by Sonia Henry
Sonia Henry is a doctor and a writer. Prior to her career in medicine she qualified and worked as a physiotherapist. She has been published on a variety of platforms, including the physician blog KevinMD, the Sydney Morning Herald, the Australian Medical Students Association magazine, and the ANZ Journal of Surgery. She enjoys wine, skiing, her friends and black humour (not necessarily in that order). She lives in Sydney. This is Sonia’s first novel.
This is a work of fiction. Like most works of fiction it is inspired from observations of real life experiences and events. However every character in this book has been created by the author and any resemblance to a living person is simply coincidental and readers must not assume that any part of this story has any real or factual basis.
First published in 2019
Copyright © Sonia Henry 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Kind permission received from Faber and Faber Ltd to quote from ‘Four Quartets’ by T.S. Eliot on pages vii, 283 and 289.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100
Email:[email protected]
Web:www.allenandunwin.com
ISBN 978 1 76052 957 4
eISBN 978 1 76087 207 6
Typeset by Bookhouse, Sydney
Cover design: Luke Causby/Blue Cork
Cover image: Adobe Stock Photo
This book is for all the doctors who have ever felt lost or alone inside a system that should care for you better
Contents
prologue
Part I birth
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
Part II life
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
Part III death
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
forty-three
forty-four
forty-five
forty-six
forty-seven
forty-eight
forty-nine
fifty
fifty-one
fifty-two
fifty-three
fifty-four
fifty-five
fifty-six
fifty-seven
fifty-eight
fifty-nine
sixty
epilogue
author’s note
acknowledgements
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
T.S. ELIOT, ‘FOUR QUARTETS’
prologue
Thirty-three years ago, Toby Henderson was working in the emergency department of a hospital on the outskirts of the city. With a grand total of thirteen months’ experience, he was the most senior doctor on the floor.
When the patient came through the doors, he didn’t look that sick. He was holding his left arm above his head and it was wrapped in a towel, but he was walking and talking, which is always a reassuring sign. But as he came closer, Toby noticed that his skin had the pale, sweaty sheen of someone about to collapse.
He did collapse, and let go of the towel. Toby struggled to repress the urge to vomit as he saw half a stump where the patient’s hand should have been, the rest of the fingers dangling by a few bits of muscle and skin, and blood spurting out from what Toby dimly knew to be one of the main arteries supplying the bottom half of the man’s limb. Or former limb.
‘I wanted to kill myself,’ the man gasped, ‘so I tried to chop off my hand. But then I realised that I’d made a huge mistake.’
That was a bit of an understatement, Toby thought as he grabbed the towel and rewrapped it around the stump, trying desperately to reposition the remaining piece of hand to stem the flow of blood.
‘What are you going to do, Doctor?’ a nurse whispered as together they heaved the man off the floor and towards one of the resuscitation trollies.
Toby had the unusual sensation of being inside a large fishtank. Everything was happening so slowly, as if they were moving through water. He watched as the man’s face went from pale white to ivory to grey. Tombstone grey, Toby thought. Death grey.
‘Doctor!’ The nurse was yelling now, startling Toby from his dreamlike state, plunging him back into an awareness of his own helplessness.
‘Get me an anatomy textbook!’ he shouted, grabbing a needle to start an IV line before the peripheral circulation disappeared.
He stared at the gaping hole between the man’s hand and his wrist. ‘Saline—more saline!’ he instructed.
Someone thrust a book into his hand and he peered at the page, trying to identify what was being revealed by the saline wash. The ulnar artery. No, the radial artery. No …
This is easy, he chided himself. You topped anatomy at uni. You know which artery runs down which side of the hand. This is first-year medical student stuff.
For some reason, his brain was scrambled. It was the blood; it was confusing him, making him disorientated. Was the man’s thumb missing? His ring finger?
‘You’ve got the book the wrong way around!’
By this time, the patient had lost consciousness. Toby felt a small sense of relief.
The nurse flipped the book the other way.
‘Radial,’ he muttered.
He swallowed. He knew that before he woke the plastic surgeon on call he’d have to know exactly which vessels had been severed, otherwise the surgeon would start yelling at him or, worse, refuse to come to his assistance.
‘I reckon it’s the ulnar,’ the nurse said unhelpfully, looking first at the book then at the bleeding half-hand, half-stump that lay between them.
‘Get plastics on the phone,’ Toby said, ‘and get a cross match now. He needs blood.’
‘You ring the surgeon,’ the nurse snapped. ‘I’ll get the blood.’
Toby called the plastic surgeon.
‘Are you sure he’s severed his radial artery?’ The surgeon sounded irritated at being woken up and also doubtful. ‘What can you see?’
‘His thumb is hacked off,’ Toby said, ‘so it must be his radial.’ The nurses had taken over now. Hanging blood, applying pressure, preparing the defibrillator paddles.
‘We’ll handle this!’ a nurse bellowed at Toby as he ended the call. ‘There’s a guy who’s arresting in cubicle four. You need to get over there—now!’
‘Was he dying too?’ asked one of the two medical students listening to the story with wide eyes.
Thirty-three years later, Dr Toby Henderson leaned back in his chair in the emergency department where he was now regaling the doctors of the future with his cautionary tales. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Everyone dies at two am when you’re the most senior doctor on. It’s Murphy’s law.’
‘What happened afterwards?’
Toby smiled. ‘The head of medical administration hauled me into her office and tore me to shreds for failing to respond quickly enough.’ He frowned at the memory. ‘God, she was a bitch,’ he added.
Kitty Holliday, a final-year medical student soon to be known as Dr Katarina Holliday, shuddered. ‘I don’t know how I would have coped with that,’ she said honestly.
She expected him to reassure her; he’d coped, after all.
‘Well, you just don’t,’ Toby said. He glanced at his watch, signalling the end of his shift and the conversation.
‘Excuse me?’ said Estelle, Kitty’s fellow medical student and friend. Surely he’d meant to say, ‘Well, you just do.’ Doctors always did seem to cope.
As Toby stood to leave he looked each girl in the eye and repeated: ‘You just don’t.’
‘What a load of crap,’ Estelle said some hours later. They were having their standard end-of-day debrief at the pub down the road from the hospital.
‘I know,’ Kitty agreed. ‘I mean, of course he coped. He’s still working in emergency, isn’t he?’
The conversation gradually meandered towards other topics. Exams, men, what they’d do when they finally finished university and had some money. The thirty-three-year-old story of the near-severed hand and the idea that doctors might not cope was quickly forgotten.
PART I
birth
‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.
‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’
‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’
Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
one
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Like, I’m not your first?’
There’s a moment in which I consider being completely honest with the agitated half-naked man lying on the bed in front of me.
Yes, darling, I will say. You’re my first.
‘You’re going to put that into me? But it’s huge!’ His eyes dart across to the long metal device I’m holding, then he winces involuntarily and shifts away from where I’m perched on the edge of his bed. I see a white flash of his exposed buttocks. They look even more frightened than he does. Or I am.
We both glance down at the 18-gauge cannula gripped in my sweaty right hand. My mental picture of a virgin high-class escort and her nervous virgin client dissolves into reality. For a moment, I almost wish I was an escort. Better that than, on my first day as a doctor, inserting an enormous metal needle into a patient’s skinny-looking vein—a feat I’ve never yet managed to accomplish, though as a medical student I had plenty of opportunity to master it. ‘We’ll learn on the actual job,’ Estelle and I used to tell each other with the confidence of people who could put off any unpleasant tasks into a distant future. Well, this is the job, and that distant future is suddenly the present.
‘Yes, I’ve done this before,’ I lie, trying to smile but knowing it’s coming out more like a demented grimace. If I told him the truth we’d probably both pass out with fear, further delaying the inevitable.
He doesn’t respond, but he grants me implied consent by extending his arm in front of me. I have a mental image of Jesus on the cross, arms outstretched, the stigmata of crucifixion mirroring the icon on the wall above the bed. I’m meant to be his angel saving him from his fate, but instead all that happens is I stare at his juicy, bulging vein, slightly purple underneath the translucent skin, and swallow.
Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …
I pull the tourniquet on his upper arm tight. I see him tense slightly, but to his credit my virgin cannula client says nothing. He surrenders to his unexpected angel, and waits.
Courage to change the things I can …
I unsheath the cannula, stare at the end of the sharp needle, and take a breath. With my free hand, I tap along the vein, hoping desperately it will get bigger and more obvious. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap. I’m merely delaying the inevitable, though. At some point I will have to attempt to pierce his skin and insert the needle.
‘Just do it, please,’ he says through gritted teeth.
I stare at the vein, now so enlarged by the tourniquet I feel certain I won’t miss. Just push it through the skin, I tell myself. One quick movement.
‘Sharp scratch!’ I bellow enthusiastically and, trying not to think too much, I plunge the needle directly into the vein (I hope).
And wisdom to know the difference …
‘ARGHHHHHH!’ screams the patient, jerking his elbow and knocking my now-shaking hand. The cannula pierces the vein all right, but thanks to the unexpected movement it travels straight through it—coming very close to his brachial artery, I realise in horror.
I try to unclip the tourniquet but by now the patient is completely hysterical. I must have nicked his artery because there’s blood squirting from his arm in a pulsating red stream.
At this point I am definitely a better potential escort than angel, I realise mournfully. Or doctor.
‘Is everything okay in here?’ Lawrence, the medical student assigned to me, appears out of nowhere. ‘Did you get the cannula in?’
I refrain from pointing out the obvious, letting the blood-soaked patient, sheet and doctor speak for themselves.
‘You have to keep your arm still,’ I scold the patient. ‘Otherwise this happens.’
‘You didn’t say anything about that!’ he snaps back at me. He looks past me to Lawrence. ‘Is he the doctor? Why isn’t a doctor doing it?’
‘She is the doctor,’ Lawrence says at the same time as I say, ‘I am the doctor.’
The patient, clearly not convinced that someone of my gender is capable of earning a medical degree, pleads with Lawrence—the final-year medical student doing his surgical term under my supervision—to put the cannula in.
Lawrence, being one of those medical students who stays back after hours and stalks the ward on weekends to learn handy skills like cannulation, agrees.
The patient, calmed by the fact that a tall strapping man is taking the reins, relaxes.
‘It’ll be a great learning opportunity for you, Lawrence,’ I say supportively, backing away from the bed. ‘Let me know if there are, ah, any problems. I’ll just be sorting out some … other jobs.’
I leave the ward as quickly as possible and text Estelle, who texts back to say that she is in the hospital cafeteria with my housemate Max. Like me, they are interns—though I prefer the term ‘junior doctor’, which at least confers some sense of what the job actually entails—struggling through their first day on the wards at a major teaching hospital in Sydney.
I arrive to find them slumped over a table at the back of the cafeteria.
‘I fucking hate this,’ Estelle says as I join them. ‘I want to go home.’ She runs a hand through her long blonde hair and sighs. I watch in awe, amazed that someone can be so beautiful even when wearing an expression of extreme disgruntlement.
Two nurses walk past and give us a glance that hovers between disgust and pity. ‘The baby interns,’ I hear one say to the other, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘That time of year when the hospital death statistics, like, triple.’
I can’t help but feel their lack of confidence is justified. My first nigh
t shift is approaching and it fills me with fear. The public hospital where I work—a big old rabbit warren with kilometres of corridors and staircases—is huge. And on night shift those hundreds of patients, along with a skeleton staff, will all be under my inexperienced care.
The hospital is called Holy Innocents Hospital, which is as macabre as it sounds. Despite the fact it’s almost directly on the ocean (these religious institutions always did know how to buy up good real estate), the glorious view of the waves crashing from the windows of the surgical ward is rather mitigated by the icons that loom down on us as we walk through the corridors. My favourite is an enormous painting which depicts the Massacre of the Innocents, which the hospital is named after. I said a better name would have been St Trinian’s (a bit of a personal joke that I had to explain to Max). Nothing inspires a sense of confidence in your medical team more than gigantic paintings of young children being massacred on the order of King Herod.
It’s like another planet compared with the scenes outside. Holy Innocents Hospital is in a relaxed beachside suburb in northern Sydney, and most patients who attend the place are either wealthy retirees or surf bums. It makes a good mix. One day you’ll see a stoner surfie, the next a retired barrister. It’s also not that far from the city so you also get a good mix of general bad behaviour, like people with weird things inserted in their rectums.
There is an affiliated private hospital, but that’s a good ten-minute walk up the road. The consultants like that because it means they can keep to themselves in the glorious land of private practice and stay in their ivory towers while their juniors sweat it out in the trenches. I can’t complain too much. Being so close to the water means that, hypothetically, after work I can rip off my doctor’s badge and clothes and, in a small section of the beach not seen by the general public, swim in my undies. Even on day one of doctoring the idea of that kind of freedom is truly fantastic.
‘You’ve got blood on your shirt, mate,’ Max says, removing me from my fantasy of the ocean by slurping on his milkshake. ‘Good first day then?’
‘I tried to put in a cannula,’ I admit. ‘It was a bloodbath. I left my medical student to sort it out.’
