Twenty-three years old
Kath
My tea is cold by the time I find it. It sits abandoned on the desk next to a stack of admission booklets, a film of milk puckered on top. I take a sip anyway, and then immediately regret it. Ugh. Being a newly qualified doctor apparently means never drinking a hot cup of tea again.
My pager vibrates against my collarbone like a trapped bee and I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath.
It. Just. Won’t. Stop.
I have no idea what’s happening in the hospital today, but I haven’t had a minute to myself. Well, maybe it’s not just today. It was like this last week too. I guess that’s just winter in paediatrics.
The nurse answers on the first ring. “Ward two, Jack in bed nine has dipping oxygen saturations again.”
“I’m coming.”
I know Jack. I was with him just a few hours ago. My mask rubs the grooves deeper into my cheeks, and my blue scrubs tug at my hips when I lengthen my stride. I pass the playroom, with its lonely dinosaur stickers peeling from the window, and push through the double doors back into the ward’s heat.
The boy in bed nine is tiny. His chest works like a bellows, ribs tugging with every breath, nasal prongs taped to soft cheeks. His mum looks up at me with the sleepless eyes I’ve started to recognise on this ward.
I spend thirty minutes with the pair of them before heading back to my desk. I’m just contemplating microwaving my tea when the bleep goes off again.
I consider throwing it into the nearest biohazard bin. Instead, I answer.
“Hi, it’s Charlotte from triage. The new patient in bed fourteen needs bloods. And a parent in bay five is crying because the vending machine ate their last two pounds.”
Of course the vending machine would do that. “OK. I’ll swing by in five minutes after I’ve sorted some things out up here.”
“You’re doing brilliantly,” I tell the mum of the latest admission as she comforts her child after I take blood.
Bleep.
My pager goes again. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
Walking past the vending machine, I spot the crying parent. She’s sitting on a plastic chair designed for a five year old, head in her hands. A pram is parked beside her, an empty crisp packet crushed under one wheel. When she looks up, her eyes are wet.
“It ate my two pounds.” Her laugh sounds borderline hysterical. “I know it’s stupid. It’s just… I’ve been here twelve hours. And I’m so tired, and so hungry… I just wanted a chocolate bar.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say. “I’ve wanted a tea all day.”
“I’d kill for a tea.”
“I can make you one,” I offer. “The staff room’s just around the corner.”
She starts to protest, and I shake my head. “It’s five minutes. If someone needs me, they’ll bleep me.” They’ll bleep me anyway, my brain adds helpfully. “Milk? Sugar?”
We walk the short corridor. I tap my card. The kettle squeals; the fluorescent light flickers.
“Thank you,” the woman whispers when I hand her the cup. “I’m so tired.”
“I know,” I say, and I mean it. We’re all tired in here. Tired is the house style.
The next time I sit down again, it’s four hours later. The creaky chair feels like the nicest thing I’ve touched all day. I pull off my mask, but the lines stay on my face like fingerprints and the skin behind my ears burns. My tea’s still there. Now very, very cold.
I let my head fall back against the wall and open my phone. There’s a text from this morning.
Theo: Can you come this weekend?
He’s working in Manchester for his two foundation years, and the pair of us have barely seen each other in the last few months. I rack my memory. I think the last time we spent a day together was at least two weeks ago. If not more. Not great when you’ve been dating for just over eighteen months.
I look back at my phone. There’s another text sent two hours later.
Theo: Kath?
Two hours after that.
Theo: Don’t worry I know it’s busy. Maybe another time.
The guilt comes on like a migraine. In fact, I think I might be getting a migraine. Or maybe I'm just very hungry and very tired… could be that.
I type: I’m sorry. It’s carnage. I’ll try for Manchester on Sat but the person on nights this weekend is off sick so who knows. I know we were meant to meet up. I miss you
I try to work out what else to say.
I just don’t know if I’ll be able to visit Theo even if I’m not working. I’m meant to be revising for an exam, and it’s taking up all my free time. Who knew that being an adult would come with this many exams? So much for finishing them all after finals.
Bleep.
And just like that, I’m back up again.
When I slip back into the office an hour later, my legs are threatening to give out. I still haven’t had my lunch, and it’s 3 p.m. My phone lights up as I pull it out.
Message not sent. Tap to try again.
Of course. I tap. The message finally sends. Poor Theo.
My phone buzzes.
Tom: Have you eaten?
I stare at the three words for a long time. I think the last thing I ate was half a biscuit at 11 a.m. But today is beginning to blur into yesterday so I could be wrong.
Me: Yep, sort of. All good. Busy though. You OK?
Lie sent. Blue ticks on the screen. My chest aches, and I don’t know whether it’s hunger or something else. I miss spending time with my friends. I miss Sam. When I’m as tired as this it’s hard to remember that I can’t just call him. This is exactly the moment when I’d need my best friend.
Tom: I’m fine. Try to leave on time. I’ll drop you round some food.
I smile, I don’t know what I’d do without my brother.
The door creaks; one of the nurses pokes her head in. “Sorry, Kath—Jack in bed nine’s mum wanted you. He’s settled, but she has questions about tonight.”
“Right.” I stand. My knees click. “I’m coming.”
***
By the time I get home, it’s two hours later than my shift was meant to end. Of course it is. January eats time and spits out bones.
The stairwell smells like damp that’s been mixed with someone’s dinner from three floors down.
My key sticks in the lock and my shoulders ache in that deep, stringy way that means I’ve been tensing them all day.
The flat is dark except for the fairy lights I never take down because overhead bulbs feel like the hospital.
There’s a Tupperware on the table with a Post-it stuck to the lid: Pasta.
Eat it please—T. Bless Tom. I kick off my shoes, shrug the scrubs off into a heap by the washing machine and stand under the shower until the water runs lukewarm.
After microwaving the pasta I eat it standing up, fork clicking against plastic. My phone buzzes; for a second I think it’s the bleep and my heart rate spikes. Nope. Phantom bleep. Just a text.
Theo: Long day? Call if you get in.
Theo: If you can’t make Saturday, tell me now so I can swap a shift.
I wipe sauce off my thumb and stare at the calendar magneted to the fridge. My housemate Flo moved in with her boyfriend two weeks ago, so I'm living alone now, just about managing to scrape the rent together. It’s odd looking at a calendar with only one person’s shifts.
Me: I don’t think I can. I’m so sorry.
Theo: Don’t worry, I understand. I had to swap a shift so I can’t come visit the weekend after.
Me: That’s OK.
I put the Tupperware in the sink, fill it with water and a squirt of detergent, and then open the cupboard where the textbooks live.
Membership Exam—Core Revision. The spine of the book is cracked, highlighter stripes like war paint across the respiratory disease pages.
I carry it to the table and stack my notes on top: flashcards with bent corners, a dog-eared printout.
I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes and open a past paper. I read the first question three times before my brain kicks into gear and I start writing. My handwriting slants downhill. I blink hard and the words swim for a second before snapping back into rows.
Timer: 17:42.
OK. ABG interpretation next. I sketch the alveolar gas equation like I didn’t already do it five times this week. My hand cramps. I flex my fingers and shake them out.
Timer: 11:03.
I turn to another question set and stare at the page. I can’t have forgotten this already; I swear I revised it last week.
Timer: 05:41.
I pause it and stand to make tea, forget the kettle is empty, fill it, put it back on the base wrong, fix it, watch steam thread up and vanish in the cold strip of window.
Hospital tea tastes like paper; home tea tastes like…
not hospital. I bring the mug back to the table and realise I never added the bag. Idiot.
Timer: 02:12.
I try to read a section on colloid versus crystalloid fluid bolus in sepsis. No. Not going in.
Timer: 00:27.
The alarm trills, and I jerk like I’ve been defibrillated. Thirty minutes. It felt like five and also a year. I set another alarm and grab my flashcards. The first card asks about paediatric resus drug doses; my stomach flips. I flag it to come back later. Coward.
My phone buzzes and I pull it towards me. I can see myself reflected in the screen. Lopsided ponytail, and bags under my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide. Tom’s calling. I put him on speaker, propping the phone against my mug.
“Wow,” he says by way of hello. “Didn’t expect you to pick up. Thought you’d be married to a resus mannequin by now.”
“Rude.” I uncap my pen again. “I’m cheating on the mannequin with a textbook.”
“Did you find the Tupperware?”
“I did. The food was delicious, thank you. I’m going to re-name you Captain Tupperware on my phone.”
“I might try a new recipe next week,” he says enthusiastically and I wince. Tom’s a dreadful cook. This one pasta he makes is good, but the rest… However, given my brother is kindly delivering me food, I’m in no position to comment.
“Sounds great.”
“Liar,” he laughs. “Anyway, I didn’t expect you to pick up. You should go to bed.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, circling a dosage in the textbook I’m suddenly not sure about. “Physiology revision is melting my brain.”
“Then park the brain, and go to sleep,” he says, teacher voice switched on. “Revision is a wall you build brick by brick, not all at once.”
I snort. “Who knew teachers could be poetic?”
“I’m quoting myself from Year 11. It worked on you then.”
“Only because you bribed me with Jelly Babies.”
“I’ll bribe you again,” he says. “I’ll drop more food round tomorrow, with Jelly Babies. But only if you go to bed soon.”
“Bossy.”
“Genetic. Also—are you still going to Manchester this weekend?”
“No.” I press the heel of my hand between my eyes. “And Theo isn’t free the weekend after. Anyway I’m going to do another twenty-five minutes now and then head to bed.”
“Ten.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen,” he bargains, amusement warm through the speaker, “and I’ll throw in Haribo alongside the Jelly Babies.”
I can’t help smiling. “Deal.”
“Night, sis.”
“Night.”
I tap the call away and turn over the next card.
Fifteen minutes. I set the timer and try to make some more room in my brain.
I feel like something isn’t right with me.
I’ve always worked hard, but it’s never felt this all-consuming.
This exhausting. But it’s just a busy time in the hospital, I just need to push through and everything will be better.
I yawn and flip onto the next flashcard.