13
Friday had finally come, and it had surely been one of the longest weeks of Alex’s life.
As he made his way to A Ward to check on the women there, he reflected that already he was beginning to feel at home here.
After giving a cheery good morning to the midwives – Sister Campbell, Peggy, and Priscilla, he headed down the ward.
Mrs Watson had thankfully got past the engorgement stage of her milk coming in, and her baby was now feeding ‘like a wee trooper!’ as she put it.
‘Ah, that’s great news, Mrs Watson!’ he said cheerily as he checked over the baby, who was still showing signs of being a little dehydrated, but the night sister, before going off duty, had assured him that Mrs Watson had been awake most of the night, feeding the child for hours, and the morning nappy had been reassuringly wet.
Things were going in the right direction, but still he wrote in the notes that his recommendation was continued monitoring.
If necessary they could give the baby a bottle of his mother’s own expressed milk – which he was loath to do, as everyone knew it interfered with a child learning to feed at the breast.
‘How is Mrs Lennon?’ Alex asked Sister, having returned to the ward office. Sister grimaced.
‘Still as bad. Physically, everything is within the normal range. But nobody can do nothin’ with her. You’re welcome to try, Doctor. She’s on her own at the minute.’
‘Has she had a medical review this morning?’ Sister shook her head. ‘Right then.’
Making his way out of the main bay, he knocked on Mrs Lennon’s door.
‘Come in!’
‘Good morning, Mrs Lennon – Teresa. I’m Dr Lowe. We met yesterday?’
She looked awful – pale, and drawn. He would bet fifty pounds she hadn’t had a wink of sleep. There was a pile of used paper handkerchiefs beside her, and she was clutching two in her hands.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said vaguely, and he held her gaze sympathetically, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat.
‘Not a bit of wonder,’ he managed. ‘You had a hard day, so you did.’ She nodded, dabbing at fresh tears. Once she was calm again, he asked, ‘Can I check how you are physically? Your blood pressure and all?’
She agreed, and so he sat on the edge of the bed to check her blood pressure and temperature. Both, as Sister had found earlier, were normal.
‘How’s the bleeding?’
‘Bad, like.’
‘Have you plenty of pads?’
‘Aye. I think so.’
He took a breath. ‘And how are you in yourself ?’
‘Not good, Doctor. I should never have let him do it.’
Maisie’s wisdom came to him. What was it she had said yesterday? ‘There’s things in life that you can do something about, Mrs Lennon, and there’s things that are completely out of your control. You know?’
‘I suppose.’ She seemed vague, distracted, as if her mind and heart were elsewhere.
He had seen people like this before, after a bereavement or an accident.
Hopefully the anguish would soon start to ease for Mrs Lennon, for he was at a loss to know what to do for her.
He had learned all the surgical techniques, he knew the physiology of pregnancy and childbirth really well, but no one had taught him what to do in a situation like this one.
She is bereaved, grieving. He put a hand over hers. ‘I am so, so sorry for your loss.’
Her tears started again, and she scrubbed at her face with a hanky, creating patches of red in the pallor. At that moment, the door behind him opened.
‘Good morning, Mrs Lennon! How are we this morning?’
Fenton! Alex looked away, rising from his perch on the edge of the bed. The man’s arrogant bravado was both unwelcome and inappropriate. He was too loud, too brash, and altogether too . . . jolly for the situation.
Mrs Lennon, conditioned to a lifetime of deference, said, ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ in a small voice, but Fenton was barely listening. He had turned to Alex and was eyeing him balefully.
‘You’re the junior houseman who was with Russell yesterday, are you not? What is your name?’
He should know my name by now. ‘Lowe. Dr Lowe.’
‘Well, Dr Lowe, this is my patient, and there is no need for you to be here. Now scarper.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his fingertips, as if brushing away dirt. His expression dripped with disdain.
Scarper! Had the man really just said that? Alex’s jaw hardened. He had no intention of scarpering, and stayed put.
‘When can I go home?’
‘Eh?’ Fenton turned back to his patient. ‘What’s that?’
‘They told me it’s like a miscarriage.’ Mrs Lennon’s voice was low, desperation clearly showing in her eyes. ‘Women have miscarriages all the time at home. I want to go home.’
‘Then home you shall go!’ Fenton declared, in the manner of a pantomime magician. ‘Dr Lowe can actually make himself useful ’ – his voice dripped with sarcasm – ‘and do the paperwork, and we’ll have you out of here within the hour. How does that sound?’
‘Oh, thank you, Doctor, thank you!’
‘Ah, that’s all right, Mrs . . . er . . .’
He’s forgotten her name! The absolute bastard!
‘Lowe here will sort it all out for you.’ Then Fenton was gone, without so much as another word to Alex.
What could he do? He had to make the best of it. ‘Is anyone due to visit you today, Mrs Lennon?’
‘I dunno. Mebbe our Carmel might come, if one of the neighbours keeps an eye on the childer.’
‘You’ll need someone to take you home. Whereabouts do you live? We’ll pay for a taxi for you.’ He would pay the fare himself rather than allow this poor woman to walk home, bleeding from a procedure that should never have happened.
‘Jaysus, no! For the town and country to see me?’ She shuddered.
‘You can tell the taxi where to let you out, and maybe walk the last wee bit.’
‘Aye, mebbe.’ She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Thank you. Harrogate Street. Number 5. It’s near here.’
‘Do you want me to send a message to Carmel? Is she your sister?’
‘Aye. She’s married to my Danny’s brother Johnny.’
‘Two sisters married two brothers?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s unusual. Nice, though.’ At least she had family – as well as her husband and children. A sister. Brother-in-law.
‘Aye.’
This was the most normal conversation he’d had with Mrs Lennon. Maybe she would be all right. He looked at her again. Her eyes were wild, darting everywhere. Or maybe not. ‘I’ll go and get a notebook so I can write down your sister’s details, and start the forms for your discharge.’
‘Discharge?’
‘For you to go home.’
‘Aye. I’ll be better at home.’
I hope she’s right. Alex wasn’t convinced.
Mrs Lennon’s mental wounds ran deep – deeper, perhaps, than even she herself suspected.
Making his way towards the glass-walled office at the start of the bay, he was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not at first respond to his name being called.
‘Junior houseman Lowe!’ That was an absolute bellow, and it was coming from the far end of the ward.
Vaguely, he wondered why Fenton hadn’t simply called him ‘Dr Lowe’, but he had no time to think about it.
Three babies began to cry in response to the sudden loud noise, then a couple more joined in sympathy.
Startled, Alex quickened his steps, hurrying to the bottom end of the ward.
What the hell—? Was there an emergency with one of the mothers or babies?
Fenton was standing by Baby Watson’s cot, the child’s mother looking desperately worried.
‘What’s wrong?’ Alex asked. ‘What do you need?’ At first glance, the baby looked to be in reasonable condition. He was crying lustily, his face red. Breathing well, limb movements normal, lips and tongue reassuringly moist . . . Alex looked at Fenton in puzzlement.
‘I understand that you released this baby from the nursery, Lowe.’
‘Yes. Two days ago. Why?’
‘Palpate the anterior fontanelle, and make your diagnosis!’ Fenton’s tone held derision, his expression one of challenge. The man has it in for me!
Gently, Alex ran the pads of his fingers over the baby’s scalp, commenting on what he was seeing and feeling.
The diamond shaped fontanelle – the soft spot – at the top, where the bones of the skull had not yet fully developed, was very slightly depressed, not sunken as it had been yesterday, while the triangular fontanelle at the back was entirely normal.
The baby was not crying tears – which was normal for a child this age – but his mouth was moist, as were the eyes.
‘Sister reports good wet nappies since last night,’ he continued, ‘and I understand baby fed a lot during the night. So, taking everything into account, my diagnosis is that the dehydration which was previously diagnosed and documented in the notes’ – he paused to let that sink in – ‘is now resolving nicely.’ Was Fenton referring to something else?
‘Skin temperature feels normal, and the observations from overnight are all within the normal range. I’m not seeing any signs of infection? ’
He made this a question. After all, he was only newly qualified. Fenton had many years of experience on him, and it was entirely possible that the senior doctor had noticed something that he had not.
But Fenton was now looking decidedly discomfited. ‘Yes, well, you should have asked my permission before discharging him from the nursery. Anything might have happened.’
Alex was astounded. There was no emergency, it seemed, and Fenton had bellowed all over the ward, upsetting mothers and babies, because . . . Because he is angry with me.
Alex stood his ground, keeping his tone mild.
‘Russell told us specifically that we shouldn’t be seeking permission from senior doctors for straightforward decisions.
The baby was well, his mother’s milk was coming in, and I didn’t want her to get mastitis.
It seemed a reasonable option.’ A notion came to him.
‘I’m happy to discuss my rationale with Russell, if you’d like.
He told us he’d be happy to give a second opinion on any case we are involved in. ’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Fenton’s tone was clipped, his expression guarded.