BooksBarbecue
Back Going Under
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

‘I’ve already assessed him,’ the surgeon tells me as I faff around asking Jason if he has any allergies. ‘He’s got sensorineural deafness. He needs to be admitted under ENT and given IV steroids, now.’

‘Do you have admitting rights at this hospital?’ I ask him hopefully, praying that he does and that I can fast-track an admission and avoid any awkward confrontations.

‘No,’ he says, looking annoyed, ‘but it doesn’t make any difference. That’s what he needs.’

I examine the patient and quickly establish that Mr Private ENT Surgeon is indeed correct: Jason does have sensorineural hearing loss and does require urgent IV steroid therapy, stat.

‘I think he needs to be admitted under ENT,’ Mr Private Surgeon advises me for the third time.

I agree with him. I run it by Matt, who tries to bluster around the issue for a while, because no one likes being told what to do by other doctors on their own turf, but the outcome is inevitable.

‘You’re going to have to call ENT,’ he tells me gloomily.

Reflexively, I check the time. It’s 1.20 am. I swallow. If a patient has to be admitted or there’s a problem that can’t be solved by the emergency doctors, it means waking someone up and asking what to do. And even though senior specialists or their registrars are listed as on call overnight in case one of the emergency doctors needs some urgent advice, what ‘on call’ really means is: I’m asleep. In bed. If you call me and wake me up, I’LL BE VERY FUCKING ANGRY.

My stomach, irritatingly, clenches slightly at the thought of making the call. But no one in the best-performing emergency department in the state knows the correct dose of dexamethasone to administer for this kind of problem, so I really have no choice.

I call through switch. ‘Can I have the ENT registrar, please?’

‘Sure, love,’ says Susan, who’s on switch tonight. Then, ‘Oh, it’s Dr So and So.’

‘Is he mean?’ I ask with trepidation.

Susan sighs. ‘Good luck, love,’ she says. ‘Putting you through now.’

‘Wait!’ I shout into the phone, panicking wildly, but it’s too late; the phone is ringing. I’m committed.

The ringing stops abruptly, and I hear mumbling, like someone trying to wake up, then, ‘Yes? What do you want?’

‘Ah, hello. I’m so sorry to call you at this hour. I’m one of the junior doctors in emergency, and I have this patient …’

‘What?’

‘Ah, do you have a moment to discuss a patient?’

‘It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning!’ the voice on the other end of the phone exclaims, sounding seriously annoyed. ‘Why are you calling me at one in the fucking morning?’