For 13 years I worked in the general surgical department at St Andrews Hospital. I was one of 16 general surgeons carrying out cholecystectomies, bowel resections and appendicectomies on innumerable patients. Sure I never spoke at conferences like some of my colleagues but I turned up and put the work in. As I sit here reflecting on my career it’s hard not to be proud of one’s accomplishments. I recall a patient with Crohn’s disease, this poor young lady had recurrent admissions requiring antibiotics and steroids before I removed the affected parts of her bowel and at least achieved some control of her disease. Sadly despite this she is one of many that now surround me, watching me as I try to get through my days of forced retirement.
The daylight hours are my respite. Come nightfall the patients start to appear. Each one possessing a grey, ashen face with hollow cloudy eyes that stare, stare right into my soul. They are all wearing hospital gowns, some blood stained. 1 young boy, another case I remember well, stands holding his intestines except his hands are too small and the guts coated in serous fluid for him to hold the load. I have watched home for weeks each night struggle from dusk til dawn, the whole time never taking his eyes from me.
I always did my best. What more can one do really? Each year we reviewed the mortality numbers and complication data and of course there were always mistakes, outcomes which could have been improved, but I took on cases other surgeons didn’t want to touch, I took a chance. I knew a select few of my colleagues turned their upper class noses up at me and tried to oust me despite my work never meeting the threshold for concern. The audacity was shocking.
What is a doctor after all. It’s a vocation, a thorough scientific knowledge base with on the job practical experience. Sure I didn’t go to medical school like the rest of my colleagues but I learned the same techniques in my own time. I put the hours while moving across several countries, each time adding a few admittedly false qualifications to get work, but my accomplishments spoke for themselves, I could do what any other surgeon did. One could argue I am more deserving given the lengths I had to go to earn my position.
These damned patients now have the gall to taunt me. After all I have done for them, trying to save their lives, trying to cure disease itself. Tonight they surround me in my cell, scalpels in hand, continuing to stare. The police may have arrested me for medical manslaughter but they won’t get anywhere, I’m sure of it.
The sun rises casting bands of shadow onto the concrete floor, glinting on the stainless steel toilet in the corner. They will return tonight I know. I think they want me to take the easy way out but why would God take his own life.