The End of Men(6)

He had died about a quarter of an hour after arriving. We had done the same thing as we did with Fraser McAlpine—we took bloods to identify what bacteria or virus was attacking the patient. We never followed up on the results, though, because he died. That was something for the morgue to look at. I check the bed numbers. They weren’t even close. Patients with sprained ankles don’t go into Recuss. Then I check the staff who treated the man from Bute. I was the consultant who treated him along with a junior, Ross. One of the nurses, though, was the same. Kirsty treated the man from Bute and Fraser McAlpine.

Please, God, let Kirsty be a murderer, because that would be so much less stressful than this being a contagious infection or a hygiene problem. No, what am I thinking? Murders involve a lot of paperwork.

I can feel the anxiety rising. It’s not the deaths—I’m used to those. It’s the uncertainty. The thing I like most about medicine is the certainty. There are plans and systems, lists and protocols. There are autopsies and inquests. No question is left unanswered. I try to remember how bad things were in my third year at university after Mum died. It’s like exposure therapy I do in my brain. I survived that so I can survive this. I survived panic attacks so if I have one now, I will survive it. I thought I was going to die then but I didn’t. Just because I think I might die now doesn’t mean I will. I didn’t know if I could be a doctor then but I am a doctor now. Be wary of that little voice that tries to twist one scary thing into a spiral of despair.

Do not panic, Amanda. This is just my anxiety talking. Two patients are not an outbreak of an antibiotic-resistant infection. Two patients are not a pandemic. Two patients don’t even comprise a pattern.

Fiona says she has to go. I stare at her blankly, unsure how long we’ve been sitting here. It’s okay, you can take a few minutes, I reassure her. Losing a patient is a lot to deal with. She says that she can’t, because someone’s called in sick. “Ross isn’t feeling well so we’re down a doctor.”

In a split second I do something that’s completely insane. If my husband was there, he would say that I need to book in to see my psychotherapist and that my anxiety has gotten completely out of control. But he’s not and I don’t because what if? My mum always told me to trust my gut and my gut is telling me this is a fucking disaster. I can feel the weight of the knowledge on my chest. I need to tell other people. I need to do things and not just worry in silence.

I go back out to the ward. I tell Matron to ask all the patients in the department if they were in A and E two days previously. She just looks at me disapprovingly and I don’t have the time to have a discussion with her so I move on to the waiting room. I ask who was here two days ago and two men stand up. One man just raises his arm. He’s paler than the other two. I get him on a stretcher. My heart is starting to do the clenching thing it does when I’m getting a panic attack but there’s actually a reason for the panic. This has never happened before. It’s always been a panic attack because I was panicking about nothing, it’s not meant to be legitimate panic. I want to cry, slump down in one of the staff room chairs and leave someone else to deal with whatever this is.

They all have flu-like symptoms. Either they or their wives are concerned it’s something sinister like sepsis—there was a sepsis campaign put out by the government in October. It’s saved around twenty lives in this hospital alone and has also single-handedly increased waiting times. Everyone and their mother are convinced they have sepsis.

I want to tell these men that actually I think this might be a lot worse than sepsis, ten times more terrifying than one of the nation’s biggest killers, but I don’t. I stay quiet and determined and outwardly calm. No one dares to question what I’m doing until I chuck everyone out of the Minor Injuries Unit and place the suspected infection patients in there. One of the nurses starts spluttering at me but I just tell her to go to triage. I can’t explain things right now, there’s no time. Matron has done as I asked and found two patients who were in A and E two days ago and are now back. I have three from the waiting room. That makes five. Fraser McAlpine makes six. The man from the Isle of Bute makes seven. This isn’t a coincidence.

Fiona bursts through the doors of the Unit. “Ross has been brought in by ambulance.”

Eight.

It’s not my anxiety, I know that now. With freezing fingers, I phone my husband.

“There’s an infection. It’s really bad.”

“Wait, what? What kind? MRSA?”

“No, something I’ve not seen before. It’s spreading too fast. You have to go home. Now.”

“Are you sure it’s not your anxiety talk—”

“Fuck. Off. I have eight patients dying in a row lined up like we’re in World War Fucking Two. They’re all men. I don’t know if that means anything yet but it’s not a good sign. Go home. I swear to God, if you don’t claim you’ve just thrown up and go home I will divorce you.” I’m hysterical. I have never threatened to leave my lovely, supportive, oncologist husband before. I never imagined anything could drive me to such a threat. But I never imagined this.

“Go home. Touch no one, speak to no one, just go. Pick up the boys on your way home. Get them to come out to you. Don’t go into the school. Please go get them.” I’m begging now. Will agrees. I don’t know if he’s terrified of me or for me. I don’t care. He just has to be home safe with our sons. I punch out a text to my boys telling them their dad is on his way to pick them up and they’re to go outside and wait for him. I’ll write whatever note they need. I’ll say anything.