Lisa Stone: The Doctor

Half an hour later, leaving Alisha at the sink washing the dishes, Amit let himself out the back door, briefcase in hand and the package under his arm, and went down their garden path. The sun was setting now, elongating the shadows of the house and trees across the lawn. He preferred this time to the harsh light of day, which seemed to highlight flaws and imperfections. At the end of the path, he unlocked the padlock on his workshop, switched on the light and, going in, bolted the door behind him. No one could see him now. Blackout blinds were permanently down at all the windows, and he’d covered the glass in opaque film. It was pure luck the house had come with this substantial outbuilding, built by the previous owner as a recording studio. Already soundproofed, well insulated and with electricity running from the house, it hadn’t taken much for him to adapt it for its present purpose.

With a growing sense of pride and a little apprehension, Amit carefully took the bottle of anaesthetic from his briefcase. Opening one of the metal cabinets that stood against the wall, he placed the bottle on the top shelf with the other bottles of solutions. Drugs such as these were the only items he needed that couldn’t be bought legitimately from the internet as they required a special licence. Doubtless he could have bought them illegally, but there would be no guarantee they were pure and hadn’t been watered down or mixed with something to give the supplier more profit. The wrong or inferior drugs would be disastrous, and besides, no one at the hospital would notice the drugs were missing. As the anaesthetist, he was responsible for signing the drugs in and out of the operating room, and he took them one at a time.

Returning to the workbench, he slit open the package and took out the bag valve mask. It was in a sealed sterile package and was used for manually pumping air into a patient’s lungs. It would be crucial that Alisha’s brain received oxygen while he lowered her body temperature. He’d already bought a portable heart-machine. He’d use the manual pump as he transported her body from the house down the garden to his lab and then hook her up to the machine.

Retrieving a pen from the bench, he flicked through his list of essential items and ticked off the bag valve mask. He placed it in the cabinet on the second shelf. The shelves were nearly full now: bottles, tubing, scissors, forceps, scalpels, speculums, retractors, wound dressings, and so on. Items he would need to operate. Not a standard operation of course. He’d do what ELECT were doing: drain the blood from the body and replace it with preservation fluid. Then he’d store Alisha in liquid nitrogen at minus 190°C until a cure for her condition could be found. He’d be at the forefront of medical science, making a name for himself, and finally his parents would be proud of him.

Taking his laptop from his briefcase, Amit set it on his bench and perched on the stool. He brought up the bookmarked web page and ordered an aluminium tank large enough to hold a body. He’d been surprised at just how easy it had been to find what he needed online, partly due to the trend in cryotherapy – a treatment where otherwise healthy people paid to stand in a tank at minus 90°C for two minutes. It was being used to treat minor conditions, including sports injuries and skin conditions, as well as supposedly generating a feeling of youthfulness and well-being.

Having entered his card details to pay for the tank, he arranged a delivery date, then went to another website and ordered half a dozen white mice. He’d only get one chance with Alisha, so he’d practice the procedure on small animals first, until he was confident he had everything right, just as any reputable scientist would.

His mobile phone rang, making him start. He took it from his pocket and saw the call was from the house. It would be Alisha. Reliant on him, she phoned if she needed him urgently. Irritated at being interrupted, he pressed to accept the call.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘I need your help quickly.

He sighed. He had to go. ‘I’m coming.’

Leaving everything as it was – he’d return later – he let himself out of his workshop.

The sun had set now and the lights were on in his and his neighbours’ houses, including Ben and Emily’s bedroom window. Emily was standing at the window looking out, watching him, as he’d seen her do before. His anger flared. Didn’t the nosy cow have anything better to do! Standing there brazenly. She must know he could see her. Drawing his head in, he hurried down the path to the back door. She needed to be careful, if she knew what was good for her.

While the surgeon, Mr Barry Lowe, worked on his patient’s abdomen, Amit sat by her head and monitored her vital signs on the screen. Heart rate and rhythm, breathing, blood pressure, body temperature, oxygen level and body fluid balance were all normal. It was a relatively minor and straightforward procedure – an appendectomy – on an otherwise healthy thirty-year-old, so he didn’t envisage any problems. In operations like this, once the patient was under there was little for him to do but monitor the green and blue lines that ran across the screen.

Being an anaesthetist was a thankless job, he thought now as he often had before. Anaesthetists were at the bottom end of medicine. A branch you went into when you didn’t really want to be a doctor or didn’t make the grade. He’d been forced into medicine by his pushy parents who saw it as the gold-standard career. That or being a lawyer, which had appealed even less. Having a doctor or lawyer in the family gave his parents respect in their community, and he hadn’t had the guts to stand up to them. So with no calling to medicine or the law, and achieving poor grades at med school, he’d become an anaesthetist. Thankfully it involved very little contact with patients and required no bedside manner as they were unconscious, which suited him fine.

He watched Barry Lowe snip the infected appendix clear of the intestine and, with a sigh of satisfaction for a job well done, drop it into the stainless-steel bowl. He began closing the wound.

‘How’s your wife?’ he asked Amit, glancing at him over his surgical glasses.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Amit replied stiffly. ‘Thank you for asking.’ Those he worked with were vaguely aware Alisha had a life-limiting illness, but he’d never told them the details. He kept himself to himself and used Alisha’s illness as an excuse for not socializing with colleagues or attending hospital functions.

‘Did you ever get in any agency help?’ Barry Lowe asked, stitching the wound.

‘It’s not necessary,’ Amit replied. ‘She’s still able to look after herself. I can manage.’

‘Well, don’t get burnt out, we need you here,’ he said and put in the last stitch.

With the wound closed, Amit switched off the drugs that had kept the patient asleep and began the process of bringing her out of the anaesthetic. He turned down the nitrous oxide and turned up the oxygen. As expected, the patient’s facial muscles began to twitch as she started to regain consciousness. Then she gagged and he removed the endotracheal tube from her throat.

The operation over, the team began to dissemble. Barry Lowe removed his surgical gloves, dropped them in the bin and called goodbye as he left. The theatre nurses were clearing up, but, as usual, Amit stayed by the patient, monitoring her vital signs until she was responsive enough to speak.

‘Can you hear me?’ he asked her. ‘Your operation is over.’

‘Thank you,’ came her groggy reply.

Satisfied, Amit flexed his shoulders. They were always stiff, even after a short operation. His patient was ready for the recovery room and one of the theatre nurses would take her through soon. They were occupied at present, facing away from him as they cleared up and swabbed down after the operation. Quietly and quickly, in a smooth, well-practised movement, he slid the unused bottle of anaesthetic from the cart and tucked it into the pocket of his scrubs.