Fiona Lowe – Unlocking Her Surgeon's Heart (страница 2)

‘Your solution to competency number two.’

‘I don’t follow.’

The prof sighed. ‘Noah, I can’t fault you on technical skills and I’d trust you to operate on me, my wife and my family. You’re talented with your patients when they’re asleep but we’ve had complaints from your dealings with them when they’re awake.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve also had complaints from staff.’

Noah’s gut clenched so tight it burned and the envelope in his hand suddenly developed a crushing weight. ‘Is this an official warning?’

‘No, not at all,’ the prof said genially. ‘I’m on your side and this is the solution to your problem.’

‘I didn’t know I had a problem,’ he said, not able to hide his defensiveness.

The professor raised a brow. ‘And after this, I hope you won’t have one either.’

‘You’re sending me on a communications course?’ The idea of sitting around in a circle with a group of strangers and talking about feelings appalled him.

‘Everything you need to know is in the envelope. Just make sure you’re ready to start at eight o’clock on Monday morning.’ He clapped a hand on Noah’s shoulder. ‘Enjoy your weekend off.’

As his boss walked away, Noah’s anxiety ramped up ten notches and the pristine, white envelope now ticked like an unexploded bomb. Not wanting to read it in public, he walked quickly to the doctors’ lounge, thankfully finding it empty. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the brief letter.

Dear Dr Jackson

Your four-week rotation at the Turraburra Medical Clinic commences on Monday, August 17th at eight a.m. Accommodation, if required, is provided at the doctor’s flat located on Nautalis Parade. Collect the key from the real estate agent in Williams Street before noon, Saturday. See the enclosed map and tourist information, which we hope will be of assistance to you.

Enjoy your rotation in Turraburra—the sapphire of South Gippsland.

Nancy Beveridge

Surgical Trainee Placement Officer.

No. No way. Noah’s intake of breath was so sharp it made him cough. This could not be happening. They couldn’t do this to him. Not now. Suddenly, the idea of a communications course seemed positively fun.

Relax. You must have read it wrong. Fighting the red heat of rage that was frantically duelling with disbelief, he slowly reread the letter, desperately hoping he’d misunderstood its message. As his eyes scrolled left to right and he slowed his mind down to read each and every word, it made no difference. The grim message the black and white letters told didn’t change.

He was being exiled—sent rural—and the timing couldn’t be worse. In fact, it totally sucked. Big time. He had less than six months before he sat his final surgical examinations and now more than ever his place was at the Victoria. He should be here, doing cutting-edge surgery, observing the latest technology, attending tutorials and studying. Always studying. He should not be stuck in a country clinic day in, day out, listening to the ramblings of patients with chronic health issues that surgery couldn’t solve.

General practice. A shudder ran through him at the thought. There was a reason he’d aimed high and fought for his hard-earned place in the surgical programme, and a large part of it was to avoid the mundane routine of being a GP. He had no desire at all to have a long and ongoing connection with patients or get to know their families or be introduced to their dogs. This was blatantly unfair. Why the hell had he been singled out? Damn it, none of the other surgical registrars had been asked to do this.

A vague memory of Oliver Evans bawling him out months ago flickered across his mind but surely that had nothing to do with this. Consultants yelled at registrars from time to time—usually during moments of high stress when the odds were stacked against them and everyone was battling to save a patient’s life. Heated words were exchanged, a lot of swearing went down but at the end of the day it was forgotten and all was forgiven. It was all part of the cut and thrust of hospital life.

Logic immediately penetrated his incredulity. The prof had asked him to teach a workshop to the new interns in less than two weeks so this Turraburra couldn’t be too far away from downtown Melbourne. Maybe he was just being sent to the growth corridor—the far-flung edges of the ever-growing city, the outer, outer ‘burbs. That wouldn’t be too bad. A bit of commuting wouldn’t kill him and he could listen to his training podcasts on the drive there and back each day.

Feeling more positive, he squinted at the dot on the map.

His expletive rent the air, staining it blue. He’d been banished to the back of beyond.

Lilia Cartwright, never Lil and always Lily to her friends, stood on a whitewashed dock in the ever-brightening, early morning light. She stared out towards the horizon, welcoming the sting of salt against her cheeks, the wind in her hair, and she smiled. ‘New day, Chippy,’ she said to her tan and white greyhound who stared up at her with enormous, brown, soulful eyes. ‘Come on, mate, look a bit more excited. After this walk, you’ll have another day ahead of you of lazing about and being cuddled.’

Chippy tugged on his leash as he did every morning when they stood on the dock, always anxious to get back indoors. Back to safety.

Lily loved the outdoors but she understood only too well Chippy’s need for safe places. Given his experiences during the first two years of his life, she didn’t begrudge him one little bit, but she was starting to think she might need a second dog to go running with to keep fit. Walking with Chippy hardly constituted exercise because she never broke a sweat.

Turning away from the aquamarine sea, she walked towards the Turraburra Medical Centre. In the grounds of the small bush nursing hospital and nursing home, the glorious bluestone building had started life a hundred and thirty years ago as the original doctor’s house. Now, fully restored, it was a modern clinic. She particularly loved her annexe—the midwifery clinic and birth centre. Although it was part of the medical centre, it had a separate entrance so her healthy, pregnant clients didn’t have to sit in a waiting room full of coughing and hacking sick people. It had been one of the best days of her career when the Melbourne Midwifery Clinic had responded to her grant application and incorporated Turraburra into their outreach programme for rural and isolated women.

The clinic was her baby and she’d taken a lot of time and effort in choosing the soothing, pastel paint and the welcoming décor. She wanted it to feel less like a sterile clinic and far more like visiting someone’s home. In a way, given that she’d put so much of herself into the project, the pregnant women and their families were visiting her home.

At first glance, the birthing suite looked like a room in a four-star hotel complete with a queen-sized bed, side tables, lounge chairs, television, bar fridge and a roomy bathroom. On closer inspection, though, it had all the important features found in any hospital room. Oxygen, suction and nitrous oxide outlets were discreetly incorporated in the wall whilst other medical equipment was stored in a cupboard that looked like a wardrobe and it was only brought out when required.

The birth centre didn’t cater for high-risk pregnancies—those women were referred to Melbourne, where they could receive the high-tech level of care required for a safe, happy and healthy outcome for mother and baby. The Turraburra women who were deemed to be at a low risk of pregnancy and childbirth complications gave birth here, close to their homes and families. For Lily it was an honour to be part of the birth and to bring a new life into the world.

As Turraburra was a small town, it didn’t stop there either. In the three years since she’d returned home and taken on the position of the town’s midwife, she’d not only delivered a lot of babies, she’d also attended a lot of children’s birthday parties. She loved watching the babies grow up and she could hardly believe that those first babies she’d delivered were now close to starting three-year-old kinder. As her involvement with the babies and children was as close as she was ever likely to get to having a family of her own, she treasured it even more.

Lily stepped into the main part of the clinic and automatically said, ‘Morning, Karen,’ before she realised the receptionist wasn’t behind her desk. Karen’s absence reminded her that a new doctor was starting today. Sadly, since the retirement of their beloved Dr Jameson two years ago, this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. She remembered the fuss they’d all made of the first new doctor to arrive in town—ever hopeful he’d be staying for years to come—but he’d left after three months. Seven other doctors had followed in a two-year period and all of the staff, including herself, had become a bit blasé about new arrivals. The gloss had long faded from their hope that this one might actually stay for the long term and grand welcoming gestures had fallen by the wayside.