by Sonia Henry
There’s no Batman and Robin; there’s just Batman. Sherlock has no Watson. Dr Who has no … whoever Dr Who usually has.
I walk quickly to Mr Waters’s bedside. The sight that greets me makes me want to curl up into the foetal position and start crying. Sally’s right. He’s sick. He isn’t even just a bit sick. He’s fucked. I stare at Mr Waters, the Shark’s number one VIP patient, in abject terror.
Mr Waters is shaking so hard that his IV pole bangs against the metal bedframe with every convulsion. He has beads of sweat running down his face, and his teeth are chattering.
‘Get … Dr …’ he gasps as his eyes plead with me for help. I have a feeling that Mr Waters knows I’m totally useless and is giving me the right advice. I need a doctor. A real doctor. STAT!
I ring the Joker, who declines to answer. So I try the Smiling Assassin. The call goes straight to voicemail. With little time to spare I bite the bullet and call the Shark. I stammer something incoherent into the phone but manage to convey the important details. The Shark, who I’ve never seen or heard looking anything other than iceberg cool, sounds extremely angry. He yells something about a CT scan and hangs up. Time starts moving very quickly. I run to the computer to try to order a CT scan on the internal hospital system, but I can’t find the right code name of the scan. I’m so flustered I can barely function. Sally runs back over to report that Mr Waters is simultaneously vomiting and shitting blood! His blood pressure is dropping! His heart rate is through the roof!
‘Should I do a PACE call?’ she asks me, looking frantic.
This is the best idea I’ve heard in years. ‘YES!’ I shout. ‘PACE CALL NOW!’
The hospital’s PACE team is called whenever a patient starts deteriorating. In this instance, they arrive promptly, to my overwhelming relief. Not surprisingly, the medical registrar comes over to ask where the treating team is.
‘Ah, that’d be me,’ I admit, feeling a bit queasy. I’m hiding behind the desk, still trying to work out how to order the CT scan.
At this point the Joker has been informed of the situation by the Shark, but instead of coming to my rescue he has been texting me instructions.
The medical registrar is disgusted. ‘Tell your team to get here now,’ he snaps. Then, seeing my look of uncertainty, he rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, give me the phone and I’ll ring them.’
‘Good luck.’
As I could have predicted, the Joker tells him to bugger off.
By now Mr Waters has stopped breathing anyway so it’s escalated to a code blue. As he is taken away by the intensive care doctors, Sally and I stand next to each other.
‘Thanks,’ she whispers, still sounding terrified. I’ve no idea why she’s thanking me. If anything, I feel like I should be thanking her.
All I can think is that I want to go home but my work here isn’t done. I sprint all over the hospital, trying desperately to organise an operating theatre to save Mr Waters. The Shark ends up performing emergency surgery.
Mr Waters finally makes it to theatre, but I’m thoroughly shaken up. I return to the ward and stand there for a moment, trying to process what just happened.
My phone buzzes with a message. It’s from the Smiling Assassin.
Could you get me a coffee? You didn’t bother showing so I’m in theatre 6 assisting Prince.
The realisation that the Smiling Assassin has taken my spot next to Dr Prince in the operating theatre while I was caught up in the Waters drama hits me like a sharp knee to the gut.
I pull off my scrub cap and blink hard. Pull yourself together, I tell myself fiercely. It’s just one theatre list. You’re on a surgical term. There are heaps of theatre lists.
A lone tear betrays me and tracks down my face. I use the cap to wipe it away, then walk quickly to the patient toilet on the ward. I shut the door, turn on the tap and splash my face with water. Then I go to the cafeteria to buy the Smiling Assassin a coffee, feeling ridiculously sad.
Chin up, I tell myself. It isn’t the end of the world, missing one operation. I try not to imagine what the Smiling Assassin has told Dr Prince about my non-appearance. I’m sure you can explain it to him later, my brain reminds me rationally. No need to act like someone’s died. Mr Waters isn’t dead, which is the most important thing, isn’t it?
I hand my last $3.50 over to buy a soy latte for the Smiling Assassin, a woman I am starting to truly despise. I dutifully walk to the operating theatre front desk and leave her the coffee, then return to the ward.
I work until the end of the day, check with one of the nurses that Mr Waters is still alive (he is), then walk home and drink an entire bottle of wine.
By the time Winnie and Max roll into number 19 from their dinner out (something fun normal people or doctors on respiratory terms in summer do) and ask me how my day was, I can’t even respond. I stumble to bed, dreading the morning.
Somewhere else, somebody else is stepping onto a film set dressed in a white doctor’s coat over skimpy lingerie, playing the role of the sexy doctor as she unethically clears Bond for his dangerous fieldwork. Damn that woman to hell—she has stolen my life.
seven
I age ten years in a few weeks. It doesn’t help that I’m staying back at work till 9 pm every night to make sure Mr Waters, the Shark’s VIP patient, remains alive. I don’t trust the Joker or the Smiling Assassin enough to ensure that he does.
Mr Waters has now developed a pleural effusion, and looks uncomfortable every time he breathes. The Shark, in consultation with Dr Waters and Dr Waters, decides to have the fluid from his lungs drained using a special radiological method. This involves me contacting the radiology consultant, which means making a bit of an effort.
The Smiling Assassin and the Joker laugh in my face when I tell them that this is what the Shark wants. ‘That’s ridiculous! It’s not big enough to drain,’ the Joker says bluntly. ‘Bird is being an idiot. He’s just trying to impress his VIP patient’s daughter. I don’t know why, she’s a hag.’
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to jump on him and commence manual strangulation.
‘It’s not going to happen, Katarina,’ the Smiling Assassin says, smiling sweetly. ‘Sometimes you need to recognise when the boss wants something that’s not possible and you need to be smart enough to say no.’
‘I think I should at least try,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Like … I can just go into radiology and ask.’
We’re in the doctors’ room at the end of the ward. I’m standing by the door.
‘Why ask?’ the Joker says. He’s reclining in the only comfortable chair in the room. ‘Just tell Bird no.’
‘Katarina,’ the Smiling Assassin says slowly, as if I’m a child, ‘I know it’s hard for you as an intern to understand this, but I’ve noticed that your clinical judgement needs a lot of work.’
Behind her, the Joker nods.
‘Sometimes the things you’re doing just simply aren’t appropriate.’
By now other doctors have come into the room and are listening curiously to the conversation.
‘I don’t think this is inappropriate,’ I argue, my neck and cheeks getting hot.
‘But you clearly don’t know the difference between what is appropriate and what isn’t,’ the Smiling Assassin replies.
Tears have started to well in my eyes, but I will not back down. The Shark and Dr Waters and Dr Waters and Mr Waters, whose life I goddamn helped to save, stand silently behind me in my mind’s eye.
‘Listen, I’ve got one boss in this situation,’ I say. ‘And I’m going to do what he says. If he wants me to sort out the lung tap, that’s fine. To be perfectly frank, my main concern is to do the right thing by the patient, something neither of you seem particularly interested in.’
My insubordination is met with deafening silence. The Smiling Assassin’s smile falters. The Joker looks bored.
I leave the room in what I hope is a dignified manner then run down the stairs to the radiology department, blinking furiously.
Thankfully, I’ve developed quite a good relationship with Martin, the radiology registrar. He offers me a cup of tea and we sit in the darkroom together as he stares at an X-ray.
‘Look, being an intern is fucking shit,’ he says, kindly ignoring my bloodshot eyes and dripping nose. ‘There’re a lot of dickheads in this place, just don’t worry about it. I’ve gotten used to it. Some of the surgeons who come in here hassling me for scans, one minute they’re nice, next minute they’ve flicked the prick on. Only takes them half a fucking second.’
For every arsehole in the hospital, there’s also someone who’s actually okay. Martin calls his boss, who agrees to perform the tap. The Shark finds out I’ve successfully organised the unorganisable and texts me directly, telling me I have it in me to be a surgeon. I like the way you just get things done, he writes.
Dr Waters and Dr Waters buy me a bottle of fancy champagne when Mr Waters is discharged home the following week. They write on the card: Thank you, Kitty, you’ve been brilliant.
Estelle, Winnie, Max and I drink the champagne on a Tuesday night in the backyard of 19 North Avenue.
‘Here’s to Mr Waters,’ I say, raising my glass.
We toast: to Mr Waters, to me, to life, and to friends. The things that make it all worthwhile.
‘I feel like we should be saving this champagne for a special night,’ Winnie says. ‘I mean, we’re all in our work clothes and it’s a Tuesday.’
‘We’ve got the party on Saturday,’ Max points out. ‘Heaps of people have RSVPed on Facebook.’
The house party. I’d almost forgotten about it, what with all the drama at work. Every single intern we know is desperate to cut loose after the shock to the system of our new lives as junior doctors.
‘It’ll be morale-raising,’ Max says happily.
‘Or sorrow-drowning,’ I say. ‘I can make my famous punch. It turns an okay night into the best party ever.’
‘Well, I can’t fucking wait,’ Estelle says emphatically. ‘I’m so sick of that fucking hospital, I am going to get as drunk as a human can get.’
Winnie looks concerned. ‘What if I have to take you to emergency?’
Estelle laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Winnie. I’d rather drown in my own vomit than go to that place as a patient. Just help write my eulogy, that’s all I ask.’
‘I’ve heard doctor parties get pretty loose,’ Winnie says doubtfully. ‘One of the girls at work dated a doctor and she said all he ever did was go to work and get high—not simultaneously,’ she adds quickly.
‘It’ll just be some punch and a few laughs,’ I tell her. ‘Everyone is so tired from working such horrible hours it probably won’t even go that late.’
‘Famous last words,’ Estelle says, grinning. ‘Just you wait.’
eight
‘Do you want some coke?’
I stare at the anaesthetics registrar who’s sitting on my bed. In my drunken haze, Tom looks pretty hot. Or does he? I tilt my head. His nose is kind of big, which proves awkward when we’re kissing, but he’s still pretty sexy. Plus, the fact he’s one of those naughty doctors who does drugs and smokes is also quite appealing. I prefer the subversive ones.
‘I’m having some,’ he says casually, pulling a small bag of white powder out of his pocket. ‘Do you have a credit card?’
Did I ever. One thing I’m proving particularly successful at is accumulating multiple lines of credit; banks fall over themselves to offer you loans and credit cards when you become a doctor—they don’t realise how paltry our salaries actually are. Not to worry—with the magic of plastic I can play now and pay later. I wonder why Tom wants it, though. Maybe he carries around a portable EFTPOS machine for when he offers cocaine to people, I speculate. I suppose that’s fair enough; cocaine’s pretty expensive.
My confusion must be obvious. ‘I need it to cut up the lines,’ Tom explains.
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, thinking: Is this life in the fast lane? A hot anaesthetist, a house party, illicit drugs and my credit card?
I watch, fascinated, as Tom arranges the cocaine into neat lines. He pulls a fifty-dollar note from his pocket, rolls it up, then leans down and effortlessly snorts two lines in a row. He sits up and breathes in.
‘God, that’s good stuff,’ he says, looking pleased. ‘You want some?’
Through my cheap wine-induced haze, I stare at him. I see Tom, the cocaine, my bedroom. I catch a glimpse of myself in my full-length mirror and I wonder who the hell that woman is. Have I finally entered the medical twilight zone?
Before I became a doctor, I looked down on people who snorted cocaine. Only bad people did drugs, I reasoned, and I was never going to be like them. Doctors were good people with pure intentions.
‘This blow is straight out of Colombia,’ Tom says. ‘Sure you don’t want some? It’s as pure as snow.’
What about me? I wonder. Am I still pure? Tom’s cocaine is, evidently, pure as the driven blow, flown all the way from the cartels in Bogotá.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, feeling terrified by how tempted I am.
I’m saved by the arrival of three of the surgical registrars, who have no such qualms and leap onto the cocaine as if they’ve been in a desert without water for a week.
Tom looks over at me. ‘Give yourself another year,’ he says wisely. ‘Then you won’t be saying no.’
Maybe he’s right. Could he be right? I walk carefully down my extremely steep stairs, so as not to sustain a head injury and be carted off, drunk as all hell, to the hospital emergency department.
‘Fuck, mate, I knew it! Doctors are loose!’ Winnie lurches towards me drunkenly as I reach the bottom of the stairs. ‘Like, they’re fucking out of control!’
‘Where’s Max?’ I ask.
‘Getting a blow job in the bathroom,’ Winnie says. ‘Well, I think he is. Someone is, anyway.’
‘What?!’
Winnie and I look at each other and grin.
‘Come on,’ she says, giggling. ‘We won’t bust in, but if we bang on the door he’ll get a real fright.’
We fight our way to the bathroom through masses of drunk, swaying bodies and people spilling drinks. I see Estelle berating one of her registrars about what a tool he is and wince, knowing she’ll regret it in the morning but also feeling slightly pleased.
I’m just raising my fist to pound on the bathroom door when it’s flung open. Winnie stumbles into me and I lose my footing, and we both collapse onto the floor, shrieking with laughter.
We look up, and I see one of the other interns emerge, vomiting.
‘She was really drunk,’ Max says by way of explanation. ‘I just helped her into the bathroom so she could be sick.’ He grins. ‘What did you guys think I was doing?’
‘Apparently you were engaging in a sexual act,’ I inform him, bending over to check if the intern is all right.
‘Wrong gender, mate,’ Max says.
‘So only sexual acts with a human possessing your genitals of your choice, then?’
‘I was about to,’ he admits, looking sheepish, ‘but then this girl burst in and started vomiting everywhere and it sort of killed the mood, you know.’
Winnie looks down at our vomiting colleague, and nods. ‘I can see that.’
Dr Vomit puts her head up, and purges all over my shoes. ‘Sorry,’ she groans. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I actually hate these shoes.’
‘I’ll get you some water,’ Winnie says. ‘Kitty, maybe you should go wash your shoes under the hose.’
‘Do you like being an intern, Kitty?’ Dr Vomit suddenly asks, surprising me by knowing my name, as she grabs onto my arm and looks up at me with half-closed eyes. ‘Like, do you really?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, semi-honestly.
‘I hate it,’ she says, putting her head back onto the tiles. ‘I really hate it. The thought of doing this for another year makes me seriously want to top myself.’
�
��Don’t say that,’ I say, alarmed.
She shrugs into the tiles. ‘Nah, I don’t mean it. I’ve just smoked so much pot tonight.’ She stops talking and lifts her head off the ground to vomit again. It pours out, like lava from a volcano.
‘You’ll feel better after a bit of a purge,’ I tell her.
‘Shouldn’t mix weed and booze,’ Max says, with the air of doctorly and regular pot-smoking authority. ‘You’ll be vomming for hours.’
I prise her hand off my arm and leave Winnie to deal with the situation. Walking into the backyard to find the hose, I realise I am very drunk, and close my eyes. I lean against the fence and let my back slide down until I am sitting on the ground.
Do you like being an intern?
I hate it. I really hate it.
The thought of doing this for another year makes me seriously want to top myself.
I rest my head against the wooden fence and take a breath.
It’s just a party, I tell myself, a stupid fucking party. People say stupid things when they’re drunk at parties. We’re doctors. We’re fucking sensible and kind and caring doctors. We’re allowed to get drunk and lose control now and then, aren’t we? How else do you cope?
People say stupid things when they’re drunk at parties.
I stumble to my feet, find the hose and turn it on full blast. I wash away the vomit and feel the cool water on my skin. This is a loose party. It’s an out-of-control party. It feels like a loose, out-of-control, medical student party.
Except that when I was a medical student the world was clear, the focus sharp. This is who you are, this is what you’ll be, this is where you draw your lines, and this is the slot you fit into. Here is your pre-determined path, so set forth, child, and walk confidently through your present and towards your glorious future. Here is north and south, and east and west. Here are your coordinates so you will never be lost.
I look up at the sky. It’s overcast, so I can’t see the stars, and the moon isn’t bright. All that is there is the shadow of the hospital, looming over the house. The sound from the party is fading, and I stand there, a tiny speck inside a cloak of black.
