Chapter 42 Twenty-five years old Kath
Twenty-five years old
Kath
Isquint at the computer screen as I type up my notes, attempting and failing to stifle a yawn. It’s got to the point where I barely notice the machines around me beeping. The only thing that could break my concentration is the ring of an emergency buzzer.
“Kath, do you want to take your break now?” I look up to see Dr Desai standing by me. He’s the lead consultant in the emergency department today, in charge of when we all take our breaks.
“Is it a good time?” I ask, looking at the long list of people waiting. It’s mid-afternoon but already there’s a three-hour wait to see a doctor. I don’t feel like I can leave for lunch when people have been sitting in the waiting room for hours, their worried family members with them.
And it’s not just the waiting room. The whole department is full.
Ambulances are backed up and there are people being cared for in the corridors.
Nobody ever said that working during a pandemic would be easy, but I don’t think I expected it to feel this hard.
To constantly be worrying about the patients.
To check their notes the next day and realise that some of them haven’t made it.
“It’s never a good time.” He crinkles his eyes at me in what’s become our mask-wearing equivalent of smiling at one another. “But it’s a better time than some, and you’ll stop being productive if you don’t take a break.”
I know he’s right. But looking at the waiting list and how long people have been sitting in chairs in the department gives me a low level of constant anxiety.
“I just need to discharge this person and then I can go,” I tell him, and he nods.
He’s a great consultant, and this is a great department. It’s just hard not to feel burnt out. All the patients are stressed, everyone’s lives are hard at the moment, and constantly fluctuating each time the rules change.
When I arrive in the break room, there’s no one else there.
I sigh as I walk to the fridge to find my lunch.
Life is isolating enough at the moment; it would be nice to have someone to talk to.
I still live alone and I really need to think about moving somewhere else.
Making the rent is a monthly struggle, but it’s hard to find somewhere new in a pandemic.
As my food microwaves, I absentmindedly watch the TV in the corner whilst massaging the divots my mask has left on my cheeks.
The BBC are playing clips from the last Olympics whilst some pundits talk about the upcoming Games and their predictions.
I wonder what it must be like doing the Olympics now.
Having it delayed by a year due to the pandemic and then going to a place where there are no crowds must be strange.
I don’t know if the athletes will even get to visit Tokyo properly or just spend their whole time in a cordoned-off area.
It makes me think of Sam. It’s been more than four years since we last spoke face-to-face. As if summoned by my thoughts, his face appears on the screen and some of his old race footage starts to play. I can’t look away. Emotional masochism strikes again.
As I eat, I look up the Olympic swimming timetable, working out when I need to send my texts.
If he qualifies for it, which he should, his first final would be on Tuesday, the same time as my next set of night shifts, so with the time difference I could probably watch the races if I time my breaks right.
At least it’d give me something to do other than worrying about my patients.
I shake myself. Why am I thinking like this?
It’s probably just the loneliness. When I first moved to London, I was still going out with Theo, but he was based in Manchester.
We made it work for a few months but eventually broke up.
We didn’t even fight about it; the whole thing was disconcertingly amicable.
We just didn’t have time for each other, and slowly realised that neither of us was trying hard enough to make any.
I’d rather spend my free weekend in London catching up with my school friends or seeing my family than on another train to Manchester, and he clearly felt the same.
It was a slow realisation that we weren’t in love.
We never had been. Nobody seemed that upset about it.
Not me, not Theo and not any of our friends.
Tom told me that he sat through a three-hour long lecture on post-war European coal trade agreements, and it was less dry than a fifteen-minute conversation with Theo, which I felt was slightly unfair.
As I walk back down the stairs to the emergency department, the jarring sound of the crash call bell blares from a cubicle, and my heart rate spikes.
Beep.
I remember the last crash call I attended, an elderly man who caught COVID at a birthday party. His wife came in two days later. She died as well.
Beep.
I remember the young asthmatic girl, gasping that she felt like she was drowning. She had the same trainers as me.
Beep.
I remember the night shift where I had to call two families to tell them their loved ones were gone.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I run through my personal graveyard.
“Dr Ford,” one of the nurses calls. “Kath?”
She’s looking at me frantically. I shake myself and grab a pair of gloves from the wall before walking into the room to help. The heat of the gown and gloves on top of the mask feels stifling, but I try to breathe through it. I can do this.
***
A week later, it’s 4 a.m. and I’m at work. I’m always at work.
The department hasn’t slowed down since my night shift started, and I still haven’t taken my break. I’m exhausted. Exhausted and hungry. When I finally find the consultant in charge, she nods when I ask to go for my food. Checking my watch I realise I’m just in time to see the first swim final.
They’re just announcing the swimmers as I put my food into the microwave, and I smile as I watch Austin walking out to the poolside, earphones in, head bopping to music.
The last few years look good on him. It’s so odd to watch this on the television.
I miss watching a race with the smell of chlorine around me and the buzz of the other people in the stands.
Sam qualified fastest. Which I shouldn’t know but I do, because I’ve been checking all the swimming times. Old habits die hard.
He’s the only British swimmer in the race, up against the usual cohort of Team USA and Australian swimmers who dominate in the pool. The commentator starts talking about his last Olympics, the golds from Rio, the medals from Paris. It’s a lot of pressure.
The microwave pings, but I can’t tear myself away from the screen as they take to their blocks.
By the time they’re on the breaststroke, I’m jumping up and down in front of the television.
If anyone walked into the room now I’d look like I was having some sort of meltdown, screaming at the television in an empty room.
My heart’s in my mouth as I watch the timer on the top of the screen when they start the front crawl.
He’s just holding onto the world record pace; if anything, he is inching faster than it with each stroke.
This is everything he ever wanted when he was younger.
I remember him chanting that number on the way to training.
I remember him being disappointed after the last Olympics that he was milliseconds off it.
I remember him telling his mum excitedly the first time a coach said they thought he might be able to break the record with enough training.
I wish I was there to watch this happen in real life.
It hurts so much that I’m not, and that he wouldn’t want me there anyway.
When he touches the wall I let out a shriek of victory. The timer reads 4 minutes, 3 seconds, 12 milliseconds. He’s taken the record.
Tears prick my eyes as I watch him celebrate.
Austin comes in third and leans over the rope to pull Sam into a hug, ruffling his hair as he pulls off his cap.
The commentators on the BBC are going mad, but Sam almost looks confused as he stares at the board.
A tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away.
As the adrenaline slowly begins to die down, I remember that I’m actually at work and need to eat my food. I open the microwave and my pasta’s gone cold. Laughing at myself, I heat it up again.
I shake my head. A world record. I always knew he could do it.
I’ve just finished my food, watching the women’s backstroke heats, when my phone starts to buzz. Who on earth is calling me at four in the morning? My brows lift when I see Austin’s name flash up on the screen. I can’t even remember the last time we spoke on the phone.
“Hey!” I say, accepting the call. “Well done for earlier!”
“Hi, Kath. Thanks.” He sounds oddly frantic for someone who just finished a final. “I’m so sorry to call you, but it’s about Sam. I’m a bit worried about him.” He pauses. “Sorry, I know it’s a lot to call you, but… well… I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s happened?” I ask, suddenly on high alert. “Has he injured himself? He looked fine a few minutes ago?”
“No, he hasn’t injured himself,” he reassures me.
“We warmed down together and then went to the showers before doing the media.” There’s a long pause.
“Kath, I think he’s having a panic attack.
I can’t get him to calm down, and I didn’t know who else to call.
He didn’t want me to call the coach or a medic. ”
I freeze. I’ve never known Sam to have a panic attack. I knew he got anxious but I hadn’t realised that it had become this bad.
My stomach sinks. “Pass the phone over to him. Or put me on speaker. I can talk to him.”
We may not have spoken for over four years, but we were best friends for ten. It’s Sam. I still know what to say.
“Thanks, Kath,” Austin says. “I’m just going to walk back to the cubicle. Luckily no one else is around.”
I wish that Sam had called me years ago. If things were heading in this direction, I wish he’d known that I would be there. That I could talk this through with him.
He looked so tired and worried the last time I saw him on screen. Part of me kicks myself for not realising he’d end up like this, but the other part of me wonders how I could’ve helped someone who doesn’t want help?
I hear a door opening and closing through my speakers and then Austin’s voice again. “Hey, Sam. I have Kath on the phone for you,” he says softly, and I close my eyes to blink away tears.
“Hi, Sam,” I say quietly through the phone. “It’s me. Tell me what’s happening.”
“Can’t breathe,” I hear his voice wheezing out. “I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.” His voice is choked.
“OK. It’s OK. Austin, am I on speaker?” I squeeze my hands together to stop myself from panicking.
“Yep.”
“Thanks.” I take a deep breath. “It’s OK, Sam. I’m right here. Austin’s here. We’re going to give you lots of space. But you can do this. You’re safe. Everything’s going to be fine. I want you to count with the pair of us. Ready?”
“Can’t breathe, Kath,” Sam tells me again, and the sound of his panic makes my heart hurt.
“Let’s count from ten down. Nice and slow. I’m going to start now. Ten.” I pause. “Nine. Eight. And let’s all take a breath here.” I stop for a second, listening to Sam’s breathing. “OK, now seven.”
We keep counting down, and I hear his voice join back in with Austin’s.
“Now that we’ve done that, let’s count to three and then hold. You guys ready?” I hear a shaky yes come through the phone. The seconds seem to stretch impossibly long, his voice a wobbling echo of my own. I clench my spare hand tight and keep counting with him.
“You look better,” Austin comments eventually.
“I feel better,” I hear Sam’s voice say, and I sigh in relief. “Still a bit shaky. God, I have more adrenaline now than I did during that race.”
“Austin, could we have a moment?” I ask.
“Sure, let me pass this over.”
I wait until I hear the shower door shut again.
“Hey,” I say to Sam. “You OK?”
“Better.” His voice is still quiet. “I’m so sorry, Kath. I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I’m sorry. I’m just… It’s stupid.”
Just hearing his voice transports me back to being a child again. Right now, I’m not even angry with him, despite the last few years. Maybe I will be in a few hours once I’ve thought about it properly. Scratch that, I definitely will be. But right now I’m worried, not angry.
“It’s not stupid! You’re under so much pressure, Sam. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m here to help. I’ve always been here to help.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I don’t deserve you. I’ve never deserved your friendship.”
“Just focus on feeling better.”
I sit in silence for a few moments, just listening to him breathe.
“How’s it feeling?”
“My chest doesn’t hurt.” His voice sounds stronger. “I think it’s better.”
“Good.” I look down and realise that my hand is still clenched.
The adrenaline of the call is beginning to catch up with me.
“I’ve still got a few hours left of my shift.
Can I ring you after the medal ceremony and interviews to check in, from a medical perspective?
I usually go to sleep at about 10 a.m. and wake up at 6 p.m. when I’m on nights. ”
“I’d really like that,” he says. “And I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realised you were at work. Where are you working?”
“Emergency department.”
“That sounds rough.”
I look down at my bitten fingernails and decide to deflect. It is rough. “Congratulations on the medal and the record. You should be really proud of yourself.”
He pauses. “Thank you, Kath.”
When I hang up, I try to work out how I feel. Worried for him? Angry with him? Angry with myself for answering? That even after all these years I still pick up when he needs me. That some ancient part of me still sparks and says yes before my brain catches up with the reasons it shouldn’t.
I understand now why they tell doctors not to treat the people they care about. The second I heard his voice, terrified and struggling to breathe, any objectivity I had vanished.
I swallow the burn in my throat. He doesn’t get to waltz back into my life like nothing happened. He doesn’t get all of me so easily. Not again.
Still… he’s hurting, and I’m not the sort of person who can sit with that and do nothing.
And despite everything—the unanswered messages, the nights I spent training myself not to miss him—I can’t pretend I don’t care.
Right now he needs a friend. And before everything, we were always friends.