by Sonia Henry
My mind rages at me to stay focused, but the battle is already lost. I stand there in my scrubs under the warm lights, next to the unconscious body of Mr Wilde as everyone else contemplates life-saving surgery, and realise I’m experiencing an overwhelming desire to have incredibly long, wild, alcohol-fuelled sex with my fifty-year-old surgical boss. I stand very still, in the most sterile environment in the world, looking into a man’s brain tissue, with a vagina that has betrayed me by suddenly catching on fire. Brain tumour, operation, surgeons, vagina on fire. I leap from death, across to sex, and am brought down to earth with a mighty thud by the Joker replying to my question, even though he’s not the one I asked.
‘He won’t survive an open craniotomy,’ he says, sneering slightly.
‘I can’t get enough out with the ventriculoscope,’ Dr Prince says. ‘The only option is to open him up. Book him on the list for Friday.’
The Joker sinks into sullen silence.
I pull myself and my vagina together immediately, and manage to refrain from jumping in the air and yelling ‘Wahooo!’ as I leave the operating theatre. Dr Prince is like a knight in shining armour, a champion of truth and justice. He is kind of old and could lose a few kilos, I think as I smile at him, but at that moment he is the motherfucking sexiest man I’ve ever seen.
He can be a bit awkward at times, I feel myself fretting as Lawrence and I leave theatres to head back to the ward. I wonder briefly what he’d look like naked. I picture what underwear he’d most like to see me in. Black lace. No, white. G-string? French? Definitely French. God. Maybe it wouldn’t be awkward. Maybe the sex would be really hot. Maybe not even just hot, maybe—
‘Are you all right, Kitty?’ Lawrence interrupts my tawdry thoughts and jolts me back to the present, and the decidedly unsexy scene of the stairwell to ward seven. ‘You look a bit … flushed.’
‘I’m just pleased they’re going to operate on Mr Wilde,’ I answer, mostly truthfully.
I open the door to the ward and vow to leave my unsavoury thoughts where they belong, locked in the operating theatre with all the other bodily fluids so they can be removed by the cleaners after hours.
eleven
Every week on a Thursday afternoon we have a junior doctor meeting, run by medical admin. Most of the time my pager interrupts me so I don’t get to stay, but I try to drop in for at least five minutes to scoff down some of the free lunch.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been an intern for nearly two months!’ says Lawrence in awe as we walk into the conference room. ‘I think you’re doing super well,’ he adds loyally.
Lawrence knows better than anyone how painful neurosurgery can be, especially with my good friends the Joker and the Smiling Assassin constantly breathing down my neck, so I appreciate the support.
On theme, the subject of today’s meeting is Resilience. This is a deliberate move by medical admin. The results of a survey examining the experience of junior doctors in hospitals around the state has just been leaked to the media and most have scored extremely badly, including Holy Innocents.
‘Resilience’ is a word that has been shoved down our throats since medical school. I’ve lost track of the number of graphs I’ve seen demonstrating that medical students and doctors have higher levels of resilience in harder times than the general population. Hospital administrators seem to think that if they keep telling us how resilient we are, and draw up pie charts to show us this, that it’ll somehow make us even more resilient. We all must be walking around in a perpetual state of resilience overload. I’m borderline going to require resilience chelation therapy, if the pie charts are to be believed. The resilience must be just dripping off every wall of the place, in between the crucifixes. Overcoming suffering—a theme which adorns every spare inch of the hospital corridors.
Maybe I should start going to mass, I suddenly think. Lord knows my soul could use some soothing.
Lost in these existential thoughts I tail behind Lawrence into the meeting room. Max and Estelle have already arrived and are bearing plates loaded sky high with free nibblies. At least it’s a break from the ward.
What is RESILIENCE? screams the PowerPoint slide on the screen, while members of the HR department hand out pamphlets to us detailing which hotline to call if our apparently boundless reserves of resilience should inexplicably dry up.
‘We’re here for you,’ Nicole, the head of junior doctor admin, assures us. She clicks to the next slide. ‘We don’t want you to feel as if you can’t speak out.’
I entertain myself by texting Max. How’s your resilience, mate?
Shit, he replies immediately. I need to do more mindfulness.
MINDFULNESS IS MEDICALLY PROVEN TO BE GOOD FOR YOU, I read on the screen.
I stifle a laugh. The hospital’s solution to everything is for us to attend the mindfulness classes which no one is allowed to go to because it would mean being away from the ward for too long. But not to worry, Nicole explains. If we can’t make the classes, there’s an app we can download on our phones! Forget patient deaths and bullying and job application pressures; as long as I can count to four and centre myself with my mindfulness app, I’ll be good to go.
I mentally appraise Nicole as she instructs us all to put away our phones and pagers for one minute and take a big breath in and count to four.
Nicole is younger than me, maybe twenty-five, if that. Her youth is obviously an asset, as opposed to mine signifying only lack of experience, and she has already begun her stratospheric ascent up the ladder of medical administration. She has long shiny chestnut hair tapering into perfectly blunt ends. What is it, I wonder, thinking enviously of the Smiling Assassin, with every female in this hospital and their goddamn perfect hair? Her luscious locks tumble down over ample breasts and, even though she is a bit on the chubby side, she isn’t trying to hide it. Her dress leaves little to the imagination. The whole image—the hair and the pink heels and pink-painted lips—oozes sexuality. From the appreciative glances of the male doctors, I can tell I’m not the only one admiring her outfit.
Are we going to drinks tonight? Max, also not breathing in or counting to four, is texting me again.
As if on cue, four seconds and a few more big breaths later, Nicole announces that a drinks night has been organised at the pub near the hospital for all the new interns, the admin staff, and anyone else who wants to drink away their sorrows. She doesn’t put it quite like that, but phrases like ‘morale raising’ and ‘team bonding’ are well-known HR euphemisms.
Yeah, mate, I write back. I’ll be counting to four, all right—four wines.
I hear a snort from three rows in front and see Max’s shoulder shaking suspiciously, and grin. We have always loved making each other laugh.
After work, we meet Estelle outside the hospital. She has a maniacal expression on her face.
‘If I could I’d inject alcohol intravenously …’ she says, a dangerous glint in her eye. ‘I have had the day from hell.’
‘Fear not,’ Max says, as we each sling an arm around her shoulders. ‘We’re only a few hundred metres away from bad wine and a good whine.’
For all the stresses and catastrophes that being a junior doctor brings, there’s a sense of camaraderie among those in the trenches. My mates are everything. Just when I think I’ve lost north completely, Estelle, Max and Winnie appear, standing in the lighthouse that shows me the way, brandishing a bottle of cheap pinot grigio.
On our way to the pub we run into Nicole at the traffic lights.
‘Love your dress,’ Estelle says approvingly.
‘Thanks.’ Nicole looks pleased. ‘I was worried it was a bit too tight.’
‘No way—you look great.’
Nicole, warmed by the conversation, hovers near us as we take our usual seats in the darkest corner of the establishment.
Con the Greek, the publican, nods in our direction. ‘Bottle of the house white?’
The pub on the corner is our home away from home. It’s dark and seedy
and full of shady-looking characters, but the last place you feel like being after a day in the hospital trenches is a brightly lit bar filled with happy people. Con the Greek is as jaded as we are, and our complaints about hospital life are matched by his relentless tirades about various government regulations.
We’re just starting to argue over who’s paying when Nicole breaks in to say, ‘It’s on us—there’s a tab until nine. Don’t pay if you don’t have to.’
Normally I would be suspicious of anyone from medical admin trying to socialise with us, but Nicole is offering us a free bottle of wine and in any case she seems pretty all right. It isn’t her fault she works in HR. She probably needs money too. We all have to do things we don’t want to at work, present company included.
Two bottles of wine in, I am really starting to warm to her.
‘What term are you on, Kitty?’ she asks me.
‘Neurosurgery,’ I reply, feeling mournful. It’s ticking towards 9 pm, which means soon it will be 10 pm, which means even sooner it will be 6 am and time to get up and do a ward round with the Joker and the Smiling Assassin.
She nods, opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, then catches herself.
‘What?’ Estelle asks, looking interested. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘Come on,’ Max says, topping up her wineglass. ‘Give us the goss!’
Her defences weakened by Max’s relentless refills, Nicole starts to spill. ‘Is one of your bosses Dr Prince?’
I choke on my drink. ‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to look casual as I wipe wine from my shirt. ‘Why?’ I add, suddenly fearing that she has carnal knowledge of my slightly overweight fifty-year-old surgical boss who, for some weird reason, I spend a lot of time thinking about.
‘What do you think of him?’ Nicole asks.
‘I guess he’s okay,’ I say.
‘Have you fucked him?’ Estelle asks Nicole straight out.
It’s Nicole’s turn to choke on her drink. ‘God, no,’ she exclaims, laughing. ‘No!’
‘He’s not that bad,’ I say defensively.
Max gives me a look, which I ignore.
‘I had a thing with one of his friends,’ she informs us. ‘This German surgeon who worked here last year.’
I feel such intense waves of relief washing over me I almost have to lie down.
‘I had to organise all the paperwork to approve him to come to the hospital,’ she explains, ‘so by the time I finally met him we’d been emailing each other so much I felt like I actually knew the guy.’
‘And then one thing led to another …’ Max offers helpfully.
As it transpires, Nicole and the mysterious Dr Wolfgang Dietrich engaged in a torrid affair. Apparently, Wild Wolfgang is Dr Prince’s best friend and they operated together nearly every day when he lived in Sydney.
‘Jack had us over for dinner,’ she says, using Dr Prince’s first name casually. ‘It was just me and Wolfgang and Jack and his wife. Like, I thought things were pretty serious between us.’
I feel my stomach lurch at the mention of Mrs Prince, who I have tried to pretend may not exist. ‘But?’ I can’t help asking.
‘It turned out Wolfgang had a girlfriend back in Sweden. He’d been working on a research paper over there, I think. He left Germany to take some prestigious academic job and also got himself a hot Swedish theatre nurse, as I discovered.’ Nicole rolls her eyes. ‘Anyway, she came to Sydney to visit for a month and I suddenly stopped hearing from him.’
‘Do you reckon Dr Prince knew?’ I ask her.
‘I don’t know,’ she says, frowning. ‘Wolfgang might have just pretended we were over and that he’d got back together with his ex-girlfriend. Who knows?’
‘Men,’ Max says, rolling his eyes.
‘Then, when his girlfriend left, he started calling me all the time,’ Nicole continues. ‘He was saying he loved me and all the rest of it, but then he went back to Sweden and I never heard from him again, so he’s probably back with her.’
We all nod in sympathy.
‘So it’s weird seeing Jack now … but I think he still likes me. In fact,’ she says, looking conspiratorial, ‘I think he’s a bit attracted to me, actually.’
It dawns on me that I need to start wearing tighter dresses. And brushing my hair more than twice a week.
‘You know he owns an art gallery,’ she says. ‘He has this huge collection of Greek antiquities. They’re so rare they get exhibited at museums all over the world.’
I feel my mouth start to drop open, and push my fist underneath it quickly.
‘He’s, like, massive in the world of high-end antiquities.’
Of course he is. That’s probably why he doesn’t talk much at the hospital. Who could blame him? If I was massive in the world of high-end antiquities I’d probably save my energy for hobnobbing with rare-antiquity-collecting billionaires, rather than wasting my breath on hopeless junior doctors or arguments with senior colleagues who are out to derail my career anyway.
‘And he races yachts.’
‘Does he?’ I’m surprised by this. He doesn’t look like he’d be out tugging ropes on the high seas, but I guess racing yachts is an expensive hobby for expensive people, and I’m starting to see the whole picture of Dr Jack Prince more clearly. He’s starting to look very, well, expensive.
‘He must think he’s absolutely fantastic,’ Estelle says with a yawn. ‘I remember guys like him from the club. They were always so impressed with themselves.’
I think about Mr Wilde, lying on the ward waiting for his operation, and the only surgeon who’s bothered to give him the time of day. I remember Mr Wilde snapping at Dr Prince for taking so long to see him and Dr Prince apologising for being late. I remember the other surgeons at the meeting who were ready to write off Mr Wilde after looking at a single brain scan and Dr Prince standing his ground, risking his reputation for some grumpy old farmer from west of the middle of nowhere.
It isn’t until we pay the bill and walk home that I start to understand. The reason why I like Dr Prince isn’t because he’s a talented surgeon or is a big deal in high-end antiquities or races expensive yachts. Sure, those things make him different and exciting and they sound glamorous, but money and glamour don’t mean anything to someone like Mr Wilde. In the incredibly complex world of neurosurgery, Dr Prince has done something incredibly simple. He’s been kind.
I walk slowly down North Avenue, thinking. The one thing I know for sure as a junior doctor is that I don’t know much. I’m reminded of this every morning when I walk into the hospital. Forever will come and go, and I still won’t know enough. In two years I’ll be a junior registrar, then a senior registrar, then a fellow, then a junior consultant, then a senior consultant. Knowledge will elude me for a lifetime, but I think I am learning my most significant lesson on that short walk home from the pub, in my first few months of training, at a time when I know the very least.
I think that the most important quality for a doctor to possess is kindness. Without kindness, I think, we’re all lost in this maze of impossible perfection and constant self-punishment. Without kindness, we’re doctors devoid of humanity. And without our humanity, we don’t really have anything.
Even if Dr Prince fails to teach me the arterial supply of the spinal cord, he should be comforted by the fact he has taught me that. The art of kindness is shown to me in the painting he makes with his scalpel inside Mr Wilde’s brain. Maybe that is the secret to the elusive art of medicine, who knows. Something as simple as just letting ourselves be kind, and letting people be kind to us in return.
It can’t be, of course. That would just be too easy.
twelve
Estelle and I are musing over the strange microcosm that is the hospital the next morning as we walk to the cafeteria for a coffee. In some ways, Estelle tells me, it’s not so different to the strip club, which was its own little planet, with its own rules.
‘I miss it sometimes, you know,’ she says wistful
ly as we sit at our usual table, hiding. ‘Anything has to be better than this shit.’
I have a quick image of another Estelle, sans stethoscope and frown, and imagine her completely naked and grinding around a pole as she makes eyes with the men who watch her. I can be your fantasy, I can be whatever you want me to be, baby.
‘Got paid a lot more too,’ she delivers the coup de grace on why being a stripper is better than being a doctor, with feeling. ‘Like, a lot more.’
‘I can imagine. I can’t say our current salary is really helping to make the job more bearable,’ I add, and on cue my phone beeps with an incoming text from the Smiling Assassin.
Why didn’t you tell me Mrs Young’s potassium was low?
I show Estelle.
‘Wow, she’s really into her social niceties, isn’t she?’ Estelle says. ‘But it kind of proves my point. We’re all on edge, all the time. Being a doctor is kind of like balancing on this very thin wire.’
‘Fall off the wire and you land in the fiery pits of hell; make it to the end and you’ve still only got a night shift to look forward to,’ I quip.
But Estelle is serious. ‘Look, mate,’ she says, ‘this is a high-stress job. High stakes, you know. Like there’s some sick fucking patients in this place, and it can get pretty overwhelming.’
I nod. Agreed.
‘Lucky we have good mates,’ I say.
‘Yeah, that’s just it, isn’t it?’ Estelle leans forward and looks at me intensely. ‘A lot of other doctors don’t have mates like ours. They just exist in their own heads, no one to booze with or laugh with or, you know …’
‘Cry with,’ I supply.
‘Yeah. So what I’m saying is that we can never let each other down, okay? We have to drag each other over the line, kicking and screaming, to the bitter end. Like when we were in medical school, remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘And if one of us is ever trapped, or going mad, or about to lose the plot, we just have to reach out to the other person and we’ll be there for each other, no questions asked. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, where we are, whatever fucking important thing is happening in theatre or whatever—we will drop everything and go to each other’s rescue.’
