Caroline Anderson - Just a Family Doctor

‘But that’s good. If you don’t see them again, you’ve done your job.’

He shook his head. ‘Maybe—but it’s not the job I want to be doing. I want to find the problem, send them to get it sorted and follow it up afterwards at home.’

‘But that’s general practice,’ she said, a little bemused.

‘Exactly.’

She stared at him in astonishment. ‘But you’re going to be a surgeon.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not any more. That’s why I’m doing paeds, why I’ve done obs and gynae, and A&E, and general medicine, and geriatrics—’

‘You want to be a GP?’ she said slowly, the penny finally dropping.

He smiled. ‘Yes—why not?’

Why not? She thought of the stress her father was under, of his partner who had found the strain all too much and taken the easy way out, leaving his wife and two young children to cope alone without him—

‘Why not?’ she said incredulously. ‘Because it’s an awful life, that’s why not. It’s dreadful. That’s why they can’t recruit GPs for love nor money. It’s stressful, it’s bogged down with paperwork, the hours are horrendous, it’s a thankless task—’

‘No. It’s not a thankless task. It might be all the other things, but it’s not a thankless task, and the hours are much better now. Nearly all GPs are in cooperatives, so their time on call is much better organised and less stressful.’

She snorted. ‘Talk to my father about it.’

‘I have—I did. He agrees.’

‘No, he doesn’t. Well, he might have done five years ago, but he doesn’t now. Why do you think he’s taking early retirement?’

Mark shrugged. ‘To enjoy the rest of his life while he still can?’

She snorted again. ‘Not my father. He’s a workaholic. No, it’s stress, I know it is.’

‘Well, whatever, it’s what I want to do, Allie,’ he said quietly, straightening the edge of his beermat with a strong, blunt fingertip. ‘I’m not cut out for hospital medicine, I know that now.’

She was stunned. Shocked, confused, utterly baffled by his announcement. He was going to be a surgeon. She’d always known that. It was who he was—wasn’t it?

She sipped her drink again absently, and then the barmaid called out a number and Mark stood up, coming back moments later with two fragrant, steaming baskets of scampi and chips nestled on absorbent paper napkins, two wooden forks and a selection of condiments in another basket.

‘Here—it smells gorgeous.’

It did. Fattening, wicked and absolutely lovely. She let her breath out on a quiet sigh, sprinkled salt liberally over her food with total disregard for her health, and tucked in.

A GP, for heaven’s sake—

‘Allie?’

She looked up, searching his face for any clue that he’d been winding her up, and found none.

‘What?’

‘What’s the matter?’

Was she so easy to read? She shrugged. ‘I just thought—I don’t know. I always knew you were going to be a surgeon.’

He grinned. ‘Well, I’m not. Believe me, I was shocked as well. You’ll get over it. The scampi’s good. Do you want some tartare sauce?’

‘Mmm.’ She tore the corner off the packet and squeezed it out mechanically, then stuck the little wooden fork into a piece of scampi and bit into it. He was right, it was good. She put thoughts of his career out of her mind and concentrated on eating and enjoying his company, but something had gone, like a light being switched off inside her.

It was only later, after he’d taken her home and given her another of those sizzling kisses on the doorstep, that she realised why.

They had no future, because there was no way she could spend her life with anyone who was going into general practice. There was no way she’d marry him if things went that far. She couldn’t bring children into the world knowing their father might not last the course. She’d seen at first hand the havoc it could cause in a woman’s life, and she had no intention of letting it happen to her.

Then she chided herself for being ridiculous.

You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, Allie Baker. You’ve had two dates—and one of them didn’t even really count. Stop acting like he’s asked you to marry him!

She got ready for bed, climbed under the chilly duvet and snuggled down, and waited fruitlessly for sleep to come.

They had a new admission the next day, a little girl of seven from the cystic fibrosis clinic. Claudia Hall had been diagnosed with CF at birth, and was currently struggling with yet another deep-seated chest infection.

She was coming in for intravenous antibiotics to combat it, and Allie greeted her and her very pregnant mother affectionately. It was the second time she’d been in in the few months Allie had been on the ward, the last time to insert a gastrostomy tube in her stomach so she could have special feeds delivered by pump overnight to boost the amount she was able to eat, because her appetite was dreadful and she wasn’t able to take in enough to sustain herself.

Everybody thought CF was just a chest condition, Allie mused, and yet it affected the intestines just as much, causing havoc with the assimilation of food and secretion of enzymes. In fact if Claudia ate anything with fat in it, she took handfuls of enzyme pills to enable her to digest it properly. Between the enzymes and the tube feeds, Claudia had been gaining weight, but now she’d lost it again with this infection. Allie had hoped they wouldn’t have to see her again so soon, and it was a shame. She’d had more than enough to deal with already in her short life.

‘Where am I this time?’ the little girl asked as she looked round the all too familiar ward.

‘Nice bed by the window—that do you?’ Allie said with a smile.

Claudia nodded. ‘Yes, please. I don’t want to be in the Winnie the Pooh room again.’

Allie laughed. ‘Well, you won’t have to this time because you’re MRSA free, so we won’t have to isolate you. How’s Piglet?’

Claudia pulled up her jumper and showed Allie her gastrostomy tube, nicknamed Piglet because of the Winnie the Pooh room she’d been put in when she’d gone down with the MRSA infection in the gastrostomy site. ‘He’s fine. Still eating all night.’

‘Good. Right, we need to admit you and do all the paperwork, then you can go and find out who’s in the playroom.’

‘Is Katie still here?’ she asked.

Allie shook her head. ‘No, sorry. She went home a few weeks ago. There are a couple of girls of your age, though. I’m sure you’ll get on with them.’

Claudia nodded and scrambled up onto the bed, triggering a coughing fit that ended in her vomiting. Allie was prepared. It was a frequent occurrence with CF children, and she was ready with a paper bowl.

‘She’s really gone downhill the last few days,’ her mother Jayne explained. ‘She’s been coughing more and more—Dr Barrett thought she should come in and get it sorted. She’s got pneumonia this time—I suppose it makes a change from Pseudomonas.’

Allie nodded. ‘Yes, she’s down for gentamycin. That should clobber it. Can’t have you feeling this poorly, can we?’ she said with a smile for Claudia, who was flopped against the backrest looking exhausted.

‘She hasn’t been sleeping all that much,’ Jayne said, and Allie could tell by the bags under her eyes that Jayne hadn’t, either.

‘When’s the new baby due?’ she asked.

‘Three weeks, but I may not make it that long. I’ve got dodgy ligaments in my pelvis and it’s so painful. I have to wear a belt round my hips to support it, and it’s getting really tiresome, not to mention difficult to move around, so they might induce me early.’

As if the poor woman didn’t have enough on her plate. ‘It’ll soon be over,’ Allie said comfortingly, and then turned back to Claudia. ‘All right, poppet? Feeling a bit better?’