I want to live, Andy!
Dr Gordon, Dr Gordon, are you alright?
Nurse Sally grabbed me by the sleeve as I stumbled, barely holding myself upright against the hospital corridor wall. I caught my breath, head bowed, saying nothing as the dizziness ebbed. Sallys anxious face swam into focus, but I waved her off, quietly promising I was fine as I made my way to my office.
Lying here on the old leather sofa, I wondered if I really was. These dizzy spells had become more frequent, and I knew it was exhaustion. Doctors give so much of themselves, grind away to the point of collapse, yet no one seems to appreciate it not truly. My latest patient would never realise just how much of myself Id poured into that operation, how I was running on fumes.
Gone were my weekends off to recharge, trips to Kew Gardens with the kids, evenings out with my wife. Everyone was overstretched I myself was covering shifts across three different clinics. And life, as ever, moved forward; a second marriage, a young wife, two children in secondary school, and all the expenses that come with them. Not to mention, I wanted to trade in our battered Ford for something thatd actually start first time on cold mornings.
But those things werent the point. For twenty years Id been chasing respect, recognition, a reputation as the best. I got it patients queued for my care, colleagues valued my opinion, I was well-paid and well-regarded.
Paul, is Natalie in today? I phoned my anaesthetist mate.
Alright, mate? Yeah, shes in.
By the end of my shift, Natalie had squeezed me in for an MRI. I lay inside the clanking machine, desperately trying to block out the racket with music piped through headphones. But fear crept in, cold and suffocating: what if they had to pull me out in an emergency? Think of something pleasant, I told myself but what was there?
My mind trudged backwards through my life. The second marriage: fleeting happiness swallowed by routine. Before that was an even more miserable divorce, not worth recalling. University? Those first four years that was joy.
Three of us myself, Victor, and Andy met during medical school interviews in Leeds. All outsiders, all thrown together in student digs. Andy, with his quietly intelligent, earnest voice and gentle blue eyes behind thick glasses. He remembered everything. Exams? He couldve sat them with his eyes closed.
Victor was his polar opposite big, burly lad from somewhere in the North, loud and full of life, always cracking jokes, making friends on every floor, rarely serious. I was nervous about the entrance exams, convinced Id fail. Yet in the end, only Michael from our house didnt get in; the three of us stayed firm friends.
First year, no halls for us Andys kind-hearted mother, Irene, came down, found us a tiny flat, and filled the freezer with homemade cottage pies and stews to last weeks.
Irenes a saint, said Victor. What does your mum do, Andy?
Works in the church, sells candles, that sort of thing.
Religious, then?
Yeah. And so am I.
They both looked at him with mild disbelief as they noticed the icons on the windowsill.
Victor rolled his eyes. Whats the point of all that? This is medicine, not mumbo-jumbo.
Doctors heal the body. God heals the soul, Andy replied evenly. We left it at that.
He wasnt showy about his faith, but youd catch him crossing himself sometimes. He brought calm wherever he went, diffusing rows between hot-headed Victor and stubborn me. He got along with everyone, quietly did the chores no one wanted to do.
Whether by God or sheer ability, Andy sailed through the first year, excelling in every subject. And he fell in love first, of course he met Gail in the student union committee, a bright, practical girl with a wicked sense of humour. By second year, you never saw one without the other.
Victor, for all his rough edges, was a hands-on learner. Second year, he was already working ambulance shifts, soon beloved by hospital staff for his can-do attitude and curiosity. I thought his laid-back nature meant hed make mistakes, but in medicine, Victor became meticulous, careful and recognised as one to watch.
I worked hard, but was neither exceptional nor terrible. I wanted badly to be a good doctor.
***
The MRI spat me into the chilly corridor. I breathed in, surprised by my own sense of relief since when did enclosed spaces make me claustrophobic?
Nat came in, removed the headset. She looked tired maybe she always looked tired.
Results will be ready soon. Doctor will write up the findings. You can check back later, yeah?
Ill pick it up tomorrow. Just want to get home.
I barely made it out of the hospital when she rang me, paperwork in hand, face grave.
Look, youre a doctor, you know what this is. Please, Gordon, dont delay. Go and see Dr Anstey. Get him to look it over.
I flicked through the scan reports, numb. Thats not my brain, I told myself, it cant be. I refused to believe it, even as I drove home in a daze.
***
Dr Chris Anstey, our best neurosurgeon, was straightforward:
I wish I could soften it, but youre a surgeon yourself, Gordon. You can see the scans.
Yeah. Is this the end?
Anstey shook his head.
Dont be melodramatic. Its in the hands of the surgeon and, if you like, the Lord. Go to London. See Simon Rockfields team at Westmore Clinic. Theyre the best. Mind you, tough to get in the waiting lists a year. But youve got friends, well make calls.
I threw myself back into work, distracting myself with endless cases, until I realised: I had to tell my wife.
Emma, I need to go to London.
She looked up from folding laundry, frowning.
Why on your own? The kids…
Im not going for a conference, Em. Its… its surgery. Brain tumour.
Her eyes welled up. She came and sat next to me.
Its that serious, Gordon?
Ill have to wait for surgery maybe a long time. I need to be there, ready to go at a moments notice.
I told her, haltingly, about my suspicions, the tests, the reality pressing in. She listened in silence, holding her breath, letting me spill fears I hadnt let myself admit. I realised what trust was more than I ever had with my first wife.
***
By our fourth year, we sat through tedious ethics lectures.
Jehovahs Witnesses often refuse blood transfusions, the lecturer said dryly. Faith in the supernatural and scientific medicine incompatible!
Not true, Andy spoke from the back.
The lecturer blinked.
Would you care to elaborate?
Andy walked down and fielded every question. Church and medicine both help people live well, he said calmly, eloquently. Artificial conception between spouses is allowed, but not from third parties; surrogacy is wrong because it disregards both the surrogates feelings and the childs origins. The lecturer scoffed, but Andy, quoting the Bible, went on defending genuine belief without a trace of anger, only sad empathy.
He drew attacks but remained composed and as the debate wore on, most students quietly sided with him. After that, he had trouble with some staff meetings with the dean, cold-shouldered by several professors.
Suddenly, Andy was gone. In fifth year, he wrote us a letter, saying hed made a different choice left to train for the priesthood. No one could quite understand it. The best of us! Could have been a top doctor. Victor was livid, banging his knee on the bus home from visiting Andys mother, Irene, who greeted us cheerfully and foisted scones and jams on us, delighted for her son.
Back home, Victor sighed, So thats it. Gods taken Andy from us. Daft as a brush, that one.
***
I sat with Anstey, discussing the plan for London but something wouldnt settle. I booked the train, but I needed something more. I got in my old estate, and despite my dizzy spells, drove north, towards Durham, where Andy served as parish priest now.
Durham was quaint but bleak, not the lively old city I remembered. The abundance of churches didnt escape me. I wandered to the cathedral, surrounded by sylvan walks, neat car parks, blooming gardens.
Liturgical chants echoed from inside service in progress, Andy mentioned in the schedule. I wandered out to the quiet graveyard, strolled down to the river, drank from an ancient well alongside pilgrims. The cold, sweet water brought inexplicable relief perhaps the journey wasnt so mad after all. I imagined Andys dry quip: If youre looking for answers, youre doing a lot of climbing, mate.
Service over, the congregation drifted out. From the crowd, a broad, bearded priest emerged; I barely recognised him until he turned, and blue eyes caught mine.
Gordon! Good heavens, its been years, he said.
The parishioners bristled when I called him mate, but Andy just grinned and hugged me fiercely. We began to walk and catch up his wife, Gail, a local GP; five children; happiness in his calling and his marriage.
Youve changed.
I kept growing after twenty, he chuckled, removing his glasses. Got my eyes lasered. Medicine and faith arent at odds after all, are they?
We laughed over old student stories, even the time we almost nicked a book from the British Library. He recounted stories of his children, his mother now a nun in a nearby convent.
His assistant fetched me. Gail welcomed me back to their home a snug, modern bungalow, kids running about, house filled with flowers and the gentle scent of beeswax from the icons in the lounge. I felt at home instantly, almost forgetting why Id come.
***
Over a pot of tea, Andy said softly,
Somethings not right, is it?
My words tumbled out the tumour, the shadows on the scan, the London plan.
He touched my shoulder:
Youll join us in church tomorrow. Well pray. Then confession. All will be well.
That evening, memories and confessions pressed close. I remembered how much Id envied Victor; he was always the golden boy admired by faculty, beloved of all, and then there was Alicia.
It happened at a friends wedding: Alicia, the daughter of a well-placed London official, started dating Victor while her father was hospitalised, and soon long-distance visits became the norm. Ill admit I let spite slip. I hinted to Alicia that Victor wasnt faithful, that he was involved with another girl. He wasnt. My jealousy turned to bitterness.
Then at the wedding, one thing led to another and I ended up kissing Alicia on the balcony. Victor caught us. After that he moved out, cut me off completely. Alicia and I tried to make something of it, but life in London was a prison of in-laws and expectations; the marriage didnt last. We moved back north for a job, and she walked out soon after.
There were greater sins: an old man dying on the operating table, my fault; affairs, justified in the fog of hospital life; a young nurse dismissed unjustly under my hand. So many regrets and here I was, privately begging for forgiveness, kneeling on stone flags.
Andy… can you absolve me?
Only God forgives, Gordon. But true repentance means more to yourself than your pride. Seek out Victor raise it with him. And the nurse, too.
Victors in Newcastle now, isnt he? Working in Oncology.
You shouldnt be heading to London. Go see Victor first.
Thats mad. The best neurosurgeons are in London, not up North.
Victors done pioneering work. Go to him.
First, perhaps, Ill find the nurse. I can do that…
Pray for guidance, old friend.
The next morning, arms aching from climbing to the river and back, I made my way back to the car. The faithful crossed themselves as they saw me, wishing me well.
God willing, things would work out.
