Pulse(62)

‘Darling,’ he pleaded, ‘you must stop. Promise me you will leave this all alone.’

I looked across at the policemen.

‘Don’t you even want to know the number plate of the Mercedes?’





PART 3

April





23


‘Adult trauma, six minutes.’

The hospital Tannoy call caused a surge of adrenalin through my system – a rise in my heartbeat and a mixed feeling of excitement, fear and nervousness. Especially nervousness.

It was just my second day back.

Only a week previously, I had passed the assessment of my competence to return to work at Cheltenham General, although I hadn’t thought so at the time.

Initially, the assessing panel had been interested in what I had been doing with my time since I’d been discharged from Wotton Lawn just before Christmas.

I decided against telling them anything about the unnamed man or the spot-fixing, concentrating more on how I had taken the opportunity to catch up with advances in emergency medicine by reading specialist publications. And I told them that I’d spent a day as a medical officer at the racecourse, without actually elaborating on what had happened later.

They had appeared impressed by all that but then they still spent quite a lot of time asking me about the medications that I was taking, and about my ongoing consultations with the psychiatrist Stephen Butler.

‘We have to be so careful,’ the lady chairman of the panel had said in explanation. ‘We can’t take any unnecessary risks. We have to be satisfied that your medical condition poses no threat to the welfare of our patients.’

It had been at that point I’d become certain that I would fail whatever I said, so I’d thrown caution to the wind and told it how it really was.

‘I have a mental health problem,’ I said to them. ‘I repeat. I have a mental health problem.’

I stared at the three of them, one by one.

‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is for me to say those six words to complete strangers?’

I took a deep breath.

‘I’ve been off work now for four months but I’ve been ill for far longer than that, well over a year, probably longer. Initially I denied it, especially to myself. I made excuses for my strange behaviour and hid myself away so that others couldn’t see. But denial is very damaging. It may be the natural defence mechanism against acceptance of a painful truth but it makes things worse. Getting anxious because one is fearful of displaying that very anxiety is self-perpetuating. It is a chain reaction like an atom bomb that, if not defused, will detonate and destroy not only you but everything you hold dear – your marriage, your family, your house and your job. Everything, including your life itself.’

I paused.

No one said anything. They just waited for me to go on.

‘Acceptance is the key. Acceptance that one is ill is the very first step towards being well again. Instead of hiding away, acceptance allows one to seek out those who can help. But it is not just acceptance by me that’s important, it is acceptance by others, by my family, my friends and my colleagues. Acceptance provides a sense of belonging that is vital to recovery, a purpose that is essential for healing.’

I took another deep breath.

‘I have been a doctor for nearly twenty years and I have been a specialist in emergency medicine for the past ten of those. I know my job and I am sure I would not be a threat to the welfare of patients. Quite the reverse.’

I paused once more and looked at them.

‘I want my job back. I want it back because I feel able to provide a worthwhile service to society. But I also want it back because I need it. I need it to become properly well again.’

I fell silent with my hands lying in my lap.

After a few seconds the lady chairman cleared her throat.

‘Thank you, Dr Rankin,’ she said. ‘Most interesting. We will let you know our decision in due course.’

And they had, and quickly too.

I’d received a letter only three days later stating that I was cleared to work again in the Accident and Emergency Department at Cheltenham General Hospital. The only caveat being that, provided I agreed, I would be working for the foreseeable future under the supervision of the other consultants rather than as one of them, although I would retain my outward status, and my salary.

I’d swallowed what little pride I still retained, agreed to their terms, and had gone gleefully back to work the following Monday, i.e., yesterday.

‘A sixty-four-year-old man has fallen fifteen feet off a ladder,’ said the nurse who had taken the trauma call from the ambulance service. ‘Seems he was trying to fix his TV aerial. Stupid idiot. Fell onto a concrete path.’

‘Head injury?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘Landed on his feet. The ambulance service think he may have broken both ankles.’

Painful, but it shouldn’t be life-or limb-threatening providing the breaks hadn’t disrupted the blood supply to his feet. That would be the first thing I would check on his arrival.

‘You take this one, Chris,’ Jeremy Cook said over my shoulder as I sat at the desk. ‘I’ll just be on the periphery if you need me. Glad to have you back.’

‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ I said. ‘It’s good to be back.’