Liz Trenow - The Poppy Factory

She forced her eyes away, searching the pack for a morphine syringe.

‘I’m just going to give you something for the pain,’ she said, squatting down by his head. But when she looked into his face she could see that he had gone, his eyes rolled back, his skin a deadly grey.

She shook his shoulder. ‘Stay with us,’ she shouted, shaking him harder. She pressed her finger to his neck.

‘No pulse, Dave. Christ, he’s got no pulse.’ She ripped open his jacket and shirt, and pressed the pads onto his chest. ‘Flatline.’

‘I’ll secure his airway,’ Dave shouted. ‘Start CPR, now.’

No, no, no, no, she muttered to herself, in rhythm with the pumps on his chest, like a mantra. Not again, not again. It can’t be, can’t be. Now, the rest of the world disappeared and the only thing that mattered was counting out loud the chest compression pumps: one – two – three – four – five – six – seven – eight – nine. Eighty to a hundred pumps a minute for two minutes, a quick check of the pulse and then start again. Dave was squeezing air into his lungs from the bag now, twelve breaths a minute. If we keep doing this he will come back, she said to herself, I’ve seen it happen, just so long as we can keep it up.

Just as the muscles in her arms felt as though they would crumple with exhaustion Emma returned and took over for a while, and they alternated for what seemed like hours, all through loading him onto the ambulance and the crazy race back to the hospital; even as they were wheeling him into A&E.

The doctors declared both casualties dead on arrival. They were the young parents of the baby. The old man who’d lost control of his car and driven onto the pavement at forty miles an hour was completely unharmed.

When they got back to the ambulance station Dave said, ‘Want a coffee?’

She nodded numbly and followed him into the kitchen, barely aware of her surroundings, finding it strange that she could even breathe or put one foot in front of another when she felt so completely shell-shocked. He placed a mug of hot sweet tea onto the table in front of her but when she went to pick it up her hands shook so badly that she slopped it all over her uniform.

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘It happens to all of us, you know,’ he said, kindly.

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, it doesn’t happen to all of us, not like that. You saw me, Dave. I lost it again. Some kind of flashback thing. God knows how long it was before you arrived and took over.’

‘Only a few moments, I’m sure. Besides, you’d already controlled his bleeding.’

‘But the delay could have meant the difference …’ The thought was simply too enormous and too terrible to contemplate. She felt overwhelmed and exhausted; barely able to think straight.

After a long pause Dave said: ‘I think you need to take a few days off. Why don’t you ask Frank?’

‘Oh God, I couldn’t face Frank, right now.’

‘Do you want me to ask him for you?’

She nodded.

‘Okay. I think you need to talk to someone, but perhaps not today. The best thing for you now is to go straight home, have something to eat and a couple of glasses of wine. Try to think about something else. I’ll text to let you know what Frank says.’

It was this simple act of kindness and understanding which finally broke the dam, opening the door to all the horror, the guilt and the shame. She began to weep, with long, agonising gasps that seemed to wrench all the air out of her lungs. Dave moved his arm around her and she rested her head on his warm, broad shoulder till the sobs abated.

She was relieved to see her father in the station car park because he wouldn’t ask too many questions; after a heavy date with a whisky bottle, she was feeling particularly fragile.

When she’d got back to the flat the previous day she’d found it deserted and remembered that Vorny and Hatts were away on exercise for two weeks. She slumped down on the sofa and wept, desolate and desperate for someone to talk to. Why weren’t they here, when she’d needed them most? She considered calling Nate but decided she couldn’t dump her problems on him, not just yet. After a while she dried her eyes and stomped around the flat wondering what to do with herself. Then, reluctantly, she dialled her parents’ number.

‘I’ve got a few days unexpected leave, Mum. Can I come and stay?’

‘Of course, dear. Are you all right?’

‘Ish. Talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll be there on the five o’clock train. Can someone pick me up?’

As they drew up to the house her mother was on the doorstep, with Milly the dog, both regarding her with inquiring eyes. Why the unexpected leave? Why wasn’t she spending it with Nathan? Of course her mother was far too wise to ask directly. Jess would share any problems, in her own time. She always did.

‘How’s things?’

‘Fine, thanks. Glad to be here.’

‘You look pale, love. Are you feeling okay?’

‘Just a bit weary. Heavy week.’

The truth was that she didn’t really feel anything much right now, except numb and confused. All her adult life had been spent working towards, training and then becoming a medic. She’d wanted to make a difference, to save lives and she’d loved it, mostly. Until yesterday she had been determined to spend the rest of her life doing it, couldn’t imagine any other form of career.

But somehow all that certainty had now disappeared, washed away like the poor young man’s blood on that dismal pavement. She had broken her promise to James, her vow to prevent anyone dying through any delay in stemming their loss of blood.

The future felt like a quicksand, untrustworthy and perilous. Last night, during her long commune with the bottle, she’d argued with herself, sometimes out loud, as the logical, calm voice of reason struggled to be heard over what her instincts seemed to be shouting:

You’re a good medic, well-trained, highly experienced. You’ve made a difference, even saved lives.

I’ve failed to save lives. I failed that young man. I punched that idiot in the street.

Just a couple of blips, you’ll get over it.

It’s not that. I can’t trust myself any more: the flashbacks, the anger. I failed my promise to James.

Just two events in four months, Jess.

I’m a danger to patients. My confidence is gone. The thought of going back to work makes me feel panicky and sick.

You could get help, counselling perhaps? That’ll sort it.

Do I want to put myself through all that self-examination crap? Anyway, I don’t know if I really want to go on putting myself on the line every day.

Okay, so give up being a medic. But you need to earn a living somehow. What would you do instead?

Oh Christ, that’s it. What else could I do? There is nothing else.

The argument raged in her head until, finally, she’d passed out, fully dressed, on the sofa.