9
‘I see, Dr Lowe. And you know this how?’
Alex had rushed to Mr Russell’s office – a large room with a window on the middle floor – and had just outlined the case.
Russell’s gaze was piercing, and Alex felt momentarily discomfited. Had he made a monumental error?
‘One of the midwives told me.’ No way was he going to name Maisie. ‘The woman is due to be brought round to theatre at half past. Procedure is at nine.’
Russell checked his pocket watch. ‘Professional autonomy is highly prized in the medical profession, Dr Lowe. To interfere in another man’s case, to question or undermine his decision . . . These are serious matters, as I am sure you realise.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Russell rose. ‘Let us see if we can manage indirectly. Dr Fenton is, I believe, normally in the consultants’ sitting room at this time.’ He made for the door. ‘Come with me.’
* * *
‘It’s time. Can you accompany Mrs Lennon to theatres, please, Midwife Canavan?’ Sister’s tone was mild, her expression neutral. Maisie had no idea if she had any concerns about Mrs Lennon’s case.
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Mr Lennon, I suggest you wait in our canteen. They do a lovely cup of tea. It’s usually only for staff but I can give you a note.’
‘Aye.’ He pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you soon, love.’
Swallowing hard against a huge lump in her throat, Maisie led Mrs Lennon up to the operating theatres beside labour ward.
With every step she took, the sense of wrongness was increasing.
Before they had left the clinic, Mr Lennon had asked his question, his one moment of quiet power in the face of his wife’s distress, but Dr Fenton had batted it away with arrogance, fake sympathy, and a noticeable lack of information.
He perfectly understood, he said, how difficult this was for them both, but this was his professional opinion, derived from many years of expert practice.
Mr Lennon, a working-class man, had no defence against this, and nor had his wife.
Fenton had swept out of the room then, airily declaring he would see Mrs Lennon again shortly, after he had a wee cuppa tea.
Theatres had its own sister – a jolly nurse called Sister Marshall – and she swept Mrs Lennon up in a flurry of processes – washing and then donning a special cotton gown.
‘Doctor will be along in a moment,’ she said cheerily, as though today’s events were nothing. Nothing.
Mrs Lennon was like an automaton – there was no liveliness in her eyes, no expression on her face.
She numbly complied. God knows what’s going on inside her head!
Maisie helped as best she could – a gentle towel, tying the strings on her gown, giving the poor woman warmth and caring. It was all she could do.
* * *
‘Fenton! There you are!’ Russell, at his most jovial, led the way into the senior doctors’ sitting room, off the entrance corridor. The time, Alex noticed, was twenty-seven minutes past eight, and Fenton was casually drinking tea.
‘Morning!’ Fenton was all bluff and bluster. How could he sit there looking so relaxed when he was about to change a woman’s life forever? Alex hoped he would never become that hard, no matter how long he practised as a doctor.
‘You have some theatre cases booked this morning?’ Russell’s tone was casual, but Alex saw in Fenton’s eyes a flash of alarm, quickly disguised.
‘Yes. The first one is a very sad case.’ Fenton adopted a melancholy air. ‘Termination. Dangerous pregnancy with an unstable classical scar.’
‘Ah. Sad indeed. And the lady and her husband have consented?’ Russell’s tone was light, but this was the crux of the matter.
‘They have. I just spoke to them actually – in the clinic.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Why?’
‘I understand they’re Catholics, so this will be particularly difficult for them.’
Fenton glanced at Alex. ‘They are.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And we all have to manage their unscientific superstitious beliefs from time to time, do we not?’ He included Alex in his knowing look. Three Protestant doctors, belittling Catholic beliefs.
‘We provide a professional surgical service,’ Russell countered, ‘with due respect for the factors that are important to our patients.’
‘Of course, of course!’ Fenton snorted. ‘Unless it’s a situation where we clearly know better.
Don’t pretend you haven’t done it, my friend.
’ He rose, clapping Russell on the shoulder – the picture of affability.
‘Right!’ His tone turned brisk. ‘I must go!’ As he turned, he sent Alex a look filled with such venom that it was hard not to flinch. Have I made an enemy today?
Left with Russell, Alex stood there in silence for a second as they both considered the conversation. Then Russell sighed. ‘Like I said,’ he offered ruefully, ‘the man is an independent professional, and his plan is perfectly appropriate for the clinical situation as he described it.’
‘And that’s it?’
Russell shrugged. ‘It’s within the range of decisions a reasonable obstetrician would make in such circumstances.’
Alex’s shoulders slumped. Beaten. ‘I don’t think he’s too impressed with me telling you about it.’
‘No. Mr Fenton can be . . . challenging at times. But he’s a fully qualified obstetrician, and we need all the men we can get these days – especially now there’s war.’ He sent Alex a keen glance. ‘Are you planning to sign up to the medical corps?’
‘No, sir. Obstetrics is my chosen specialty, and I mean to stick with it.’ He grinned. ‘Not too many pregnant soldiers in the forces!’
They both laughed at the absurdity of it, then Alex said quietly, ‘Thank you for trying, sir.’
‘Thank you for caring enough to bring it to my attention, Lowe.’
* * *
‘Is she ready, Nurse?’
Fenton had arrived, and bounced into the room with all the sensitivity of a labrador chasing a stick. Mrs Lennon, who was lying on a medical couch, her lower half covered with a soft blanket, immediately stiffened, and Maisie offered a hand, which the woman gripped as though it was a lifeline.
Alex had clearly been unable to prevent Fenton from going ahead with his plan. The knowledge was upsetting, but not unexpected. Doctors rarely challenged each other’s practice.
Sister was busying about, and now wheeled a trolley of tools to Fenton, who had taken a seat at the foot of the couch and was currently placing Mrs Lennon’s legs in metal stirrups. He had still not addressed the woman directly.
‘First size, please, Sister,’ he ordered, and Sister Marshall handed him the first dilator, aimed at opening Mrs Lennon’s cervix – the neck of the womb.
D if she’d tried to speak she would either have burst into tears or railed at Fenton.
She and Sister Marshall then tended to Mrs Lennon, who seemed to be in a great deal of physical pain. Fenton, of course, had not bothered giving her ether. ‘You’ll have cramps and bleeding now for about a week,’ he explained on his way out the door. ‘It’s basically a miscarriage.’
Mrs Lennon shook her head slightly. Not a miscarriage. They all knew it.
‘I’ve booked her a side room in A Ward,’ Sister told Maisie once they had finished tending to Mrs Lennon. Maisie nodded approvingly. There was no way the woman would cope in the main bay among postnatal mothers and pregnant women on bed rest. ‘We’ll wheel her there once we’ve cleaned up.’
Despite wanting to stay there holding Mrs Lennon’s hand, Maisie knew she had work to do. So she and Sister tidied up, then Maisie mopped the floor while Sister brought the ‘clinical waste’ and the used instruments to the sluice room. Clinical waste. Such a horrible phrase.
It was time to go. Together Maisie and Sister Marshall transferred Mrs Lennon to a hospital bed then wheeled it along the corridor and into A Ward.
‘In here.’ Sister Campbell was there to meet them, pointing out a single room on the right-hand side of the inner corridor.
‘Sister Hanna has kindly agreed you can be assigned to Mrs Lennon this morning, Midwife Canavan.’ She glanced at the woman, who had closed her eyes again. ‘How are her observations?’
‘She’s physically stable,’ Sister Marshall replied. ‘Everything within the normal range.’
Physically stable. The human body was a tremendous thing.
Within a week or so, Mrs Lennon would recover – physically.
But what about mentally? Spiritually? No one was saying it out loud, but what had been done to Mrs Lennon just now was likely to have created wounds that went deeper than the action of curettage.
Moral wounds. Spiritual wounds. How in God’s name can she ever recover?
And Maisie remained dubious about Dr Fenton’s absolute certainty that Mrs Lennon would definitely have died had she gone ahead with the pregnancy.
Definitely? Really? The whole thing felt wrong.
Mrs Lennon seemed dazed, absent. Once the others had gone, though, she turned to Maisie, gripping her hand tightly.
‘Maisie, Maisie, I keep thinking that I did the wrong thing! I’m evil. Evil I am! A mortal sin! How could I have done it?’ She began to cry, and Maisie handed her a box of tissues, then put a soothing hand on her shoulder, perching on the edge of the bed.
‘You didn’t do anything, Mrs Lennon. It was a medical decision, completely out of your hands. You might have miscarried it anyway. That scar you have is massive, you know.’
‘Aye, I suppose so.’ She blew her nose, pulling another paper tissue from the box. She put a hand on her empty womb, and fresh tears started. ‘My baby is gone, because I told yer man to kill it! What mother would do something like that?’
Sweet Jesus, this is a nightmare!
‘And what sort of a life will I have now anyway?’ Mrs Lennon continued. ‘I’ll be ashamed in the chapel. Father Wallis – I dunno what he’s gonna do to me!’ She gripped Maisie’s hand. ‘He wouldn’t excommunicate me, would he?’
I wouldn’t put it past him, the sour oul’ get. ‘Nobody needs to know about this,’ Maisie said firmly. ‘You had a miscarriage, that’s all. Nobody ever talks about miscarriages or stillbirths anyway.’
Mrs Lennon shook her head. ‘I can’t go to confession because I’d have to tell Father Wallis the truth.
And there’s no point anyway because he’ll not give me absolution for a mortal sin.
It’s against the rules.’ She sobbed, pressing a fresh tissue to her face, and Maisie leaned to hug her, unsurprised to find she was also crying. What a feckin’ mess!
‘And another thing!’ Maisie could barely make out what Mrs Lennon was saying. ‘I can never let my Danny near me again in case I fall pregnant. What sort of marriage is that?’
God, she’s right. The woman couldn’t risk another pregnancy. ‘Could you maybe get one of the doctors to tie your tubes?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s a way of making sure you can’t get pregnant, even if you do have . . . marital relations.’ She felt herself flush at speaking of such things in this context.
Mrs Lennon was shaking her head. ‘Not a chance. I heard about that – though I never knew they had to tie up tubes to stop you falling pregnant. But everybody knows that’s a sin too, in the eyes of the church.
And I have to never sin again. Ever. God, how am I supposed to go on?
I’m a failure. As a wife. As a mother. As a Catholic. ’
‘No! Listen to me, Teresa. You are not a failure. You are a good woman. You had to go through a medical procedure that saved your life, so that you can be there for your three children.’
‘Ah, my wee ones! How can I ever look them in the eye again? How can I look anybody in the eye, now that I know what I am?’
She cried for a long time, and Maisie sat with her, mostly trying to offer silent comfort.
Eventually Mrs Lennon dozed off, and Maisie exhaled silently, for the first time able to think properly about what had happened this morning.
The poor woman had been bounced into terminating a much-wanted pregnancy.
There would be more than grief and loss for her; it would be made a thousand times worse by guilt.
Maisie stayed by the woman’s side all morning, listening to her, giving comfort, and looking after her physical needs.
She was still bleeding fairly heavily – as was normal, but each time Maisie changed her pads she would cry fresh tears.
Maisie was still attempting to comfort her – and failing – when the door opened, admitting Alex.
‘I’ve brought your husband, Mrs Lennon,’ he said.
Maisie knew husbands weren’t normally allowed on the ward outside visiting hour; Alex was taking a risk by bringing Mr Lennon here. She sent him a look filled with gratitude, and his eyes softened, just for an instant.
‘Ah, Danny, Danny!’ Mrs Lennon reached out, and her husband rushed forward to envelop her in a hug.
Maisie gave way, meeting Alex’s gaze again – his eyes now filled with concern, and sympathy, and caring.
Are you all right? he seemed to be silently asking.
Don’t! There was danger in relying on other people to carry you, when such people could disappear from your life as quickly as they had entered it. And yet . . .
Inside, Maisie was deeply troubled. What happened to Mrs Lennon shouldn’t have happened. And she wanted, needed to talk about it.
They left the room, giving Mr and Mrs Lennon the privacy they needed.
Alex’s grey eyes were still holding that serious look – the sort of look that made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
He is focused on me. Even though her instincts told her he was a good man who was genuinely concerned for her, the intensity of his gaze was scary.
Scary because it was working. She could feel it, inside, when he was near.
And especially when he looked at her like that.