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Sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I look at the curly-haired lady, the poor relative who has
just heard we have withdrawn all active treatment for her mother and
all we can do now is keep her comfortable. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just
been called to an emergency…’
I am barely out of the crying lady’s sight when I break into a run. Where
was radiology again? Why do emergencies always happen in the bowels
of the hospital? Sod this, I groan, it’s closer through the carpark. I find a
side door and run outside, and it’s pouring with a vengeance. I finally
make it to the crime scene.
The autopilot goes on. Jump on the chest and then look around me as
the orchestra swiftly assembles. The anaesthetist takes over the airway,
the resuscitation trolley arrives, the monitor is connected. ‘Pulse check’
the leader requests. We all pause, the leader’s finger on the femoral.
‘No pulse’. Back on. We are a well-rehearsed ensemble, the monitor is
our music sheet, the patient is our stage. We carry on for minutes, hours,
eons, I’m not sure. It’s like this show has infinite encores.
‘Rhythm check’ the maestro calls. Instruments down. ‘Shockable. Stand
clear.’ We tune to the defibrillator. A high pitch corona warns us that the
charge has been delivered. Adrenaline is injected in the patient’s veins
and telepathically we all perk up. ‘Pulse check’. Finger on femoral.
And then it finally happens. We have a pulse. While the patient is
wheeled to the intensive care unit, I wash my hands and marvel at what
just happened. After two year as a doctor, I have finally, finally, got a pa-
tient who has survived a cardiac arrest, literally underneath my hands.
But there’s no time for gloating. In no time, I am back in the ward. From
the scherzo of the resuscitation back to the lento of grief. The curly-
haired lady is still waiting for me. The heart I just restarted is of no in-
terest to her, not while her mother’s one is now in its final cadence. And
when that end comes, no amount of compressions could cure her of her
terminal illness.
Welcome to the world of a junior doctor. My beeper runs my life and
the hospital owns my hours. Not that long ago, I was a student at the
English School. I walked these corridors, I performed on the hall stage.
For reasons that still elude me, I had an epiphany and decided to study
Medicine. I think this surprised a few people, including me. I took French,
Literature, did drama, music, was president of the debate club. But be-
fore you could say ‘liberal arts’ I found myself swapping my bassoon for
the prosection scalpel and my Hamlet for Grey’s Anatomy. And six, long
years later, someone handed me a pager and a name badge that said
‘doctor’, and here I am today.
I wish I could tell you that I have remained fiercely loyal to all my pas-
sions, that I am still the accomplished pianist I once was, that I still sing
in a choir, but alas, medicine is a jealous spouse that demands undivided
attention and slowly but surely fights off any competing admirers. Other
than the odd debate here and theatrical production there, my once
thriving extra-curricular activities have now gradually but inevitably been
reduced to overpriced concert tickets and nostalgic dinner parties.
Charitably, my artistic bug has been kinder to me than I have been to it
and still surprises me with regular guest appearances. During my train-
ing as a life support instructor I gave a lecture on cardiac emergencies to
experts twice my age. I remember looking at my flashcards – and then
it was like riding a bike. At the end, the senior doctor said to me ‘I can
just tell you did drama at school’. At a recent interview for my dream
job, an interviewer said to me ‘you have two minutes to impress me with
your achievements. Go’. The former public speaker in me came out of hi-
bernation. I opened my mouth and have no idea what I said. I just know
I landed the job. I have also recently revisited my old flame of writing
when I felt lonely on a night shift. I have since written many stories and
poems and although I am not considering publishing anything (yet), I
have found it a cleansing hobby.
Thinking back, I do not regret for a second the hours, days, blood, sweat
and tears spent in the school music room, the hall, backstage. Perhaps
etriou,
n
“At the end, the senior
doctor said to me ‘I can
just tell you did drama at
school’”
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