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Kind permission received from Faber and Faber Ltd to quote from ‘Four Quartets’
by T.S. Eliot on pages vii, 283 and 289.
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Q
‘Was he dying too?’ asked one of the two medical students
listening to the story with wide eyes.
Q
‘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?’
birth
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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.’
‘Yeah, that happened to me too,’ Estelle says gloomily, staring
into her coffee. ‘In emergency I think I’ll have to put in heaps
of cannulas. It’s awful.’
Max is shaking his head. ‘I’m so glad I haven’t started on a
surgical or emergency term like you guys. Respiratory is so great.’
Max has had the incredibly good fortune of being rotated
to a respiratory term in summer. Pneumonia being tradition-
ally a winter illness, he only has two or three patients to look
after. Sadly, neurosurgical patients don’t seem to have a climatic
preference.
Interns operate on a system of terms. You have some choice
in this, but there are standard experiences every junior doctor
needs to have under their belt before the medical board deems
us fit to progress. At a bare minimum, you need to do a surgical
term, a medical term and an emergency term. I’ve requested
nearly all surgical terms. It’s inevitable, really, that I will be a
surgeon. My fate was sealed years ago in a delivery suite at the
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for them it is, I suppose. I’ve heard other doctors say they enjoy
surgery because it’s straightforward; they can just ‘go and get
things done’. It’s a world away from the complexities of human
interactions with difficult patients on that other planet—the
ward. But that’s not at all how I see surgery. I like the grace and
precision it requires, while all the time being aware that at any
moment things can go wrong, that the careful choreography
of the theatre can descend into chaos. The fact that so often it
doesn’t is, for me, miraculous. The operating theatre is a place
where magic happens.
Estelle is staring at me. ‘Earth to Kitty . . .’
I snap myself back to the present. ‘You know,’ I say, in answer
to her question, ‘blood and knives and power and pain and
mercy and magic. It’s all in there.’
Estelle smiles. ‘There’s the Kitty Holliday I know and love:
half surgeon, half writer.’
‘How’s the book going, mate?’ Max asks, upending his
milkshake to drain the dregs.
I sigh. Despite the subliminal pressure to become a doctor—a
surgeon, no less—I also grew up in a house full of literature
with an English teacher for a mother. She instilled in me a love
for language; words are my oldest and greatest friends. Mum’s
texts asking if I was studying for my medical exams were always
peppered with quotes from obscure poets. No wonder I have
an identity crisis. It’s because I’m on the Pisces–Aries cusp,
I reckon. The creative dreamer is always doing battle with the
pragmatic, determined future surgeon. I write to escape, and
for the last few years—ever since I started medical school—I’ve
been working on a novel. But progress has been slow; there was
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and the junior consultant who might have been able to offer
me some direction has been in theatre the last five hours. I have
thus spent my morning with no supervision and perpetually
confused.
‘I should have stayed a stripper, I reckon,’ Estelle says suddenly.
‘I was such a good stripper.’
I’d met Estelle at the start of my medical degree when we
ended up at the pub together after sneaking out of the last lecture
early. Half a beer in, Estelle told me that she’d worked on and
off as a stripper for the last few years, as well as engaging in some
hard-core partying, but had decided it was time to go straight,
so to speak. After blitzing a year of a science degree, she’d trans-
ferred across to medicine. I can still picture Estelle standing next
to me in the coffee line on our first day of medical school, in her
white summery dress with her Longines watch, lying through
her teeth to the guy next to us that she wanted to become a
doctor to save the masses. Even at the time I thought she looked
like she’d be more comfortable in day spas rather than medical
tents inside third-world war zones.
‘Do you think I’d be a good stripper?’ Max asks hopefully.
‘We could leave all this behind and start a doctors’ strip show.
What do you reckon, Kitty? Stripping would have to be more
fun than surgery. Think about it—no more cannulas.’
‘It’d definitely be a niche market, the stripper who nearly
gives you a heart attack with their amazing sex appeal but then
turns around and is able to save your life with effective CPR,’
I agree, ‘and kind of hot.’ But even though I know he’s only
joking, it makes me think. What is it that I really want? Why
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I stop scrolling.
He peers at the image. ‘What do you see?’
I look. Subdural, I think to myself. Subdural haemorrhage,
but not totally white, so maybe a bit old. Subacute subdural, then?
‘I don’t know,’ I say finally, scared to get it wrong.
‘It’s a subacute subdural,’ he says. ‘You should have known that.’
I hate myself.
‘I thought that—’
‘You didn’t think anything,’ he says flatly. ‘Don’t pretend.’
Our eyes meet for a moment. He has brown eyes, and is tall
with blondish hair. If I’d met him at a bar, I would have thought
he was good-looking—sexy even. He would tell me he was a
doctor—a brain surgeon, no less—and I would be impressed.
I’d hope that he would buy me a drink. Maybe more than one.
I would tell my mother about him and hope that he wanted to
be my boyfriend. A real-life brain surgeon. Wow.
‘Interns always pretend,’ he says, ‘but we always know when
you’re lying.’
I stretch my lips in a smile, as if he has made a joke. I read an
article once that said even if you’re feeling really unhappy, when
you smile it triggers off the happy response in your brain. So
even in the worst of situations, the article advised, force yourself
to smile and you’ll feel better. Simple brain connections and
chemistry. Happiness is just dopamine, a few neural pathways,
and a big, fake smile. I should know. I am a happy young doctor,
after all.
He smiles back at me. We sit there, stretching our lips at
each other. His teeth gleam, reflecting the light of the computer
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I met Winnie when I was nine years old and we have been
inseparable ever since, other than a period when her family
relocated to the UK for a few years during our teens. We don’t
talk about that time too much, because Winnie’s mother died
over there after a sudden diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I know
she thinks about it, though—sometimes a dark cloud will come
over her face, and Max and I sense to leave her alone.
‘The fitness instructor?’ I say.
Winnie rolls her eyes. ‘I should have known. A fitness freak
who doesn’t drink. Stupid.’
‘Non-drinking is a huge red flag,’ Max offers helpfully.
‘Madness.’
‘Anyway, forget about the fitness instructor—we want to
have a house party,’ Winnie tells me. ‘This house would be
great for a party.’
I can feel number 19 smiling.
By the time we finish another bottle of wine it’s settled.
We were born to party, and number 19 is a house born to be
partied in.
‘How was the rest of your day, mate?’ Max asks. ‘Do you
reckon you’ll have to stay that late every day?’
I shrug, feeling demoralised. ‘I hope not.’
‘Did you meet any sexy doctors?’ Winnie asks.
‘Just one guy, the junior consultant,’ I say, suddenly realising
I’ll have to see the Joker again in the morning and feeling even
more dejected.
‘And?’ Winnie looks hopeful.
‘And I’ve nicknamed him the Joker because he’s so horrible.’
Max looks pained. ‘One of those then.’
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‘Yeah.’
Winnie leans over with the wine. ‘Shit, mate, that sucks.’
She tops up my glass, then launches into a hilarious account
of her date.
I lean back into the old couch, and feel myself relax into
laughter. By the time I go to bed an hour later, I’ve almost
forgotten I have work in the morning. I am reminded by the
view of the hospital through my bedroom window. I sigh and
close the shutters.
I set the alarm then get into bed and try to will myself into
sleep. It’s only day two of doctoring tomorrow, I remind myself.
It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Just take it one day at a time.
I hug my pillow for comfort and, just for a minute, forget
myself and wish that Fabien was lying next to me. He always
knew how to lift my spirits. But you don’t think about Fabien
anymore, I remind myself. I banish the thought, immediately.
My phone pings on my bedside table. I pick it up and see a
message from Max.
BREAKING NEWS, it reads. Surgical intern contaminates
sterile field with tears!
I LOL for real.
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