BooksBarbecue
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

‘No, it’s a book for you to write in,’ she explains. ‘I saw it at the post office and I thought you could use it to write down your thoughts. You’re always saying you want to write a novel.’

Mum and I share a weakness for pink sparkly things, and when she hands me the little pink hardcover notebook I love it immediately, despite it being so kitsch.

Follow your dreams! the cover urges in sparkly silver lettering.

Mum rolls her eyes, still smiling. ‘Yes, I know it’s a bit chintzy but, you know, it’s a nice colour. It’s only a small thing, but I thought you might like it.’

‘I do like it!’ I say, giving her a quick hug. ‘I’ll use it every day to write down all my feelings and how depressed I am.’

Mum, Dad and I laugh. It feels good. It makes me realise that Mum’s right; what’s done is done and I’ll just have to deal with it. It’s very easy to get caught up in the hospital hierarchy and the dramas, but the point is that what I’m dealing with isn’t actually that different to the shit most people have to deal with in their workplaces. I suppose there’s this expectation that as doctors we should all be a bit better behaved.

Even Greek tragedies have to end somehow, I muse as I fly along the highway back to Sydney on Sunday evening. (Always badly, I admit.) What I really need now is the ancient deus ex machina used to transport actors on and off the stage. The winged bird in the machine flies down and airlifts the protagonist away from their plight regardless of what wrongs they’ve committed. It’s a convenient way to wrap things up.

I never thought I’d say this, not having been a great fan of Greek tragedies at school, but if only real life were as simple.

FIFTY-TWO

fifty-two

The next night I’m sitting on the surgical ward on the after-hours shift, dreaming of the south of France. Going home to see my parents seems to have unlocked something in me. Mercifully, it’s a quiet night for once, so I take out the little book Mum bought me at the post office and start making some notes.

Chapter One, I write carefully with one of the hospital pens I’ve stolen from a nurse. Maybe I’ll begin with my first day as an intern, the failed cannulation?

Failed cannulation blood bath, I scrawl, chewing on the end of the pen. Or maybe a prologue? Toby Henderson perhaps, and his line about doctors not coping …

Kitty Holliday the writer is interrupted by her pager going off.

Almost immediately, the nurse appears behind me.

‘I just paged you!’ she says, sounding annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you call me back? You need to go and see Mrs Davies in bed eleven.’