sprang apart under my scalpel; small packets of red-rimmed fat bulged into view. A wet meat smell seeped upwards into the room.
Foetal distress. Obstructed labour. Undiagnosed breech, inexperienced registrar. The decision to operate had been easy. The operation was easy. Dissect to the fascia, separate the rectus abdominis muscles, slit the uterine wall, suck out the meconium-stained amniotic fluid and reach inside, my own swollen belly making the movements awkward. A few tense seconds spent pulling the wedged shoulders free with a see-saw motion, and then the small, greasy body was out. A stuttering wail, string-white arms widely outstretched: a blood-wet, healthy girl. I handed her to the waiting paediatrician. My back ached. Bending was difficult now I was twenty-four weeks pregnant. I couldn’t stop now, though I could have handed the sewing-up to the registrar at my elbow. Giving up wasn’t an option.
‘When the going gets tough the tough get going.’
He smiles as he says it. We’re in the car, on the way to the pool. Six a.m. and raining. I smile back. It’s easy now. When I win, he smiles. I can tell he’s happy. He eats more. He’s reading books again. He’s stopped drinking.
Practice makes perfect; that’s another thing he says. He tells me I must never, ever give up.
Every morning is the same. He reads the paper and does his work by the side of the pool. I train. He thinks he’s doing this for me. How can I tell him it’s the other way round?
I have a coach, and we concentrate on different things. Today it’s my hands: how to tilt them in as they go into the water and how to cup the fingers. I swim length after length after length just focusing on my hands.
Never, ever give up.
I concentrated on the open wound, the placenta and the bleeding. The midwife’s chatter faded as I worked, the mask damp against my face.
Twenty minutes later I was done. Fifteen more, I was driving slowly across Hampstead Heath in the slate grey of early dawn. Leaves lay in dark piles around the trees and in blown heaps along the gutter. A young fox trotted over the road, almost under the car wheels, head high – I had to brake quickly. He must have seen the car but hadn’t taken in the danger: it was too big, too near, too alien. The white-tipped brush disappeared into the bushes. The
wildlife on the Heath was hidden by day and, drawing into the kerb, I slid the window open to absorb more. The cool air was sharpened with the scent of wet grass and rotting wood; a few moments later, birdsong unspooled from the surrounding trees. My hands relaxed; the sudden tears were cold on my cheeks.
A police car drove by slowly; a man’s weary face glanced, not unkindly, through my window. I started the ignition again and pushed my head hard back into the seat to stretch my aching neck muscles, turning my head from side to side, while I replayed the operation I’d just done, checking for mistakes. There had been none. It had all gone smoothly, though I’d forgotten the patient’s name; had I ever known it? Did it matter? I was her obstetrician, not her friend. She didn’t need my friendship, just my skill. I turned the car into our street, then let it glide down the hill to our house. The operation had been swift: the child’s brain had remained oxygenated; she would be normally intelligent. The mother’s wounds would heal. That was enough. I got out of the car, glancing around at the empty street, with its row of curtained houses. If there was something more I should be doing or being, it was hidden from me.
Adam was lying on his side in the bedroom. I pulled up the blind to let in the light, opened the window,
then sat on the bed to watch him. Sleeping, he looked younger, more as he had when I’d first met him, though he was already older than the rest of us. Changing career from the City, he had been more mature, schooled in organization. His notes had always been filed, cross-referenced, indexed; everything to hand.
Foetal distress. Obstructed labour. Undiagnosed breech, inexperienced registrar. The decision to operate had been easy. The operation was easy. Dissect to the fascia, separate the rectus abdominis muscles, slit the uterine wall, suck out the meconium-stained amniotic fluid and reach inside, my own swollen belly making the movements awkward. A few tense seconds spent pulling the wedged shoulders free with a see-saw motion, and then the small, greasy body was out. A stuttering wail, string-white arms widely outstretched: a blood-wet, healthy girl. I handed her to the waiting paediatrician. My back ached. Bending was difficult now I was twenty-four weeks pregnant. I couldn’t stop now, though I could have handed the sewing-up to the registrar at my elbow. Giving up wasn’t an option.
‘When the going gets tough the tough get going.’
He smiles as he says it. We’re in the car, on the way to the pool. Six a.m. and raining. I smile back. It’s easy now. When I win, he smiles. I can tell he’s happy. He eats more. He’s reading books again. He’s stopped drinking.
Practice makes perfect; that’s another thing he says. He tells me I must never, ever give up.
Every morning is the same. He reads the paper and does his work by the side of the pool. I train. He thinks he’s doing this for me. How can I tell him it’s the other way round?
I have a coach, and we concentrate on different things. Today it’s my hands: how to tilt them in as they go into the water and how to cup the fingers. I swim length after length after length just focusing on my hands.
Never, ever give up.
I concentrated on the open wound, the placenta and the bleeding. The midwife’s chatter faded as I worked, the mask damp against my face.
Twenty minutes later I was done. Fifteen more, I was driving slowly across Hampstead Heath in the slate grey of early dawn. Leaves lay in dark piles around the trees and in blown heaps along the gutter. A young fox trotted over the road, almost under the car wheels, head high – I had to brake quickly. He must have seen the car but hadn’t taken in the danger: it was too big, too near, too alien. The white-tipped brush disappeared into the bushes. The
wildlife on the Heath was hidden by day and, drawing into the kerb, I slid the window open to absorb more. The cool air was sharpened with the scent of wet grass and rotting wood; a few moments later, birdsong unspooled from the surrounding trees. My hands relaxed; the sudden tears were cold on my cheeks.
A police car drove by slowly; a man’s weary face glanced, not unkindly, through my window. I started the ignition again and pushed my head hard back into the seat to stretch my aching neck muscles, turning my head from side to side, while I replayed the operation I’d just done, checking for mistakes. There had been none. It had all gone smoothly, though I’d forgotten the patient’s name; had I ever known it? Did it matter? I was her obstetrician, not her friend. She didn’t need my friendship, just my skill. I turned the car into our street, then let it glide down the hill to our house. The operation had been swift: the child’s brain had remained oxygenated; she would be normally intelligent. The mother’s wounds would heal. That was enough. I got out of the car, glancing around at the empty street, with its row of curtained houses. If there was something more I should be doing or being, it was hidden from me.
Adam was lying on his side in the bedroom. I pulled up the blind to let in the light, opened the window,
then sat on the bed to watch him. Sleeping, he looked younger, more as he had when I’d first met him, though he was already older than the rest of us. Changing career from the City, he had been more mature, schooled in organization. His notes had always been filed, cross-referenced, indexed; everything to hand.
Similar Books
