Page 54 of Escape to Starshine Cove
“Sophie,” I shout along the hallway, “go and get Jake. He’ll be asleep, but if you bang on the window, that’ll wake him up. Tell him what’s happening and tell him we need his help, and to bring his car.”
Dan is way too tall to lie in Connie’s Fiat 500, and Jake’s is much bigger. I tell Connie to pack a bag, more to occupy her than for any real reason, and use her landline to call admissions at the local A&E. I describe his symptoms and outline my initial diagnosis, then go back upstairs to sit with him. He briefly comes to, his eyes lucid for a split second, and he mutters: “Bubonic plague?” before crashing out again.
I hear a car pull up outside, and meet them downstairs. Jake is in his workout gear, his hair ruffled on one side and flat on the other, his eyes shaded with deep concern as he looks at me.
He reaches out, takes my hand, starts to murmur reassuring words.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” I say briskly, leading him upstairs. “Help us get Dan into your car. Sophie, will you be all right to stay here?”
I see her and Connie exchange looks, know that she wants to come with us, see that Connie is conflicted about leaving one child alone and in distress to care for another one.
“Can you drive?” I ask her, receiving a nod. We decide that Jake and I will take Dan, with Connie, in the Audi, and that Sophie will follow on. I spend a few moments talking to her first, checking that she is capable of driving, that she is not too upset, that she will be safe. I know this family’s history, and I know how this will be even more traumatic for them than for most, and I need to know that I’m not putting anybody else at risk by allowing her to come with us.
Once I’m sure, Jake and I manage to half support, half carry Dan down the stairs, laying him as safely and gently as we can across the back seat. Connie cradles his head on her lap and talks to him softly. I see her fear, her desperation, and I clench my eyelids tight shut when I feel tears start to well up. I have been of little use to them tonight, but I’ll be even less if I let myself break down now.
We start the car and drive away, and I see Larry’s little head looking at us through the front window, where he is perched on an armchair and looking confused. Sorry, bud, I think – but this is one place I can’t take you.
Jake seems to understand that I can’t talk right now, and concentrates on driving as quickly as he can while being cautious of the winding roads and poorly lit lanes. I’ve never known a journey seem to last as long.
It is not a large hospital, not by London standards, but they greet us with efficiency, getting Dan onto a trolley as Jake drives away to park up and meet Sophie. We put on the masks we are given, and follow inside.
I introduce myself to the on-call emergency registrar, and talk him through things while he makes his initial assessment. After that, Dan is wheeled away down the corridor, where I know he will be put into a gown and scheduled for tests.
“What will you be doing?” I ask the doctor, as Connie and I trail at his heels. I don’t know this man, and he looks to be about 12 years old – I know that can’t be true at his level, but I am reluctant to let go until I’m sure Dan is in safe hands.
He looks from me to Connie, clearly uncertain of our relationship and probably wondering why an out-of-hours GP seems quite so personally invested. Connie quickly improvises: “Ella is Dan’s doctor, but also my sister.”
It is a bare-faced lie, and one that I would normally immediately correct – but I know it will make my position here easier to deal with, so I decide that now is not a time for ethical quandaries.
The doctor nods and replies: “Well, I suspect you’re correct, it looks like meningitis. So, we need to find out what kind, and to do that, we’ll need some bloods, and a lumbar puncture to start with.”
Connie’s eyes fly wide open, and she stops dead in her tracks.
“Won’t that hurt him? Aren’t they awful?” she asks, desperately.
I place my hand on her shoulder, and explain: “Not as bad as you think, and he’ll be well looked after. Plus, Connie, it’s necessary – I’d tell you if I didn’t agree, okay?”
She nods, and we follow the doctor. We walk through the departments that are still so horribly familiar to me, past what we used to call Minors, and Majors, and Resus, all the way to the Rapid Assessment Unit. A nurse in a mask is already drawing blood, and another doctor is filling in notes, and everyone is working under the constant glare of overhead fluorescent lighting.
The noise of the place is hitting my brain with all the subtlety of a jackhammer: the beeps of the monitors, the hiss of a nebuliser, the chatter of the nurses, the squeak of trolley wheels on lino, the aggressive yells of an angry patient somewhere in the distance. The soundtrack to my old life.
Dan himself has opened his eyes, is looking around in confusion and fear. Connie is at his side straight away, suddenly casting aside her own panic, her own worry, to talk to him in calming tones, telling him everything is going to be okay, that he mustn’t be scared.
There often isn’t time, when you work in a busy hospital, to explain what you’re doing – sometimes, you have to skip that part, and simply do it, no matter how distressing it can be for the patient and their families. Tonight, though, I am not working here – and I can at least help with that.
I stand on the other side of the bed, careful to keep out of the nurse’s way as she takes Dan’s arm and starts the process of setting up an IV. I see his eyes flare in fear, and put my hand on his forehead, stroking back his half-green, half-black hair.
“It’s all right, Dan,” I say calmly. “You know what this is, don’t you? The nurse is just setting up an IV. That’s just a fancy name for the tube, and the tube connects to a bag, and the bag will probably contain antibiotics.”
I glance at the doctor for confirmation, and he nods. I’m relieved to be right – if this is bacterial, and if Dan has sepsis, then every minute could be important. Starting the drugs now rather than waiting for the test results is the right move – and it would have been so much better if he’d been here even earlier.
Dan’s eyes are bleary and I’m not sure how much he is understanding, but I carry on talking, walking him through the steps, reassuring him, explaining how it all works as they also hook him up to fluids. When the time comes for the lumbar puncture, I do exactly the same. He is almost unconscious by this stage, which actually makes things easier – at least he’s not squirming around.
I sit next to Connie, me holding her hand, Connie holding Dan’s, and explain every stage of the procedure to both of them. I see a curious glance from the specialist nurse in charge, who is obviously wondering who I am and why I know so much about medicine, but it goes smoothly enough.
When it’s over, I manage to corner the doctor again, and ask him if he’s going to send Dan for a brain scan. There are all kinds of risks associated with meningitis, and swelling on the brain is one of them. He looks at me patiently, tells me firmly that if necessary, he will, and strides away. I can’t say that I blame him – nobody likes being told how to do their job by a complete stranger, and nothing I have seen here leads me to believe that these people are anything less than professional.
After a while, Dan is moved to a small single room on a ward, and I leave Connie with him while I go and find the others.
