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Back Going Under Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART I BIRTH
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EIGHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. PART II LIFE
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. TWENTY-ONE
  28. TWENTY-TWO
  29. TWENTY-THREE
  30. TWENTY-FOUR
  31. TWENTY-FIVE
  32. TWENTY-SIX
  33. TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. TWENTY-NINE
  36. THIRTY
  37. THIRTY-ONE
  38. THIRTY-TWO
  39. THIRTY-THREE
  40. THIRTY-FOUR
  41. PART III DEATH
  42. THIRTY-FIVE
  43. THIRTY-SIX
  44. THIRTY-SEVEN
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. THIRTY-NINE
  47. FORTY
  48. FORTY-ONE
  49. FORTY-TWO
  50. FORTY-THREE
  51. FORTY-FOUR
  52. FORTY-FIVE
  53. FORTY-SIX
  54. FORTY-SEVEN
  55. FORTY-EIGHT
  56. FORTY-NINE
  57. FIFTY
  58. FIFTY-ONE
  59. FIFTY-TWO
  60. FIFTY-THREE
  61. FIFTY-FOUR
  62. FIFTY-FIVE
  63. FIFTY-SIX
  64. FIFTY-SEVEN
  65. FIFTY-EIGHT
  66. FIFTY-NINE
  67. SIXTY
  68. EPILOGUE
  69. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  70. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Theoretically, my emergency term, sandwiched as it is between my relief and next surgical term, means a break from the likes of the Joker and the Smiling Assassin, but it isn’t really the kind of reprieve I long for. I want a villa on the Amalfi Coast, not a resuscitation bay.

The only good thing, I remind myself, picking up my phone to see the time—8 am—is that I’m starting on night shifts. This isn’t a good thing per se, and it won’t feel anything close to good tonight, but it does mean that right now I have an excuse to down a glass of wine and a valium, and drift off into pharmaceutically induced oblivion. A benefit is that it will enable me to avoid an encounter with Winnie, who might come home from work wanting to talk about our argument. Nothing will penetrate this combination, I think almost gleefully as I walk downstairs to fill my own prescription.

I wash the tablet down with wine, then go back to bed. A sense of enormous relief comes over me as I let myself go under the wonderful ocean of dense, dark sleep for ten straight hours.

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As I walk into the hospital to start my first night shift in the ED, I wonder whether the odd feeling in my stomach is excitement or dread, or a combination of both. Then I step over a drunk twenty-something-year-old girl by the hospital entrance whose stream of vomit nearly hits my shoe, and I just feel tired.

I lean down. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask her, trying not to gag at the smell.

‘Urghhhh,’ she moans, her head lolling to the side.

Her friend, not quite as smashed but swaying next to her, looks at me. ‘Are you a nurse?’ she slurs.

Ignoring the question, I ask the girl who’s vomited, ‘Have you taken any drugs tonight? Or just booze?’

‘Just booze,’ she mutters. ‘Can’t you give me something to stop me being sick? Aren’t nurses meant to help people?’

‘There’s a girl vomiting outside,’ I inform the triage nurse as I swipe myself in. ‘She’s conscious but she’s pretty drunk.’

The triage nurse rolls her eyes.

‘Booze, apparently,’ I say, pointing to the front door.

‘Tell the paramedics inside,’ the triage nurse says flippantly.

I sigh.

‘Drunk girl outside the front door vomiting everywhere,’ I tell the ambulance guys hovering by the main desk. ‘I’d get her in here, but I think it needs man power.’

At least the paramedics don’t argue. Nurses are a different story.