The Doctor Will See You Now [Non-Fiction]

Chapter 1: Geriatrics

In my line of work as a doctor, I have the privilege to be there for important times in people's lives: births, deaths, reunions, departures. It makes me appreciate life and everything it entails: life is beautiful, life comes in all shapes and colours... and life is short. I was blessed to see the love between a husband and wife, one that warmed my heart, and then broke it shortly after.

Mrs. Allan was an eighty-year-old woman who lives at home with her husband, who had dementia, although was still relatively independent and functional. She looked no different to the average woman of her age: curly white hair that sprung in a little halo around a wrinkled, smiley face, prominent eyes, and dentures that were a little loose, making her purse her lips like a prune when she wasn't talking. Spindly little arms poked out of a hospital gown that swamped her tiny frame. She was her husband's main carer but she got unwell and ended up in hospital. I was asked to see her for her pain; she then asked me to give her a hand to the toilet. I helped her to the bathroom and sat outside, talking to her through a slit in the bathroom door to keep her company at her request.

"I met my husband at school," she said, whilst perched on the toilet.

"Oh?" I always enjoyed having a peek into people's lives, one of the many perks of doing this job. "How did you meet?"

"It was our school dance. It was love at first sight. He was--" She sighed. She looked like a schoolgirl who'd just discovered love: her face lit up, her blue eyes crinkled at the corners, her hands clasped in front of her. Suddenly, she looked eighteen, not eighty. "--so good-looking."

"And then what happened?"

"He walked me home. We cuddled and he kissed me on the cheek. It seems tame, but that was the norm at the time."

"No, it's very romantic!" It was super adorable. She had a shy little smile on. "Is he doing okay at home by himself? He's not going to starve, is he?"

"Oh, no, he's always been very good with household chores. He's a good cook. He's alone in the house at the moment but he can manage."

"Sounds like he's a catch!"

She giggled. "I think so! We've been married for sixty years!"

"What's your secret?"

"Oooh I don't know! Arguments, I think!"

I helped her back to bed and bade her goodnight.

The next night, I was asked to urgently see Mrs. Allan at the start of the shift. She'd collapsed earlier on that day and had a lactate of 13 -- incompatible with life. She rallied, but remained very unwell. Her hands were cold and she was barely responsive to questions. My senior and I reviewed her. As my senior continued assessment, she had another unresponsive episode. None of the tests pointed to a definitive cause. Lactate was 9 -- still incompatible with life. Assessment by ITU deemed her too frail to survive intensive care.

She looked like a ragdoll, her breathing ragged, her eyes even more sunken, her colouring closer to the shade of her white bedsheets compared with the rosy-cheeked picture I had seen the night prior.

We called her husband in. It was now midnight. She was barely conscious, her hands were freezing. Her husband was told by three senior doctors that she was very ill and unlikely to survive the night. I reiterated it to him, knowing he has dementia and was unlikely to recall the majority of what the other doctors said.

"She's a remarkable woman, you know," he said. He was a generic old man, balding, white hair, collared shirt and jumper with suit trousers. He was what I thought my grandpa would look like. I can imagine him just plodding along with life, his wife chiding him for getting up to mischief and him making good-natured attempts to cheer her up. "She was assistant to many members of parliament in her prime. She always knew how things were run."

Time was running out. I brought him to her bedside. Her breaths were shallow. She was dying. My colleague asked him to hold her hand and speak to her. We retreated, giving them privacy in her last few minutes.

"We're going to get through this together, you hear me?" he said to her, holding her hand and stroking her hair. "We have a long road to walk together. We'll get you through this. We still have a lot of things to do."

She stopped breathing just as I shut the door.

I typed up my notes over the next ten minutes, blinking away tears. Death was inevitable. We had done everything we could. I knew that. Everyone knew that. It didn't make the whole situation feel any less of a failure.

Mr. Allan knocked on my door after that and told me she'd passed away.

I verified her death. The nurses arranged transport for him to leave per his request; he did not want to stay overnight in this hospital. I didn't blame him. I watched a nurse accompany him outside where a taxi waited. My heart broke for the two of them. Sixty years of marriage, gone in one night. She was meant to be going home. She was getting better. She looked forward to eating his cooked meals again.

I wondered how much of this he could remember. Would he remember he walked into the ward a husband and left a widower?

It was a privilege to be part of this. I saw the end of a beautiful, long-lasting marriage between two good people. But I couldn't help them. I knew we did help: we helped her die a peaceful, dignified death with her true love holding her hand, but that didn't make me feel any better. All I could do was finish documentation and return to the rest of my night shift.