Chapter 11
11
I haven’t said anything to Luke. Of course I haven’t. I’ve rehearsed thousands of scenarios in my head and none of them get round the fact that I’d have to own up to effectively stalking him in his previous life. Somehow, I don’t see him taking that news well. Plus, he’s obviously feeling penitent about how things ended last time he came over, because a massive bunch of flowers pitched up a couple of days later. I haven’t spoken to Tash either. My initial rage may have subsided, but her interference has definitely thrown things between Luke and me off balance, so I’m still cross with her about that.
I haven’t been avoiding Luke, exactly, but he’s noticed something is up. I obviously can’t tell him what’s on my mind, but he’s assumed it’s because I’m still pissed off with him about how he behaved and is being extra attentive. Normally, I’d be appreciative of his efforts, but I need time to get my head back into the right place, so I’ve had to invent reasons why we can’t meet as often, or why I’m not always in the mood for sex. I want to carry on trusting him, but I’m starting to understand how an oyster must feel when it gets a grain of sand inside the shell. There’s a nagging doubt that’s a constant itch in the back of my mind but, unlike the oyster, I doubt very much that it’s going to magically turn into a pearl.
Luckily, I also can’t tell him that I’m not speaking to Tash, as he’d obviously want to know why, so I’ve been able to use her as an excuse to avoid him on several occasions. However, as was bound to happen sooner or later, our shift patterns have fallen back in sync and I’m very aware of him staring at me all the way through the handover briefing.
‘Hello, stranger,’ he remarks when Dr Patel dismisses us. He’s positioned himself behind me so nobody can see his hand reach out to pat me on the bum.
‘Not at work,’ I tell him. To my surprise, he looks like I’ve slapped him.
‘Are you ashamed of me?’ he asks.
‘Of course not. I just like to keep my work and personal life separate. You of all people should be able to understand that,’ I can’t help adding a little sarcastically.
‘I see. And when you go on your break, will that be work time or personal time?’ His tone is bordering on petulant, and I’m starting to feel mildly irritated with him in return. Why can’t he understand that I need to focus 100 per cent on what I’m doing on shift, without him hovering around and trying to distract me? Also, now that I know we’ve been the subject of department gossip, I don’t want to fuel it further by going on my break with him. Thankfully, before I have to formulate an answer, the red telephone rings to let us know of a trauma coming in. As I’m closest, I answer it.
‘Gentleman aged sixty-one, found unresponsive in his home,’ the paramedic informs me. ‘Suspected overdose on paracetamol and vodka. We’ll be with you in seven minutes.’
I push Luke’s angst from my mind as the trauma team assembles. As soon as the ambulance arrives, the patient is rushed into the Rapid Assessment Triage unit.
‘The gentleman’s name is Jonathan Barwell,’ the paramedic informs us. ‘He was discovered by a neighbour, who noticed that the porch light was on during the daytime and raised the alarm when nobody would answer the door. Time of ingestion could therefore be anywhere from nightfall yesterday to this morning. However, his vital signs would indicate that it was fairly recent.’
‘Thanks,’ Dr Patel replies. ‘Given the uncertainty over the timing, I think activated charcoal is too much of a risk. We’ll go straight in with Acetylcysteine and hope he responds. Tilly, prepare an intravenous dose, would you?’
‘Yes, Dr Patel,’ I reply clearly. Dr Patel is a stickler for people answering when we’re in RATS, so she knows we’ve understood her instructions.
As I turn away, I hear her address Luke. ‘Dr Milne, I’m going to be tied up here for a little while, so if you wouldn’t mind attending to the next person on the list, I’d be grateful.’ She doesn’t wait for him to leave before issuing her next instruction to the team. ‘The patient’s breathing is a little more laboured than I’d like it to be. Let’s get him some oxygen to help him along for now, Amrita, and get a ventilator ready in case we need it. Right. Any questions, anyone?’
Dr Patel takes the silence as a no, and we set about our allocated tasks. Luke disappears off, and I soon forget our tense exchange as I focus on the tortuous process of trying to save this man’s life.
‘We’ll be using the twenty-one-hour regimen, Tilly,’ Dr Patel tells me as Amrita rigs up the oxygen mask and the antidote begins to drip into our patient. ‘Hopefully, that will be enough to do it, but let’s see. Whatever happens, he won’t be going anywhere for a while. If he stabilises, we’ll move him into Majors once a bay comes free, but you need to let admissions know he’ll be coming in. If this turns out to be a suicide attempt, as suspected, the mental health team will want to assess him too.’
‘Yes, Dr Patel. I’ll phone admissions as soon as we’re confident that he’s stabilising,’ I tell her.
She looks down at the man and sighs. ‘I know we’re not supposed to make assumptions, but what on earth do you think made him so utterly miserable that he couldn’t face living any more? I don’t often have time to worry if I’m doing the right thing, but situations like this do bring me up short. Will he thank us for saving him, do you think? Or will he simply bide his time until he’s alone and do it better next time?’
Her moment of reflection is interrupted by one of the nurses. ‘Dr Patel,’ she says breathlessly. ‘If you can spare us a moment, we urgently need a second opinion.’
Dr Patel’s professional mask slips instantly back into place. ‘What’s up?’ she asks.
‘It’s Dr Milne. We’ve got a bit of a situation.’
‘What kind of situation?’
‘There’s a patient in Majors with a suspected punctured lung, and the treatment he’s proposed is highly unusual. We’re a bit concerned.’
‘I see. I’m on my way. Tilly, are you OK to carry on here?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
After she leaves, a sudden calm descends. The initial flurry of activity is over for this patient. Now all we can do is watch and wait. I glance up at the screen displaying his vital signs. They’re not great, but they are at least stable. Like Dr Patel, I find myself wondering what could have driven him to feel so desperate that life didn’t seem worth living any more. He’s not my first suicide attempt patient, and he won’t even be my first suicide if he doesn’t pull through, but there is something about them that hits you right in the core. Could I ever see myself in a situation like this? I’d like to hope not, but I’m sure this patient didn’t think like that either, until whatever it was changed for him that led him here.
As I’m watching him, his eyelids flutter and I move hastily to his side.
‘Mr Barwell?’ I ask. ‘Can you hear me? You’re in hospital, and I’m Tilly, one of the senior nurses.’
The fluttering was obviously unconscious as there’s no reaction. I check his vital signs again and I’m encouraged to see that they are starting to look a little better. His breathing also seems to be improving.
‘How’s he doing?’ Dr Patel asks as she sweeps in a while later.
‘Still unconscious, but his signs are much better,’ I tell her.
‘Good. His son has arrived and is clamouring to see him, so let’s move him into Majors and reunite them. I’m always surprised by the effect a familiar voice can have.’
It takes a few minutes to move the patient, but he’s barely settled in the new bay before we’re joined by his son.
‘You stupid, stupid bastard!’ he cries as Amrita lets him through the curtain and he sees his father on the bed. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
To my amazement, Mr Barwell’s eyes flutter again and, after a moment, they open, scanning the room in confusion.
‘Mr Barwell,’ I say again. ‘You’re in hospital and I’m Tilly, one of the senior nurses. Can you tell me what happened?’
Mr Barwell’s eyes lock on to me and I’m immediately struck by their extraordinary colour. I’m reminded of those dogs that have one brown and one blue eye, and the blue eye is always very light. Mr Barwell’s eyes are the same bright blue and, as I watch, tears form in them.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says in a hoarse whisper.
‘Sorry you scared the shit out of me, or sorry you’re still alive?’ the son asks angrily. ‘I can’t believe this.’
Mr Barwell’s eyes move to his son and I follow them, instantly picking up the family resemblance. Underneath his mop of dark, curly hair, the son has exactly the same striking eyes as his father.
‘I miss your mother so much, Will,’ he whispers, and this seems to puncture the son’s anger. I can almost see him crumple as he sinks into the chair next to the bed. They’re both crying now.
‘I know,’ Will replies gently, taking his father’s hand. ‘I miss her too. But this? She wouldn’t have wanted this, and what about me? You’re all I have, Dad.’
‘You’ve got your own life,’ Mr Barwell replies. ‘Without your mother, what’s the point of me? I’m just a burden.’
‘That’s bollocks, Dad, and you know it,’ Will tells him fiercely. ‘Who’s going to celebrate my successes with me, or tell me my failures don’t matter, if you’re not here? Why hassle me about finding someone to spend the rest of my life with if you’re not there to spoil your grandchildren rotten? I need you now just as much as when I was little.’
Mr Barwell sighs deeply and closes his eyes, slipping back into unconsciousness.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask Will quietly. ‘I know this has been a huge shock.’
‘I should have seen it coming,’ Will says equally quietly, turning his extraordinary eyes to me. ‘My mother died from multiple sclerosis two months ago. For the last few years, Dad’s been her full-time carer so, when she finally died, he didn’t know what to do with himself. I’ve tried to encourage him to get back into his hobbies – he’s passionate about model aircraft – but I think he feels guilty about doing things that give him pleasure when Mum’s, you know…’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I tell him.
‘Don’t be. To be honest, it was a relief at the end. She was incredibly tough, my mum, but she’d suffered enough. What am I going to do about him though?’ He gestures to the supine figure on the bed.
‘The good news is that his vital signs are getting stronger. It’s too early to call it for sure, but I’m feeling hopeful. There’s a fair chance the overdose will have damaged his liver, so that will need to be assessed, but we can check all of that once he’s stable and we’ve admitted him.’
‘How long will he be in for?’
‘I don’t know. They’ll want to run lots of tests and the mental health team will want to have a chat with him. Is there someone who can be with him when he’s released? I’m sure that will speed the process up.’
Now it’s Will’s turn to sigh. ‘That’ll be me then.’
‘Do you have siblings who can help?’
‘Nope. There’s just me. It’s fine, I should have spotted what was going on earlier so this is partly my fault. It’s only fair that I should take some of the responsibility for it. I never realised things had got so bad. It’ll take a couple of days to sort out, but I can move down to be with him for as long as it takes.’
He looks crushed and my heart goes out to him a little bit. The parallel between his situation and Luke’s is not lost on me, but there’s a quality in Will that is curiously absent in Luke, now I come to think about it. I can’t pin it down exactly, but I can almost feel how heavily the weight of responsibility is sitting on Will and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that in Luke.
Mr Barwell opens his eyes again, obviously disorientated for a moment before he fixes his gaze on his son once more.
‘I’m sorry, Will,’ he says. ‘I’ve been a stupid, selfish old man.’
‘Yes. Yes, you have,’ Will replies, tears pouring down his cheeks again. I’m struggling to contain my own tears, but the tender moment is interrupted by the arrival of Luke, with a face like thunder.
‘Dr Patel sent me to check how the patient is doing,’ he says. Hopefully Will and his father don’t notice the surly undertone to his voice.
‘Good progress,’ I tell him, keeping my voice light. ‘Mr Barwell is conscious and his vital signs are greatly improved.’
‘Great.’ He turns to Mr Barwell. ‘Mr Barwell,’ he says very slowly and loudly, as if talking to someone twice his age, ‘my name is Dr Milne, and I’m one of the doctors here. I’m just going to examine you, and then we’ll see about admitting you to a ward.’
‘Can’t I just go home?’ Mr Barwell asks. ‘It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.’
‘We need to keep you in for a while, I’m afraid. Nurse Tilly will go and ring the admissions team, and we’ll get you settled as soon as we can, OK?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I add, reaching out to give Mr Barwell’s hand a squeeze. ‘We’ll take good care of you and get you home as soon as possible.’
‘Thank you,’ Will says softly, gazing at me with those incredible blue eyes. ‘For everything.’
‘My pleasure,’ I reply. ‘It’s kind of what we do here.’
‘I think that man has taken a shine to you,’ Luke says once we’re through the curtain and out of earshot. Is that a hint of jealousy I can hear in his voice? ‘Be careful, won’t you? You know what his type is like.’
‘No. What are they like?’ I ask, feeling my irritation rising again.
‘They see you as some sort of rescuer, a Florence Nightingale figure, and latch on to that.’
‘I’m doing my job and being friendly,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Nothing more.’
He looks distinctly unconvinced as he stalks off. As I pick up the phone to call the admissions team about Mr Barwell, I can’t help reflecting on the difference between him and Will again. Why doesn’t Luke have that same sense of responsibility about him? Caring for his mother must be a big burden but, besides using it as a reason to limit our time together and only meet at my flat, it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. For the first time, I’m starting to wonder if maybe Tash has a point and there’s more to this than meets the eye.