The Practice Baby

by LM Ardor

  ‘How is your physical health? You have a GP, I assume?’

  ‘Good and yes.’

  ‘Are you taking any regular medication?’

  ‘Perindopril for mild hypertension.’

  ‘How is menopause treating you?’

  ‘Gently.’ A ridiculous question didn’t deserve a serious answer.

  The questions and their order were familiar. She had taken many basic psychiatric histories.

  They came to the current situation. She couldn’t deny the facts.

  She had questioned the autopsy findings. She had approached the pathologist to question his conclusions on the cause of Tom’s death. She had told the police about Tom’s and Leah’s concerns about Adam. There was no mention of Glen. Dee didn’t bring him up.

  She hadn’t accepted the authority of the police on the law or of the pathologist on the medical findings.

  ‘I understand you and Adam Fairborn …’ JJ paused and looked up at her as if looking for the right word, ‘had a liaison, when you were at university?’

  ‘Yes, for a couple of semesters. It ended early in second year. We didn’t live together but we were lovers.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  The open-ended question was a deep pit hidden under a flimsy roof of twigs and leaves on the jungle path JJ led her along. He wanted her to reveal evidence of an obsession with Adam.

  ‘Adam was my first lover and, yes, splitting up was difficult at first. I soon had another boyfriend and Adam had other girlfriends. We were in the same classes a lot of the time so we had to be civilised about it.

  ‘After university Adam went into genetics so we lost touch until he opened a private practice. I sent him patients. He is the top specialist in his field. I hadn’t seen him for years until a medical education meeting last year where he was the speaker. I haven’t had any personal contact with him for many years.’

  Dee stopped talking. JJ stared at her expectantly.

  ‘That’s it, until my patient, Tom, who died, went to see him and died shortly after. Adam rang me to find Tom’s girlfriend’s address.’

  ‘I understand the young man was somewhat of an eccentric. In his history to Professor Fairborn he confessed to being obsessive, quote, “an Aspi”. His brother is autistic. He saw Professor Fairborn because of concerns that his own child might be at risk of autism?’ JJ made it a question.

  Dee nodded.

  ‘Then, when your patient was found dead, you told the police Professor Fairborn was implicated in his death?’

  ‘No, not implicated, connected. The police had to know all the circumstances. I knew Tom his whole life. I know he didn’t die of asthma. It was murder.’

  Dee felt the drop as strongly as if the floor had given way beneath her. She had fallen into JJ’s pit.

  ‘Have there been other times in your life when people didn’t understand things you’ve experienced? Times when you have understood things beyond what others believe?’

  He was asking if she had delusions or hallucinations. No, his words were ‘have you had other’ delusions or hallucinations.

  His mind was made up before she walked through the door. Medicine was full of authority and hierarchies. Pathologists did not make mistakes. GPs could not question their competence. It was how the system worked. Dee didn’t stand a chance. If she persisted in questioning the autopsy she was delusional. She was delusional so anything she said about Tom’s death was a product of her psychosis.

  ‘No.’

  Dee was done. She wouldn’t argue or protest, wouldn’t flail about in the pit.

  She stumbled through the rest of his questions.

  The issue was not if she had a mental illness but whether her mental illness interfered with her competence to practice. He seemed satisfied. There weren’t many other questions.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Flanary, for coming to see me,’ JJ said, gums bared, canines ready to tear apart flesh.

  ‘Can I get a copy of your report?’

  ‘My brief is from the medical board so any release of the report will need to be through them.’

  ‘What will you recommend?’

  ‘Dr Flanary, I cannot pre-empt the board. They will have a range of information to help them make a recommendation. Any opinion I gave now could be misleading.

  ‘The Impaired Registrants Committee meets next week. You will be informed of their decision within a week after that. I don’t believe there are grounds to ask for an urgent suspension before that meeting.’

  One last glance at his hair transplant and Dee was out the door.

  54.

  CSI was on TV. Beatrice and Eleanor watched all the crime shows. Dee was drifting in and out of sleep on the lounge. It seemed to be the only place she did sleep lately.

  In bed, as soon as she turned out the light, the psychiatrist and the medical board’s upcoming decision would jolt her awake till the early hours. She’d read for distraction with exhausted eyes closing repeatedly till she dropped her book. That would wake her again till she fell into proper sleep for an hour from 4 to 5 am.

  *

  Remotely, she was conscious of the ‘yee-aw’ of a Skype call.

  ‘Mum. Mum.’ It was Ollie with her phone. He put it in her hand. ‘You’ve got a Skype call.’

  As she woke, the sound stopped. She was alone on the lounge with a rug over her.

  ‘Ollie, what’s happening? What’s the time?’

  ‘We didn’t want to wake you up. It’s ten thirty.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She held his hand to her cheek.

  She must have slept for two and a half hours, her longest, soundest sleep since the medical board letter. It was wonderful. She could almost cry with relief.

  The phone showed two missed Skype calls from Raj. Abbi was her first thought. He would be with her by now. Please let her be okay. Dee climbed into bed with her laptop and Skyped him back.

  ‘Dee,’ he answered straight away. She saw he was happy.

  ‘So she’s okay?’

  ‘Recovering, yes. And so far Marika hasn’t got it. We’re all so relieved.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you. A sick child puts everything else in perspective, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, even Priya is being nice to me. I can sort of see what Marina sees in her. It’s not quite happy families yet but we’re all working on it.’ Raj paused and went on in a more formal voice, ‘And I want to thank you for making me come.’

  ‘It was your decision.’

  ‘Yes, but if you hadn’t told me I had the right I might have stayed helpless. I told them when I got here that I wasn’t going to stay away after this and they both folded. It was so easy; once I’d made up my mind, they accepted it—a total surprise.’

  A pang went through Dee. Raj would move back to India. She realised how much she had started to depend on his support. She switched off the camera.

  ‘That’s lovely, I’m so happy for you.’ She tried to stop her selfish need for Raj to be in Australia from creeping into her voice.

  ‘Are you there? Your picture’s gone.’

  ‘The wi-fi slows down sometimes. It’ll be back soon. So you’ll stay for a while?’

  ‘Till the incubation period is over for Marika, another four days. Then I’ll be back more often till I get things organised. I’m so lucky.’ He stopped. ‘Dee, how are you?’

  Dee’s brain focused on ‘I’ll be back more often’.

  ‘Fine, nothing happening, kids are well, work’s work. The usual,’ Dee managed to say.

  She needed Raj to stay away from the Adam stuff. It was too raw to talk about. She was alone with the medical board worry. Ashamed. She knew she hadn’t done anything wrong but it felt shameful. Then the doubt overtook her again. If she actually was crazy and obsessed with an ex-partner, wasn’t this exactly how it would feel?

  ‘Tell me about where you are. It all sounds so exotic.’ It was easier now Raj couldn’t see her face.

  As they talked Dee went into the bathroom to
wash her eyes before she turned the camera back on. Any mention of her problems she deflected with questions about India and the girls.

  At the end of the call, Raj said, ‘I know what you’re doing and thanks. There’s no progress yet with the passwords. Once I’m home I can research Adam myself. If Tom got information I can too.’

  ‘And Glen. He could still be dangerous.’

  ‘Please, Dee, you have to consider them both to be dangerous until we know what happened. Tell me you’ll be careful.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What about Leah? No word?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Raj. ‘I’ll be back soon. Please remember to keep safe.’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  Dee couldn’t tell him that she was safe now because she was about to be discredited by the medical board. Any hope that Tom’s death would be recognised as murder was gone. She was now no threat to whoever had killed Tom. She hoped the murderer knew that.

  ‘You won’t do anything till I’m back, will you? Please promise me.’

  ‘Bye, Raj. Thanks for caring.’

  55.

  The children had started to worry about her, to check up on how much she slept and ate. She’d negotiated with them that she would stay late at work to finish some medico legal reports. The real reason was to write summaries for some of her more complex patients, the ones it would be difficult for another doctor to take over.

  She picked up a letter from her in-tray with ‘To be opened by the addressee only’ handwritten in bold capitals across the front. It was as though she had stepped on a landmine. Once seen, her peace was destroyed. She couldn’t put it down; couldn’t step away. She had to open the letter; let it detonate to blow apart her life.

  It had been sent to the surgery. The medical board correspondence had been sent to her home, and they didn’t meet for another week. It wasn’t them.

  It could be innocent, a note from a patient, an invitation to a wedding, some trick from a drug company to get her to read their advertising. The writing was somehow familiar, in blue ink from a fountain pen. She picked up her letter opener and considered that at least it was handy to plunge into her heart if …

  If what? She was at the edge of tears. In a weird self-fulfilling prophecy, the inquiry into her sanity was making her insane.

  That was stupid. It was only a letter. She ripped it open.

  My Dear Dee

  I am sorry!

  I was shocked to hear the medical board has taken this heavy-handed approach. My expectation was an informal discussion and for them to encourage you to see a therapist.

  Please, as you probably know, I was a member of the board for some years and still provide expert opinions from time to time. I think my connections mean something.

  I would be happy to get in touch before their next meeting and suggest a gentler way forward. You are a good GP. We can’t let this aberration ruin your career.

  Please let’s talk about how to proceed. I do want to help.

  Can we meet, soon?

  Once again, I am so terribly sorry. Please let me help.

  Your friend

  Adam

  She put the paper down, sat back in her chair and picked it up again. Adam said he was sorry and wanted to help. Was that possible? She didn’t want to be deregistered. Was this a chance to avoid it? But to accept help from Adam and to agree that she was deluded about Tom being murdered was difficult to swallow.

  So far nothing she had done about bringing Tom’s murderer to justice had got anywhere. Should she give in and pretend to accept the autopsy? Maybe her reaction really was a product of her overstressed, grief-stricken imagination?

  Was she really crazy?

  Perhaps she should find out what Adam had to offer. She picked up her phone to ring him. His number was on the letter in front of her. She entered the numbers and sat with the phone in her hand. She let her thoughts wander over Tom’s life; from the baby she’d bonded with when he was five days old to the excited adult who was planning a baby of his own. Raj and Leah, the other people who really knew Tom, both believed he had been killed. Both of them were suspicious of Adam.

  The green call symbol and Adam were a finger’s length away. Raj words, ‘be careful’, came back to her. He was right. She couldn’t be sure about Adam, or Glen. She didn’t press the button. Relief flooded through her. She deleted the numbers and sent a text to Beatrice.

  ‘On my way. What’s for dinner? Mum xxx’

  56.

  Dee grabbed her bag for an emergency home visit to Lil, whose behaviour had deteriorated due to severe constipation. A manual evacuation was unpleasant but more effective and quicker than massive doses of laxatives. Jock was grateful. He promised, as he did at every visit, to ‘do a good clean-up to find those car numbers’.

  Who would take over Dee’s housebound and nursing-home patients if she was banned from practice? No one was indispensable but the home visits were difficult. They cost more than they paid—a courtesy to people she had seen for years until they deteriorated; a long-term relationship. To ask another doctor to take on a home-visit patient they had never seen, and at a financial loss, was difficult. The other doctors at the practice would be stretched to see her regular patients without an extra half-day or more for the housebound.

  Had the others at the practice guessed something was wrong? There were no signs. She’d have to tell them soon, give them some warning. And tell the rest of the staff and the kids. She dreaded those conversations. How long would the medical board give her to sort out her patients once they made their decision?

  She headed to reception to pick up some more Medicare slips for her bag. Her pigeonhole was stuffed full with old paper files. She looked; it was the two thick volumes of Tom Harris’s pre-computer notes. She felt dizzy; put her arm against the wall. A ghost had appeared. There was so much of him in those thick tomes.

  A couple of deep breaths and she could stay up without support. She told herself to get on with it. Life was for the living. Nothing would be achieved by being upset. That was a useless indulgence.

  Being struck off might even be a relief. She could get some sleep. She wouldn’t have to come to work and face these reminders of her failure.

  Did her disability insurance cover being struck off? She hadn’t checked yet. She should do it but the thought of it made her feel nauseous.

  If only Raj were here.

  The two files, each the size of a ream of paper, were piled on top of each other. She put down her doctor’s bag and picked up the top one. Attached to the front was a request for a copy of the records from the insurance company.

  ‘Do you know what’s happening with this?’ she asked Janelle.

  ‘That’s what I want to ask you,’ said Janelle. ‘It’ll take at least a day for one person to copy all that. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Print out the computer file— it goes back nine years—and send that with a note about the cost of copying the rest. If they’re willing to pay we can give Helen some extra hours to do it.’

  Dee thought the insurance company wouldn’t need or want all the old paper file, but for a payout of $500,000—maybe it was worth their while trawling through Tom’s childhood?

  *

  Dee arrived back at the surgery at five thirty. There was only one emergency call to handle before she went home. Home to spend the next fifteen hours on useless rumination.

  Adam’s letter was still there in her in-tray—a potential way out. She opened her phone and saved Adam’s phone numbers to her contacts. She could ring him before she left. Meet somewhere public on the way home from work. What harm could he do?

  Dee was still slumped in her chair when Janelle put her head around the door. Dee wished her away. She needed to be alone to gather the courage to speak to Adam.

  ‘Yes?’ She said with a tired sigh.

  ‘Sorry but I didn’t know what to do, even the computer file for Tom Harris is
enormous. Is the insurance company willing to pay for everything, or just the clinical notes?’

  Dee forced herself to concentrate. An idea triggered in her brain. She sat up.

  ‘Hang on, give me a minute. Don’t do anything yet. And can you get William or Chris to sort out the INR for Harry? I have to check something else.’

  Dee logged back into her computer and opened Tom’s notes. Her hands shook and her lips were dry. She almost didn’t want to know if she was right or not.

  No—this had to be done. She took a breath and clicked through the headings until she found what she was searching for.

  ‘Peak Flow Charts’. She opened them. Tom’s precise charts went back years. They were scans of the paper charts he brought in. She looked for the date of his last visit, the day two weeks before his death, the day he’d insisted she import his peak flows as an excel spreadsheet.

  At first glance they were the same as the photocopied versions but at the bottom of the screen were tabs for extra sheets.

  She moved her mouse down and clicked the first tab.

  At the top of several lines of text there was a date and a name and a link.

  She copied and pasted the link into Google. It was a newspaper article in a foreign language.

  The next link was to a translation, incomplete but enough to establish that the article reported the death in a car crash of a scientist, Erik Lindquist, during a conference in Istanbul in 2003. Then several pages of information about the conference Lindquist was attending. An obituary from the Journal of Molecular Genetics talked of the great loss to genetics and of his future as a Nobel laureate for his research in gene splicing. The conference program had photos and profiles of the keynote speakers. Immediately below that of Lindquist was a face that startled Dee. Adam Fairborn, MD, PhD.

  Dee flicked open the six tabs. Each was about the death of one individual, with stories from several sources and a note about how the person was connected to Adam Fairborn. This was the proof she needed for the psychiatrist and the medical board.