The Aftermath Gail Schimmel (7 ebook reader txt) 📖

gone back to work. I had a few shifts a week in the emergency department and emergency theatre, because that was my favourite area of nursing, and I had a postgraduate diploma in emergency medicine as well as my nursing degree. I loved the adrenaline rush and the feeling of being really important, making a difference, making choices that could save a person. For some reason, I could cope with the fact that I also made choices that could kill a person. I knew that, in the big picture, my work was important.

Mike used to admire me for it. He used to say I had more balls than any man he knew. He used to say that the sight of me would give anyone the will to live.

I tried to go back after The Accident. We needed money, despite the insurance, and I knew my only hope of salvation was to keep busy. On my first shift back, everyone was gentle with me, and patient. When I spent ten minutes dithering about whether a victim of food poisoning should be put on a drip or sent for a stomach pump, another nurse quietly took over, pretending that she needed me to look over her notes. And when I froze when a child had a fit in the waiting room, my colleagues seamlessly managed the crisis. We all thought I would adjust. Nobody was worried, not even me.

And then there was a bus accident, and our hospital was the closest. There were twenty-two people on that bus – mostly mothers and children. Seven died at the scene, fifteen were brought in. It was the sort of situation where I used to be at my best – ‘Queen of the Crisis’, they even used to call me. But when I saw the first child being wheeled through, I froze. I was back reliving the night of The Accident, and all I could think of was that if I made one wrong decision, somebody’s life would be as bad as mine.

I backed away from the trolleys being wheeled past me until I was against a wall. When the trolleys had passed, I heard someone calling me: ‘Sister Helen!’

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Keeping my back to the wall, and my hands on it for support, I crab-walked my way to the staff-room, where we kept our bags. I sat down on a hard chair for a moment, hands on my knees, trying to will myself back into the woman I had been, for Julia’s sake.

But that woman was gone, and so was her career.

I packed up my stuff and walked out. Yet another chapter closed.

But I needed to work – both emotionally and financially – and I eventually found a job as a receptionist in a busy doctors’ practice. There are six doctors and when I’m on duty, I’m the only receptionist. My duties involve answering the phones, making appointments, phoning various suppliers and reps, and doing mild medical tasks like taking blood pressure and testing urine. When I started, I was a bit worried the medical bit would throw me – but it’s benign enough that I can handle it. Nobody is going to die if I get the urine test wrong. But it is lots of different things to juggle, so it keeps me very busy. That’s what I needed then, and now. To be so busy I can’t think. And when I’m busy, I can try to act normal. Nobody at work thinks of me as a friend, but I also don’t think they realise that I’m dead inside, because I’m always moving, always doing something.

When Julia was little, I only worked mornings. It took two people to do the same job in the afternoon, and the doctors were always amazed by that. ‘Are you sure you don’t need some help, Helen?’ they’d ask, and I would shake my head.

‘It’s easy,’ I would answer, and compared to the life-or-death stuff I was dealing with, it was.

With Julia all grown up, I work all day – but I do have Wednesday afternoons off, and it still takes two people to relieve me.

When I get to work, Dr Marigold is already there, which is unusual – I’m normally the first in and the last to leave.

‘Morning, Helen,’ says Dr Marigold, a young man fresh out of training who expects me to call him Ewan. I’m not usually a formal woman but old habits die hard, and I struggle with this business of calling doctors by their first names. So I just call them all ‘Doc’.

‘Morning, Doc,’ I say. ‘You’re in early.’

Dr Marigold looks at me. ‘I am,’ he says. ‘I’m worried about a patient I saw yesterday. I feel like I missed something. I want to go over the file, maybe chat to one of the others, or phone a specialist.’

I like this about Ewan Marigold. Sometimes when young doctors start in private practice, they’re arrogant. They think they know everything and they don’t ask anyone for help. And then something bad happens, and they learn humility. I don’t know if Ewan Marigold is just a humble person, or if he’s learnt the hard way during his internship or community service. Either way, he’s careful, and that’s why I feel confident recommending him to patients.

Since The Accident, I haven’t had the energy to actively like many people, but I do like young Ewan Marigold. I like Ewan Marigold, who is the colour of a sun-baked stone and just as warm. I’m really excited about my day, and I find myself humming as I start my work.

Dr Marigold looks at me for a moment and then he smiles. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you humming before, Helen.’ I smile. ‘It’s not something I normally do,’ I admit.

‘You’re obviously having a good day,’ he says. ‘I hope it stays that way.’

‘Thanks.’

I wonder what he would think if I told him I’m just very excited that I might be able to commit suicide