Caroline Anderson - Playing the Joker

With a smile, she left the Turners and moved on to the next room.

The woman lying there was very still, and Jo sat beside her and watched her for a second before touching her hand.

‘Mrs Price? Sally?’

The woman turned her head towards Jo and smiled wearily. ‘Hi.’

‘How are you feeling?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering if there’s any point. I’m bound to lose it anyway, and in the circumstances perhaps it would be the best thing——’

She turned away, and Jo squeezed her hand.

‘Be positive, Sally. Your husband wouldn’t want to see you so sad.’

‘We’ve tried for so long—so many miscarriages. For him to die now, when I’ve got to this stage——’

Jo felt helpless as she watched the woman’s shoulders shaking gently with grief. She had been widowed in a senseless accident two months before, and was in to have a cervical suture put in to try and prevent the loss of this most precious baby, the last in a long line of tragic attempts to carry a baby to term.

Owen had refused to give her a cervical suture with the last, maintaining that there was little chance of it working anyway and she was young, so there was plenty of time, but this time was quite literally her last chance to have her husband’s child, and Jo had fought tooth and nail. In the end Owen had agreed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Price said quietly now. ‘I know I’ll feel differently about it later, but it’s just that I can’t bear the thought of any more pain—you know, it’s a real bereavement. I didn’t realise until Tony died that I had felt the same way every time I lost a baby. Each time you build up such hope, and each time—it’s just too much, after a while. I almost wish it would just happen and then it would be over.’

Jo was more determined than ever that this woman would carry her baby to term and know the joy of motherhood.

She stood up. ‘One day at a time, Sally,’ she told her gently. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon to tell you how it went.’

Donning her confident, professional smile, Jo swept out of the ward and up to Theatre. There, in the changing-room, she leant against the cubicle wall and emptied her mind. Deep in the background was the sadness, but that never truly left her, and was a spur and motivation for the way she lived her life. Now, she had to make sure that Mary Jenkins’ baby survived her mother’s illness and was safely delivered.

Scrubbed and changed into the disgustingly unflattering green theatre pyjamas and white anti-static boots, her gown and mask tied, she made her way into the operating theatre where Alex was already waiting.

Their patient was in the ante-room, and Jo could hear the anaesthetist talking to her.

Suddenly he stuck his head round the corner.

‘She’s complaining of flashing lights —I think she could be going into a fit.’

Jo moved instantly, but Alex was there before her, snapping out orders and setting up a lytic cocktail drip which was attached to the cannula mercifully already in her arm.

As he connected it, she went into the tonic stage of the convulsion, her body going rigid, her face contorted. After a few seconds she lapsed into the clonic stage, jerking uncontrollably. They held her arm still to try and prevent the drip from being wrenched out, and gradually as the sedatives took effect the convulsions eased and she lapsed into a coma.

Jo looked up and met Alex’s eyes, and he winked at her reassuringly.

‘Your patient, Dr Harding—I think we should proceed with the section when we’ve scrubbed again.’

She smiled faintly at him. ‘Good idea.’

They walked out to the scrub-room and stood side by side at the sinks. She was tempted to lean on him, and tell him how grateful she was that he had been there to share the horror of that moment.

She’d never seen an eclamptic fit before, and, while she was glad that better antenatal care had removed the risk almost completely, she had to admit that it did nothing to prepare you for an unexpected case like Mary Jenkins.

She dried her hands, pulled on a fresh set of gloves and made her way back with Alex into the operating-room.

Their patient was on the table, draped and swabbed and ready for her attention.

Alex stood quietly opposite her, his hands ready to cauterise or irrigate or hold retractors, always steady, there before she had to ask, but never once commenting or implying that he would have done it differently.

Finally she was through all the layers of muscle and into the uterus, and as he held the retractors steady, she reached inside and brought out a tiny, squalling scrap.

There was a collective sigh of relief as the baby yelled her protest, and Alex smiled at her.

Jo looked away. ‘She looks fine,’ she said abruptly, and clamped the cord and cut it.

The midwife took the baby to a cot and laid her in, and checked her Apgar score while Jo delivered the placenta and started suturing.

‘Apgar nine,’ the midwife said after five minutes, and Jo nodded.

‘Lucky,’ Alex commented.

‘Thanks to your quick action,’ Jo said, echoing all their feelings. There was a general murmur of agreement.

At last she had tied the final suture and the woman was wheeled away to Recovery.

Alex and Jo went up to the little rest-room and relaxed while the theatre was prepared for the next case.

‘You were very generous,’ he said, ‘especially considering that I took over your patient.’

She smiled. ‘I didn’t mind,’ she assured him. ‘I was just grateful for your quick action.’

‘I only did what you would have done.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

He looked steadily at her. ‘You would have coped.’

‘I know, but I’m still glad you were there.’

He looked quickly away. ‘Tell me about your list,’ he instructed.

She filled him in, and he nodded but didn’t comment, except to ask if she minded if he watched.

‘Of course not,’ she replied, but her heart thudded, either with tension because he would be watching again or delight because he would still be near her. If she was honest, it was probably both.

The first patient on the list proper was June Turner, who by now had had her epidural set up and was waiting for them in Theatre, her gowned and masked husband waiting at her side.

‘Hello, June; hello, Mike,’ Jo said cheerfully. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting—we had a bit of an emergency. This is Alexander Carter, the new consultant.’

June’s relaxed smile faded a little, and her eyes flicked from Jo’s face to his and back again.

‘Oh. Does that mean you aren’t going to do the operation?’

Jo grinned. ‘No way. I’m not handing you over to anyone! Right, are you all set?’

The green screens were set up, masking their activity from June and her husband, and she was swabbed and draped ready for her operation.

‘OK, June, I’m just going to make the first incision now.’

She stroked lightly and swiftly with the scalpel, and Anne Gabriel, who was assisting, swabbed and irrigated and held retractors and smiled at June over the curtain as Jo worked.

Jo herself was busy working her way through the layers of scar tissue in the old incision line. In very little time she reached the uterus, and looked at June. ‘OK, here we are. The scar actually looks fine, so I suppose that means you don’t want to be sterilised?’

Mike grinned. ‘Nice try, Dr Harding.’

She laughed. ‘OK, I’m just going to open the uterus and then you’ll have your baby.’

June smiled, Mike held her hand even tighter and Jo carefully penetrated the first layer.

‘Suction, please,’ she said, but Anne was there already, and in no time the baby was in her hands. ‘It’s a boy,’ she said with a smile that lit up her eyes above her mask, ‘and he looks lovely!’