CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: The Hospital
The cell-phone was ringing.
Frustrated, Rachel Connor laid the patient notes she was reading on the ward clerk’s desk, and reached into her white coat pocket for the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“Rachel!” her father’s voice replied.
“Dad,” she said, “I’m just on a ward round. Don’t you have meetings?”
“I’m just about to head back in.”
Rachel glanced up apologetically to her consultant, Dr Nigel Watts. He grimaced at her, and then gestured their House Officer, Sally Ng, to follow him.
“What is it, Dad?” she asked.
“You won’t believe what just happened.”
“What?”
“Mark Blake just called me to St Peter’s.”
“The Cathedral? Why?”
“He’s afraid there’s a king taking over in Wenderholm.”
Rachel shook her head, feeling a little dazed. “What?”
“Do you know Wenderholm?”
“Yes, I know Wenderholm! What are you on about?”
“A king, Rachel: a king! We’re about to be taken over by the Northerners! Hold ‘em off, will you? They should hit you first, there in Auckland, before they make it to Wellington.”
For a moment, Rachel thought he was serious. Then his florid laughter filled her hearing – and she also laughed, with him.
“Had to share the joke, darling,” he said. “Just too funny! Sorry to interrupt! Better get back to work.”
“Yeah,” she said, “you and me! Just keep any other jokes until tomorrow, eh, Dad? I’m on call tonight.”
He had gone – and she closed the phone away.
Watts and Ng were busy, in Room B. Rachel decided to leave them to it, and moved into Room C.
There she went to the first bed, on the left. Alongside her, a medical student suddenly appeared, ready to jot down notes. Rachel noticed his keen young enthusiasm with a pang of nostalgia: how quickly those days had passed.
“Good morning, Thelma,” Rachel said, reaching out a hand to the elderly woman. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“A bit better, thank you, Doctor Connor.” Her dyed light blonde perm framed her polite smile.
“Good! How’s that chest?”
“Not bad.”
Rachel reached with her stethoscope to listen to Thelma’s heart and lungs, through her blue nightie – the crackles she had heard the previous morning were almost gone.
“Sounding much better!”
“Does that mean I can go home?”
The House Officer, Sally, was suddenly there. She passed her the electronic chart – and Rachel cast her eyes quickly over it as Sally spoke.
“Temperature’s been down for twenty-four hours,” she said, “and O2 sats are back to normal.”
“I think so!” Rachel said brightly to Thelma, and turned to Sally. “Good work. Discharge her today, with ten days of oral antibiotics.”
Thelma’s face lit up, her hazel eyes bright.
“I hope I never have to see you again,” Rachel said with a smile, and Thelma nodded.
“Me too!”
And Rachel reached for the small bottle of disinfectant in her pocket, and moved to the next bed.
Here lay a young Pacific Island woman, only in the twenties. She was dying of stomach cancer. Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, and reached to take the woman’s hand.
“Good morning, Mary,” she said.
“Good morning, Doctor Rachel,” Mary replied, her voice weak.
“How is your breathing?”
“A bit better.”
Rachel lingered on her face. This lady’s sister, and aunt, had also died of the same stomach cancer. Her brown eyes were brave – lit, somehow, with her Christian faith.
“Has your pastor been in to pray for you?”
“Yes,” Mary said. “I’m still hoping for healing.”
Rachel looked over her wasting body. Mary was well known to their team – she had already had surgery, but the cancer had regrown and now had spread to her liver and lungs. From time to time fluid would build up around a lung, stealing her breath – she would return to hospital, and they would take out the fluid with a needle to give her relief.
Rachel was certain she could only have a few weeks left to live – and yet what to say? Rob her of her faith? A faith Rachel herself could not share?
She listened to her chest, looked at her chart, and patted her hand.
“Keep up the good work,” she said – and with hidden grief, and disinfectant, moved quickly to the next bed.
Here a middle-aged Israeli man sat, reading the paper. He looked up at her, and smiled – he was wearing a blue kippah cap on his head, with a Star of David.
“Greetings, Doctor Connor,” he said
“Greetings, Isaac,” she replied.
Rachel moved to his side. “Would you mind?” she asked, and he shrugged, reaching to remove his cap.
“Go ahead.”
She pulled back the dressing on his scalp – a tumour growing there had been removed, and the following red infection was beginning to settle.
“News from the Middle East?” she asked, as she replaced the dressing.
“Tensions,” Isaac sighed. “As always.”
“Is there hope for peace?”
She found his brown eyes, as he replaced his kippah.
“There is always hope for peace,” he said, “with the Lord.”
Faith, again, but of a different kind. Rachel smiled sadly at him. “Shalom,” she said, for him.
“Shalom,” he said back, tipping his head to her with respect.
Moving now to the sink to wash her hands, Rachel turned to Sally. “One more day of IV’s,” she said, “and then he can go onto orals too.”
“Okay,” Sally said.
Now Rachel wandered across the room to the foot of another bed. Here a young Iraqi man had a continuing infection in the bone of his shin.
“The osteomyelitis is getting worse,” Sally said quietly in her ear. “We’ve given five days of IVs.”
“And the temp?”
“Still spiking.”
“Blood cultures?”
“They’ve finally grown multi-resistant staph.”
“Shit.”
Rachel looked at the young man. Was he even twenty? His body was well toned, wearing black Adidas shorts and a green sports shirt – but his face was beaded with sweat. Rachel glanced at his chart – twenty-one. Just. A notice was above his head – gloves to be used with any contact. She reached for some gloves, and drew back the dressing from his wound. Pus was draining directly from the bone.
“Vancomycin?”
“We’ve run out.”
Rachel swallowed. She covered the wound again, and smiled at the man. What was his name? Abida.
“Can you fix me, doctor?”
Rachel felt her smile fading. What to say? What to say?
“Maybe surgery will help,” she said. “Let me talk to my consultant.”
His young eyes were fixed on her, she knew, as she washed her hands and left the room.
Rachel hurried into the corridor, taking a deep breath – but then Abida’s parents were in front of her: mother and father, olive faces creased with worry.
“What are you doing for our son?” his father asked.
Rachel swallowed again. “I’m sorry,” she began, struggling to find some form of comfort. “He has a resistant infection – the antibiotics we’re using aren’t working very well.”
“Isn’t there something else you can use?”
“We…” Grief threatened her. “We don’t have anything else.”
The medical supplies were restricted, now, from overseas! All imports were drying up.
“Can’t you do something?” Abida’s mother cried. “He’s getting sicker! Can’t you see that?”
She was grasping at Rachel’s arm, now – pulling her back toward the room. Rachel stared at h
er, and then shook off her arm.
“That’s enough!” Rachel exploded. “What do you want from me, a miracle?”
They stared at her – and now her consultant was also there, staring.
Rachel flushed, and fleetingly closed her eyes. Then she opened them again – girding herself again.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. Here’s Dr Watts – he’ll be able to help you.”
But she knew there was nothing more he could offer.
The frowning parents wandered back to their son, with Watts – and Rachel retreated to the work bay. Sally sat down alongside her, with the charts – and Rachel threw her stethoscope on the table, staring at it.
“I hate this job,” she said.
“You’re not God,” Sally said, and Rachel closed her eyes tightly again.
“Tell that to the patients who are dying.”
Time was pushed – always pushed. Rachel opened her eyes, sighed, and then rose to her feet. “Radiology meeting,” she said.
“I’ll be there soon,” Sally replied, “just after I check the bloods.”
“All right.” And Rachel strode down the corridor and out of the ward.
The sun was shining outside. Rachel gazed longingly out of a window, to Lake Pupuke beyond. Across the other side of the lake was North Shore Hospital – she had worked there once. Here, she worked in the newer hospital – ten years old, serving the increasing population on the North Shore. ‘North with Interest,’ the staff all called it: North-East Hospital. Budget cuts, sixty hour weeks, medication tightly controlled: she needed a break – that’s why she had exploded.
In front of her, she noticed a gathering of people by the lakefront. Strange…what was going on? No time to check it out – even her lunch-break was filled with beeps on the locator.
Rachel reluctantly left the sunny view to enter into the dark radiology room. A large screen showed the images of interest waiting to be discussed. She cast her eyes over some of them: maybe sarcoidosis, for the first, on chest X-ray? Maybe leukaemia, on bone scan, with the next?
Watts sat down next to her – his grey curly hair framing a smirk.
“Interesting episode on the ward, Rachel.”
“Whatever you say,” Rachel muttered. “That’s what you get with multi-resistant staph.”
“Shift him to the single room.”
“We’re getting a few cases now.”
“I know. We must contain them. If we get an outbreak, we’re stuffed.”
“All right.”
The radiologist began to talk through the X-rays. Soon they were looking at Mary’s chest X-ray. Half of her left lung was white.
“Progressed,” the radiologist said. “The fluid is beginning to build up again.”
“So I see,” Rachel said.
“How is she clinically?”
Rachel smiled sadly, considering her. “Better than she was when she was first admitted.”
“She’ll need another tap soon.”
“Yes,” Rachel sighed, “and another, and another.”
“It helps her,” Nigel said. “It’s all we can do.”
“I know,” Rachel said. “It’s all we can do, and yet she still prays and hopes.”
Nigel was looking at her – she could feel his eyes, as she stared at the X-ray.
“Have you told her what her prognosis is?”
Rachel swallowed. “Who am I to tell her how much time she has left?”
“It is your responsibility, doctor.”
She avoided his grey gaze. “While she lives, there might still be hope.”
“She is dying – there is nothing else.”
“All right!” Rachel exploded again, now staring into his lined face. A fourteen-hour day, and this as well? “I’ll tell her to her face she’s dying!” she said. “I’ll strip away any shred of hope she has! Is that what you want?”
Nigel’s face hardened slightly – then he softened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”
“And what will you say?” Rachel asked. “You’re an atheist! How will you comfort a Christian?”
Nigel smiled sadly, and Rachel instantly regretted her words. He had a heart! He knew their impotence.
“I’ll tell her the truth, Rachel,” he said. “It’s all we can do. Even your agnosticism should tell you that.”
Rachel swallowed, and moved her eyes from him to the new films: the CT scan of Abida’s leg.
“The patch of osteomyelitis is also growing,” the radiologist said, and Rachel nodded.
“I know.”
“Surgery,” Nigel said. “Talk to the orthopods.”
“I already have,” Rachel said, feeling her voice dull. “They won’t take him.”
“Shift him into the side room,” Nigel said. “I’ll talk to his family again later today.”
“All right.”
The radiologist continued, presenting different films, and Rachel felt herself sinking into oblivion. Doom and gloom – that’s all they had to offer! Soon broad spectrum antibiotics would run out, and then…then…
Sally suddenly burst into the room.
Her Chinese face looked alarmed, her short black hair thrown back from her face. “Rachel!” she said. “I need to talk to you!”
“What is it?” Rachel said, thrusting herself out of the seat.
“I…” Now Sally’s brown eyes drifted to Watts, and then returned to Rachel. What was in her expression: bewilderment? “I just need to talk with you,” Sally said.
Watts was on his feet now. “What are you on about, Sally?” he asked. “Did someone die? Spit it out.”
“They’re…” Sally hesitated. “I think they’re…”
“What?” Rachel asked.
“Spit it out!”
“Oh – you’ve got to come!” Sally grasped Rachel’s arm, and started to pull her after her.
“We’re in the middle…” Watts’ voice quickly trailed off, and now Rachel found herself dragged back down the corridor and toward the lift.
“Something’s happening,” Sally gasped, on the way. “I don’t get it – something weird. Abida and Mary went down to see this guy.”
Now Watts was behind them – caught up. “What?” he exploded. “How dare you let our patients go down to that freak show…?”
“What freak show?” Rachel asked. “What are you talking about?”
“You knew about this?” Nigel said, as they ran after Sally. “I’ll have you up before the Medical Council…”
“I saw the people outside,” Sally panted, entering the lift. “I heard the stories. But they did it themselves – it wasn’t me! They went down there.”
The lift doors closed, in front of them. Rachel shifted uncomfortably, in the sudden silence. The lift descended. Then it opened again, at the entrance foyer.
Just outside the entrance, on the yellow grass, in front of the lake sparkling with the sun, was a large crowd of people – even more than those Rachel had already seen out of the window.
“What’s going on?”
Sally was searching for someone – and then, suddenly, she found her.
Mary was standing before them, at the edge of the water. Her brown face was lit up – alive. Her breathing was easy. She looked, somehow, well.
Rachel stared at her. “Mary…” she stuttered. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about the man,” she said. “I thought he might heal me.”
Confused, Rachel searched through the gathered crowd. What man? Her eyes returned to Mary – but Nigel now was reaching to take her pulse.
“Come upstairs again,” he said. “You’re unwell – the fluid is building up again…”
“It’s gone.”
“Come upstairs – we’ll examine you again.”
“You can examine me, but it’s gone.”
“You mean you can breathe?” Rachel asked, and Mary smiled at her.
“I can breathe. And the pain has
gone.”
Tears pricked Rachel’s eyes – she quickly blinked them away.
“Mary,” she said quietly. “Can you please come upstairs? Let us examine you. Let us do another X-ray.”
“Yes,” Mary said. “I can do that for you.”
Sally took Mary’s arm, and escorted her back into the hospital. Rachel met Nigel’s grey eyes.
“Surely you’re not thinking…” Nigel began.
“I don’t know what to think. Maybe it’s just hope! I don’t know.”
“Placebo effect!”
“Maybe.”
Nigel grimaced. “A fluke, or whatever,” he said, “Come on, Rachel – we’re scientists. We study hard science, not delusions.”
“I know that, but…”
And now Abida was before them. He was standing. He was walking. Now he was running, and jumping – grinning wildly.
Rachel stared, while Nigel tried to catch him.
“Hey!” Nigel said. “You should be in isolation!”
Rachel reached out to the covered wound on his leg.
“Gloves!” Nigel said, and Rachel hesitated. The dressing was still soaked. She reached into her pocket, found a pair of gloves, put them on – and pulled away the dressing.
The wound was gone.
Now Rachel began to shake hard.
“How did this happen?” she whispered. “Who did this? Who did this?”
Nigel reached for the leg with his bare hands – stared at it.
“I must be going mad.”
“If you’re mad,” Rachel said, “then all three of us are losing our minds.”
“It’s gone!” Abida cried. “I’m cured! I’m cured!”
Nigel now took Abida’s arm, and led him strongly back toward the hospital – but Rachel searched fervently around, now, for the man.
The crowd was in her way. Rachel pressed through them. She emerged, at the front, to see a man with his hands on an elderly lady’s pained shoulder – he murmured some words over her, and now she was freely using the shoulder.
Rachel stared at him. Who was he? European, in mid-thirties: wearing blue jeans and a faded grey T-shirt.
“Who are you?” she breathed. “What are you doing?” And his eyes, brown, settled on her.
The crowd somehow melted away as he took her arm and led her alongside the lake.
“I’m Joshua,” he said, and she frowned in confusion. Joshua? A normal name?
“I’m…I’m Rachel,” she stammered.
“I have something to show you.”
He pulled out a piece of paper from his right jean pocket.
“Here’s a map of DNA,” he said. “You’re familiar with it?”
She nodded, struggling to focus her mind: looking at the paper as he unfolded it. “I did a Master’s in biochemistry, before I changed to Medicine.”
“Do you know what this is?”
She stared down at his jottings – a DNA sequence, different from her own short-hand, but understandable.
“I’m not sure…I don’t recognise the specific gene.”
“This is the sequence for aging.”
Rachel frowned. Aging? The aging gene? That was only theory, wasn’t it…?
“Do you have access to the human genome?” Joshua asked.
“Yes.”
“This is it,” he said, “the sequence for aging. This is the cause of aging for the entire human race.”
Rachel began to shake hard as she stared down at the sequence – and now Joshua turned over the page.
“And this,” he said, gesturing to another sequence he had drawn. “Do you know what this is?”
“No,” she said.
“This is the original design.”
Rachel swayed, peering down at the code. “What do you mean,” she asked, “the original design?”
“The original design for that sequence of human DNA,” Joshua said, “before it was changed to this.” And he turned over the page again.
Rachel stared into his brown eyes. “What are you saying?” she whispered. “That this is the elixir of life? That with this gene no one would die?”
“No one would die from old age.”
Rachel trembled before him, as he continued.
“Of course,” he said, “you yourselves can’t change the code of everyone who lives right now…”
“But the next generation…”
“If you chose to, you could start manipulating the genes of the next generation.”
She felt her jaw dropping, in front of him. The page was lying in her hands – the page of his jottings. With this, she could change the world.
But even as she considered it, she felt a new growing weight: a new growing understanding.
“I can’t use this,” she whispered. “I don’t have the authority! I don’t have enough wisdom...”
He lifted the page from her hands, and put it back into his back pocket – and now his brown eyes found her again.
“You’re right, Rachel,” he said gently. “None of you have the authority to use this.”
She searched his eyes, as he touched her arm.
“Do you know what would happen, if you made people immortal, right here, right now, as things stand?”
Rachel shook her head. “What?”
“A multitude would die, Rachel: not of old age, but of starvation.”
Dismay took her. Yes! Overpopulation!
“There is a time to live and a time to die, Rachel – do you understand this? You, a doctor? Do you understand?”
A time to die? Rachel reached instinctively to grasp his arm.
“Show me,” she whispered. “Help me to understand it. You just healed…”
“We have the power to give life and to take it away.”
“To take it away?” Fear suddenly gripped her.
“Are you afraid of me now?” Joshua murmured, grasping her arm in turn, “When you were so relieved by my healing before?”
Rachel cast her eyes up and down him – he looked, to her, an average kiwi bloke, and yet he held, in his hands, life and death.
“I don’t know,” Rachel whispered. “Should I be afraid? Who are you?”
Joshua’s face broke into a sad smile.
“That is the whole question,” he said, “that you, and everyone, must answer.”
Rachel struggled, and grasped for understanding. She suddenly felt in a different world! Like a baby, thrown into the water – everything was changed, just in a few moments.
“Are you…” she whispered, “…are you some kind of alien?”
Joshua’s smile widened, and brightened with humour. “I am alien to you.”
“Are you – safe?”
His expression clouded a little. “That all depends: what do you mean by ‘safe’?”
“Are you kind?”
Now sorrow suddenly filled his eyes – a deep, piercing sorrow: a grief that grasped her heart, and would not let her go.
“Are we kind?” he murmured. “Which is the kinder act, Rachel: to give you the DNA code for eternal life, or keep it away?”
Rachel reached out to touch his face – suddenly, strangely, felt like a child next to him: suddenly, strangely, felt embraced.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, and he nodded.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Rachel,” he murmured. “I am driven by love, not by evil – by a kind of love you can’t yet understand. But even love, sometimes, must act strongly – and be mistaken for evil, even while it is seeking a much greater good.”
Rachel now grasped his other arm. “So you are good, then?” she pleaded. “Not only powerful, but good? There is hope?”
Joshua touched her face, and suddenly tears were filling his eyes. Tears! He was human! “Yes,” he whispered, “there is hope. But you will see for yourself just how high a price goodness must pay in its outworking.”
She searched his face: what was he saying? She searched his eyes. But now he turned away, back into the crowd. He healed
them. And it was time for Rachel to return to the hospital.
She walked back through the hospital doors, and felt for the stethoscope around her neck – but her methods now seemed like sticks and stones compared with his healing: her purpose seemed, now, like a faint shadow of his purpose.
For a moment she vacillated – and then she walked straight to the Human Resources Office, reached for a form, and signed her name.
Annual leave. It was time to take some rest.