by Sonia Henry
Our eyes meet. I recognise the fear and confusion in her look because I feel it too. We’re both teetering on the thin wire we are standing on as junior doctors, gripping each other’s hands as we try to stay upright in gale-force winds with no safety harness.
‘I’ll never let you down, mate,’ I say to her, feeling an almost ridiculous urge to burst into tears. ‘We will never let each other down.’
My phone rings. Without thinking, I answer it.
‘Her potassium has been low for two days and you’ve ignored it,’ the Smiling Assassin snaps.
‘I told you about it on the round,’ I say, attempting to defend myself, just for something different.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I can assure you I did.’
Estelle gives me a double thumbs-up and mouths, ‘Fight back!’
‘I can assure you that you didn’t.’
I feel my frustration levels rising. ‘Remember? It’s only four point zero so you said to start her on oral potassium and recheck tomorrow. That’s why I charted the slow K.’
I internally thank the Lord that it’s Friday. Even though I’m on call over the weekend, it means a reprieve from the Smiling Assassin.
She doesn’t answer, and instead ends the call.
‘No time for goodbyes then,’ I say to the phone.
Estelle looks amused. ‘What a bitch.’
My phone beeps. Ah, back to the text.
Ward, it says.
I show Estelle. She looks confused.
‘Ward what? Maybe it’s a typo.’
I explain that when the Smiling Assassin wants to meet me on the ward she doesn’t call or send a text like Would you meet me on the ward? or even Meet me on the ward, she just sends a one-word message.
‘She’s really minimalist,’ I explain. ‘Very word economical.’
‘It’s like you’re a dog!’ Estelle says, torn between laughter and horror. ‘Like: “Fetch!” “Sit!” “Stay!”’
I laugh despite myself. ‘I’d better go,’ I say sadly. ‘Dr Fido Holliday has to go and see her master.’
I arrive on the ward to see the Smiling Assassin waiting for me. She purses her lips but, incredibly, still manages to smile at the same time. Mercifully, she’s stopped from speaking by my pager going off.
I’m being summoned to operating theatre six, which is hardly a reprieve as that just means the Joker, but I’m sick of feeling like her pet dog and feel a sense of dark pleasure that just as I’ve arrived I have to leave again.
‘I’m needed in theatre,’ I explain, backing away. ‘I’ll recheck the potassium tomorrow morning.’
Before she can argue I hurry off to the stairs. As soon as I’m out of sight I slow my pace.
All through the years of medical school, and even before then, I was desperate to get inside an operating theatre. And despite the stresses and strains of life as an intern, I still want to be a surgeon. I think I do, anyway. So I should be excited to go into that magical other world where incredible things happen and humanity in some weird way is suspended. The outside world simply no longer exists when you’re standing over an open brain covered in green drapes. The operating theatre, I remind myself, is the place where the magic happens.
But the Joker is doing his best to ruin this for me. I dread going into theatre when I know he’ll be there because I know what will happen. He’ll fire hard questions at me and then belittle me when I fail to answer them. My self-esteem is already fragile after years of medical school and I could do without the stealth attacks from my emotionally delayed superiors.
But I discover as I walk into the change rooms and my phone beeps with a text from Lawrence that I’ve been gifted an out-of-season Christmas miracle.
The J’s theatre list has been bumped for an emergency hemicolectomy so he’s gone home. Prince wants you to help us in theatre 9.
I immediately look up at the list on the wall of the change room and confirm that the theatre nine patient today is John Wilde and the surgeon is Dr Jack Prince. Today really is the big day. The day Dr Prince is going to save Mr Wilde! I know Dr Prince joked that I could help with the surgery, but I was sure he didn’t actually mean it. I try not to let my imagination run away with me as I pull a pair of scrubs from a cupboard and quickly change into them. I meet Dr Prince by the sinks in the scrub bay just outside the operating theatre.
‘Hello, Kitty,’ he says.
Stay focused, my brain screams at me. You are going into an operating theatre. Keep it serious.
I try not to smile too enthusiastically.
‘Hi, Dr Prince.’ To my horror I feel my cheeks start to burn. Honestly. I’m getting really sick of this. I’m a grown woman; I’m too old for a crush. I’m also a doctor, and Dr Prince is an old, slightly overweight man who’s just another doctor.
Doctor … Brain surgeon … Yachtsman … Purveyor of rare antiquities …
I drop the nailbrush in the sink, which makes a loud clang, but he doesn’t say anything, just hands me another one, then another. We both know I’m hopeless, but he pretends not to notice.
‘Is it true you lend ancient art to museums?’ I can’t help asking.
He looks over at me, using his elbows to turn on the tap, like the pro he is. ‘Yes, it is true,’ he says. ‘It’s a special interest of mine.’
‘Cool,’ I say, accidentally splashing water all over myself.
‘Do you like history and art?’ he asks me, as he starts to clean his nails.
‘Yeah … I mean …’ I pause, feeling stupid. ‘I studied history at school, but I don’t know much about art,’ I admit. ‘I like the idea of it.’
He doesn’t say anything, and I regret my response immediately. I should have pretended, made some impressive statement about impressionism or something. Been impressive about impressionism. I almost laugh. I know as much about impressionism as I do about brain surgery—that is, nothing.
‘I don’t know that much either,’ he says surprisingly, stepping away from the sink and turning to walk into the operating theatre, ‘but I like the idea of it too.’
‘Well, I guess art is just an expression of ideas,’ I point out, following him through the door, reminding myself to hold my hands in front of me and not to touch anything.
He smiles. ‘Exactly.’
I laugh. ‘You’re just saying that. You must know heaps.’
He laughs with me. In the operating theatre it’s like seeing him in his living room, in a strange way. He’s more relaxed, he laughs more easily, and he wants to chat.
‘You know what they say …’ I continue as we approach the steel trolley where Mr Wilde lies, drifting in and out of consciousness as the anaesthetist draws up more Propofol. ‘Art is one of the only things in this world that exists solely for pleasure.’
I realise instantly that I’ve pushed it too far.
Behind his mask, his eyes find mine. I can’t see his mouth, but I sense he’s still smiling.
‘That’s true,’ he replies. ‘You’d know if you studied history that the ancient Greeks certainly realised that.’
The innuendo hangs in the air, languidly floating between our sterile masks and the beeps of the cardiovascular monitors. I want to ask him what else he does for pleasure and to tell him that, despite my baggy scrubs and awkward intern appearance and general daily misery, I’m capable of plenty of pleasure. I want to show him that, like the ancient Greeks, I know exactly where that pleasure is, and how to achieve it.
And how.
I don’t, of course, and instead avert my eyes and busy myself with looking focused.
Mr Wilde stirs.
Dr Prince puts his hand on his shoulder, and he settles.
‘It’s all right, John. You’ll be going to sleep now.’
Mr Wilde tries to speak, but I can’t make anything out. Dr Prince leans in slightly.
‘Try not to leave a bad scar,’ Mr Wilde whispers hoarsely, attempting a smile. ‘My wife won’t forgive you. She thinks I’m ugl
y enough as it is.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Dr Prince assures him, but Mr Wilde is now under a sea of Propofol and has no idea if his last request will be granted.
‘Stop making false promises, Jack,’ the anaesthetist, who is sitting behind us, pipes up. ‘You know you always leave ugly scars.’
Dr Prince is grinning so widely I realise they must be friends. ‘Thanks for that, James.’
I turn and smile vaguely at the tall man in the little blue scrub cap.
‘Kitty, have you met James Bond yet?’ Dr Prince is still grinning as he picks up the betadine.
‘It’s actually Lloyd Bond,’ the anaesthetist corrects him. ‘But Jack does enjoy his super-original joke.’
I’ve never seen Dr Prince interact so easily with a colleague, and I’m pleased to see that he does at least seem to have one mate in the hospital.
‘How’s Margie?’ Dr Bond asks as Dr Prince starts wiping betadine prep on Mr Wilde’s head. ‘I love that painting she gave me. I’ve got it hanging above my fireplace.’
I recognise the reference to Dr Prince’s wife and try to suppress the churn in my gut.
‘She’s having an exhibition in Hong Kong,’ Dr Prince replies, frowning down at the skin beneath him. ‘While we’re all here working she’s schmoozing big-time art collectors.’
‘Is your wife an artist?’ I can’t help asking.
He smiles. ‘She is. And she knows a lot more about it than I do.’
‘Jack’s wife is famous,’ Dr Bond chimes in behind me.
I force myself to smile, and try to drag my emotions into check. What exactly are these feelings? I ask myself as Dr Prince hands me the liquid to finish prepping. Envy? To be fair, who wouldn’t be envious of a famous artist who dashes off to Hong Kong to star in fabulous art exhibitions.
Maybe it is envy. Not quite envy of another woman though, I realise as I watch him drape the blue material around Mr Wilde’s head. I have never met Mrs Prince and don’t even know what she looks like, but I can recognise the snake that writhes inside me at the time she must have spent with him, the things she must know about him. I imagine them sitting over a wine, talking about art, and I swallow.
God, I think. You really have got it bad for this bloke.
‘Kitty, can you help me with the last drape?’
I snap out of my musings and tug the blue material down, and try to smile. I banish all thoughts of Mrs Prince, vow to never have these feelings again, and focus on the patient.
Dr Prince looks down. ‘I’ve grown quite fond of John,’ he says. ‘I’d better make a decent effort with my sutures.’
‘Pity these sutures are so ugly,’ I say. ‘Mrs Wilde won’t be impressed.’
He laughs. ‘How do you think we could improve them? Sutures of gold?’
‘Why not?’
His eyes crinkle thoughtfully. ‘Have you been to Japan?’ he asks unexpectedly.
I shake my head.
‘I have a friend who collects Japanese ceramics,’ he says as a nurse ties the back of his scrub gown. ‘They have this wonderful tradition: when pottery cracks, instead of discarding it, they fill the defect with gold. They call them precious scars. Some of the pieces are really quite something.’
Even though we are standing inside an operating theatre I am transported somewhere else. I’m walking down an avenue of cherry blossoms, past ancient potters, all fixing their broken pottery with rivers of gold inside a Japanese garden.
Dr Prince has a terrible and wonderful effect on me. Later, as we lean over Mr Wilde’s open brain, I’m overly aware of his presence, and how close we’re standing to each other.
We stay like that for hours. He leans in, his miniscule tools carving a delicate path through the mess of vessels and lobes and tumour in front of us. He occasionally sets me a task and nods his approval when I complete it successfully.
‘You never know,’ he murmurs, his eyes fixed on my hands as I carefully cauterise a piece of fat, ‘we might make a surgeon out of you yet.’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, trying to figure out exactly how much finger pressure I need to put on the device so as not to burn away an important part of Mr Wilde’s brain tissue. ‘It seems like an awful lot of work.’
I’m not looking at him because I’m focusing so hard on the open brain in front of me, but I hear him laugh and feel inordinately pleased.
‘A friend of mine and I need some help on a research paper,’ he says, gently guiding my hand away from dangerous territory as I move to the next section of tumour. ‘You should think about it.’
He takes the diathermy from me, to my intense relief.
‘Sure,’ I say, flattered. ‘I’d love to.’
‘If you do a decent job, you might be able to help present it at a conference in Sweden later in the year.’
I think back to Nicole from admin’s tale about her European lover, and feel my eyebrows raise slightly.
‘My friend Wolfgang is German, but he’s been on sabbatical doing research at a university hospital in Sweden, where there’s a centre of neurosurgical research. Wolfgang has published a lot on novel immunotherapy techniques for recurrent GBM. Him and another friend of mine, a Swede—Tomas—have been working on this paper for months. I won’t be able to make it to the conference in Sweden where they are now unfortunately, but there’s another one in Fiji towards the end of the year so we’ll be able to catch up there.’ He sounds uncharacteristically animated. ‘You should come,’ he suggests.
I laugh. ‘Sure.’ I’m not exactly a big-time brain surgeon in hot demand for fun-sounding conferences on Pacific islands.
Still, my mind immediately leaves operating theatre nine and runs down a palm-fringed beach. I’m four kilograms lighter and wearing a white bikini that looks excellent against my dark tan. I imagine Dr Prince and I enjoying a chuckle about how much we both hate the Joker as we sip a crisp Australian white … or five.
‘Anyway,’ I say, moving away from him slightly, ‘the research paper sounds good. Should I email you about it?’
He tilts his head and looks over at me. I feel warmth flood my entire body; it’s either premature menopause or what Sicilians call the lightning bolt. I’m embarrassingly attracted to him. It’s becoming a bit hard to bear, if I’m completely honest with myself.
‘You should,’ he says encouragingly. ‘Actually, why don’t I email you the list today? If you get started on it now, there’s a very good chance you’ll be able to head over to Sweden and present it for the conference. If you really are keen on neurosurgery, now’s a good time to start thinking about this sort of thing—building the CV, you know.’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Not a problem,’ he says. ‘It’ll be a good opportunity for you.’
Another hour passes, and by the time the last piece of tumour is cut away and I’ve sprayed the last bit of saline into Mr Wilde’s brain, my back’s cramping and I’m starving. I don’t know how Dr Prince does it. He tells me that I can scrub out now, and I step away from Mr Wilde, relief washing over me as I’m able to move again. I pull off my scrub gown and gloves with relish; I’m free.
‘I need to go to the ward,’ Dr Prince says as his friend the anaesthetist starts to make Mr Wilde’s settings ready for his move to intensive care. ‘Kitty, can you round with me?’
As we walk out of the operating theatre together I remind myself, yet again, that I have an overactive imagination. I’m an intern. He’s my boss. This isn’t a big deal. It’s work, not a date. We’re going to look at extremely sick patients on a hospital ward, not liaise in a five-star hotel at lunchtime. Still, I feel strangely excited, as if something naughty is about to happen, even though it isn’t. Being a junior doctor is an almost painfully grounding experience, but being near Dr Prince makes me feel as if I’m in the unusual position of having my head in the clouds while my feet remain firmly planted in the mud.
I sense something in him; something that’s buried deep inside but
that shimmers close to the surface when we’re together. The need to escape, the desire to be somewhere different, far from the hospital and its politics and problems. I’m the most junior doctor in the operating theatre and he’s the most senior, but sometimes I feel as if we’re looking through the same window, separated only by a door that could easily be opened if one of us just leaned against it slightly.
Through the looking-glass, I can see the two of us, in our blue scrubs, getting into the lift and heading towards the surgical ward. We look like important doctors in a busy hospital, too busy and too important to fall into the rabbit hole.
We’re the only people in the lift. I press the button, and we stand on opposite sides of the small compartment, sizing one another up.
‘How’s the writing going?’ he asks suddenly.
I shrug. It’s not going, actually. ‘Writer’s block,’ I say. This is true. Being a junior doctor has rather sapped my creative drive.
‘You know, I’m publishing a book,’ he says, as the lift pings for level seven and we step out.
‘Really?’ I’m impressed, then envious.
‘It’s a book about the history of art,’ he says. ‘I’ve decided to start a publishing company.’
‘Oh!’ I say, laughing. ‘I thought you meant you’d written a book.’
‘The book launch is in Melbourne,’ he says.
I nod.
‘It’s next month,’ he continues. ‘On a weekend.’
I have the sudden feeling he’s trying to tell me something, but I’m terrified of misinterpreting him. Awkwardness overwhelms me. ‘So which patient should we see first?’ I call over my shoulder as I hurry towards the nurses’ station to grab the charts.
And just like that we are in professional mode once more. I follow him around the ward, writing notes in the chart and trying not to dwell on the moment in the lift.
‘I’ll email you the details of the research this afternoon,’ he says as we see the last patient. ‘And I’ll talk to Wolfgang and tell him I’ve found an intelligent and motivated junior doctor to help him.’
