that he’s chauffeuring me around. Kindness to Michael, not me. He must know how nauseous Michael gets and realises the poor guy wouldn’t want me watching him throw up.
We’ve pulled up outside the nurses’ quarters, and light is shining brightly through the louvres.
‘I don’t think so, but I could have done,’ I tell him, opening the car door and sliding out—anxious to get away from him.
‘I’ll walk in with you,’ he announces, and ushers me towards the steps, and although his hand isn’t touching the small of my back, I swear I can feel the heat of it there.
I open the door, and wonder if I’m in the right place. My suitcases, and the hastily flung-about clothing, have disappeared, there’s a glass bottle with an arrangement of feathery grass on the television, and a scrumptious aroma of food is drawing my feet down the veranda.
Gran appears before we’ve gone two paces.
‘Oh, there you are. A nice woman at the hospital told me you usually got back about now. And you’ve brought a friend. It’s a good thing I made plenty of hotpot.’
‘Hotpot!’ I swallow the saliva that’s flooding my mouth. Gran’s hotpot is legendary. People have been known to detour five hundred kilometres out of their way for a plate of it.
I hug Gran and my eyes leak just a little bit because it’s ages since I’ve seen her, then I introduce her to GR.
‘He’s not a friend, he’s my boss,’ I explain, realising, as I say it, it’s impolite, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? ‘He’s just dropping me back from the airport.’
That’s to let both of them know he’s not staying.
‘And I suppose you have to get home to your wife and family,’ Gran says, and though I’ve kept telling myself the man must surely be married, I hold my breath while I wait for his reply.
‘No wife, no family, Mrs Green,’ he says easily, then he sniffs the air so blatantly I want to kick him. ‘And whatever that is certainly smells great.’
Gran beams at him. Feeding people is her favourite thing. I want to explain this to GR. That it doesn’t mean anything, that Gran isn’t trying to throw us together. But if he’s not thinking that, then I’d make a fool of myself mentioning it so I keep quiet.
‘Go and wash your hands, Hillary,’ she says, and suddenly I’m eight again. I go, but only to hide the heat that’s flared into my cheeks. I wash my hands, then come out to find GR standing by the kitchen sink.
‘I’ve done mine,’ he says, holding them out for inspection, and I look, not at them but up into his face. The quirky smile is there, and I have to smile back, although my heart is racing and my knees are shaking.
I realise I could probably cope with purely physical attraction, but if he’s going to prove to have a sense of humour as well…
‘Come and eat,’ Gran says, from over by the table. ‘I couldn’t find a tablecloth among your things, Hillary, so I borrowed one from the hospital. I’ll speak to you later about slackness and general untidiness.’
GR’s lips quirk again.
‘That silly half-smile is losing its attraction,’ I whisper viciously at him. ‘It was your fault I left clothes lying everywhere—taking me out to dinner last night when I could have been unpacking and—’
‘Making you fall over,’ he puts in helpfully.
I ignore him and finish with, ‘Coming early this morning. That’s what I was going to say.’
‘If I hadn’t come early you wouldn’t have had breakfast—if you can call a slice of toast breakfast.’
Gran’s joined us at the table, pot in one hand, ladle in the other.
‘I knew she wasn’t eating properly,’ she says. Trust Gran to join the enemy. Whatever happened to blood being thicker than water? ‘As soon as she walked in. Mind you, there wasn’t anything to eat in the place—apart from chocolate and some herbs and spices—until I shopped, and don’t tell me you’d have eaten hospital food, young lady, because I know how much you hate it.’
She’s ladling hotpot—meat, potatoes, onions, carrots and rich, sumptuous gravy—onto my plate as she nags, so the scowl I give her lacks venom. I change the subject.
‘This is great, Gran,’ I tell her. ‘And it’s wonderful to see you, but what’s Bilbarra got that enticed you away from Rosebud?’
‘Memories,’ Gran says, but so quietly she’s drowned out by GR’s sudden interest in the conversation.
‘Rosebud Station?’ he asks Gran. ‘Up Julia Creek way? I’ve bought breeding stock from there. Would Joel be your son? Joel Green—of course.’ He looks at me and shakes his head. ‘I didn’t make the connection. Is Joel your father?’
‘He’s my uncle, and why should you make a connection?’ I say, though part of my mind would rather have pursued Gran’s answer. Memories? ‘I’m a city Green while Joel’s country through and through.’
Gran gives a snort of disbelief. She keeps telling me there’s too much country in my blood for me to ever leave it completely.
Anyway, the conversation now shifts to cattle breeding. Apparently GR has a property not far out of Bilbarra, r
un by a manager, and although this area is not drought-prone, he’s been looking at breeding more drought resistance into his stock. Hence the purchase of the Rosebud stock.
As the two chat on, I look more closely at Gran. Well, it’s that or looking more closely at GR which, as you know, is dangerous. Maybe it’s not having seen her for a while, but suddenly I see her as an attractive woman. Mature—she’s never mentioned her age but she’s got to be in her seventies—but still attractive with the same green eyes I inherited, but with slightly helped honey-blonde hair cut in a short, no-nonsense bob.
Grandad’s been dead ten years now. Does she still miss him? Does she get lonely?
And suddenly I’m pleased to have her here, not so much in the old role of caregiver, or even as a relative, but as someone who could well become a friend.
‘She was always like that,’ Gran’s saying, as I come out of my thoughts to find my companions staring at me. ‘When she was a little girl and went off like that, she used to say she got lost in her head, and I suppose that’s as good a way of describing it as any.’
‘Well, thank you for sharing that embarrassment with the world,’ I snap at her, forgetting all thoughts of friendship.
‘I promise I won’t repeat it,’ GR says, positively beaming with delight at having something to hold over me. ‘This meal is delicious, Mrs Green. I’m a great fan of one-pot meals. I bought myself a slow-cooker and often set it going before I leave for work in the morning, so I can come home to a decent meal.’
He’s got to be joking! If I tried to visualise GR snipping carrots into a pot, I’d be lost in my head for ever. Call me a cynic but I’m sure he’s making it up to curry favour with Gran. Next thing he’ll be asking for a recipe.
Fortunately he doesn’t, mainly because Gran’s asking him why a man like him has to rely on a slow-cooker for a decent meal.
‘You’re good-looking enough, so why aren’t you married?’
Subtlety was never Gran’s strong point, so it isn’t her question that’s surprised me but GR’s reaction. The light’s not all that good so I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m sure his cheeks, dark with what’s now a nine o’clock shadow, have taken on a delicate pinkish hue. It happened once before and I thought I’d imagined it, but now…
Doctors in Flight Page 6
