Christina Sweeney-Baird - The End of Men

Fiona bursts through the doors of the Unit. ‘Ross has been brought in by ambulance.’

Eight.

It’s not my anxiety, I know that now. With freezing fingers, I phone my husband.

‘There’s an infection. It’s really bad.’

‘Wait, what? What kind? MRSA?’

‘No, something I’ve not seen before. It’s spreading too fast. You have to go home. Now.’

‘Are you sure it’s not your anxiety talk—’

‘Fuck. Off. I have eight patients dying in a row lined up like we’re in World War Fucking Two. They’re all men, I don’t know if that means anything yet but it’s not a good sign. Go home. I swear to God if you don’t claim you’ve just thrown up and go home I will divorce you.’

I’m hysterical. I have never threatened to leave my lovely, supportive, oncologist husband before. I never imagined anything could drive me to such a threat. But I never imagined this.

‘Go home. Touch no one, speak to no one, just go. Pick up the boys on your way home. Get them to come out to you. Don’t go into the school. Please go get them.’ I’m begging now. Will agrees. I don’t know if he’s terrified of me or for me. I don’t care. He just has to be home safe with our sons. I punch out a text to my boys telling them their dad is on his way to pick them up and they’re to go outside and wait for him. I’ll write whatever note they need. I’ll say anything.

I vaguely know someone who works at Health Protection Scotland. We were at university together and now she’s a deputy director there. She’s always been a bit snippy but I don’t care. I need her to listen to me. I call her and try to sound calm as I speak to the switchboard. When I tell her everything in a rush she keeps making small noises as though she wants to get off the phone. She doesn’t sound worried but also, it seems like she thinks she’s seen this all before. She’s not been a doctor for over ten years but somehow it sounds like she just doesn’t trust me. Maybe the urgency isn’t translating when I explain. It’s so clear to me but it sounds so minor – eight people are sick, OK, we’ll see what happens and we’ll look into it. I put everything down in an email as well and say that, at the very least, they need to send someone to look into it, just in case. I sit down by one of the patients and check his pulse. It is 45. He will die soon. They all will. Breathe, Amanda. The cavalry will charge in soon. I won’t have to deal with all of this on my own. There will be someone I can hand the reins over to. Someone qualified who wears a hazmat suit for a living will come and make everything better and let me go home and forget that this ever happened.

The doors of the Minor Injury Unit swing open. It’s Matron.

‘There’s four more just arrived in ambulances. Two were here two days ago, and the other two were here yesterday. I don’t know what to do.’

My worst nightmare is coming true.

Email from Amanda Maclean (amanda.maclean@nhs.net ) to Leah Spicer (l.spicer@healthprotectionscotland.org ) 6.42 p.m. 3 November 2025

Leah,

Found your email online. Realised that you forgot to give it to me on the phone after you said to email you. I’ve just arrived home from my shift. When I left there were nineteen live patients in A&E all showing symptoms of what I think is a virus (antibiotics made no difference although obviously need pathology to confirm what’s going on. Is that easier for your lab to do over at HPS or is it quicker for us to just crack on here at Gartnavel?) Of the twenty-six I think we’ve seen so far, five died before I left the hospital. One man, the first I saw, from the Isle of Bute two days ago. Fraser McAlpine this afternoon. Three other men died quickly after coming in including one of my junior doctors, Ross.

They’re all men. Too small a sample size so far obviously but I’ve never seen that before. Maybe men are more vulnerable to it? Can we have a call to discuss all of this please, also maybe loop someone more senior in? This is very bad, Leah. You need to understand how quickly the disease affects them. They go from having normal flu symptoms and feeling quite unwell to being dead with a temperature of over 43 degrees in a few hours.

Please get back to me as soon as you can.

Amanda

Email from Amanda Maclean (amanda.maclean@nhs.net ) to Leah Spicer (l.spicer@healthprotectionscotland.org ) 6.48 p.m. 3 November 2025

Leah, there was a baby as well, I just realised. We thought it was sepsis. He was in before Fraser McAlpine. He was only two months old. I thought he was stable when we sent him up to the Paediatric ICU but I just called them and he died a few minutes after they wheeled him out of the lift. He was here a few days ago, being treated in A&E.

That makes twenty-seven I saw today. Six deaths. Oldest aged 62. Youngest aged two months.

Amanda

FW: Email from Amanda Maclean (amanda.maclean@nhs.net ) to Leah Spicer (l.spicer@healthprotectionscotland.org ) 6.48 p.m. 3 November 2025. FW to Raymond McNab (r.mcnab@healthprotectionscotland.org ) 10.30 a.m. 4 November 2025

Ray,

See below two emails from a woman I went to Uni with. She’s a consultant at Gartnavel. I think she’s mistaking a bad case of the flu (it’s November after all …) with ensuing sepsis/likely death from other, complicating factors for something more serious. There’s been no other reports of anything on the Category 1 list so I think we’re safe on the SARS /MRSA/Ebola front.

Between you and me, she had a breakdown at university. Completely cracked up and had to take a year out. I think one of her parents died or something? Anyway, she’s quite fragile. I intend to send a holding email advising good infection-control practice and to get in touch if anything further. Flag if you disagree.

Thanks,

Leah

Email from Raymond McNab (r.mcnab@healthprotectionscotland ) to Leah Spicer (l.spicer@healthprotectionscotland.org ) 10.42 a.m. 4 November 2025

Thanks Leah.

By the sounds of it, a stark raving lunatic who’s trying to waste the limited resources and time of this institution. Not to mention my patience. Ignore please.

Ray

I’ve never been good at the school pick-up. I don’t like talking to groups of people I vaguely know. Strangers are fine, as are, obviously, friends. I just cannot form a clique to save my life. The nursery gates are rife with stressful opportunities for me to put my foot in my mouth or misinterpret a friendly hello as a ‘Come and talk to us!’ wave when actually it was a ‘I’m busy talking to someone, nice to see you from a distance!’ wave. I have a PhD in Social Anthropology and yet the difference between these two waves can easily be lost on me. The irony, by contrast, is most certainly not.