That is Dr Braver himself. He does not trust his colleagues to operate on his son. He fears Dr Bigfellow will slash him from chin to shin. Dr Drifter’s hands are not steady and Dr Saint will use old methods to take his son’s appendix. “If Dr Braver cannot do it no one can do it! Is that it?”
Jezzie Braver paced up and down the long Coronation corridor. During the day time it was almost like the ground would cave in with the number of people walking on it. Nurses walking in groups to the canteen with something to gossip about. Porters pushing patients in bed, chairs or trolleys to various parts of the hospital. Relatives and visitors looking for their loved ones. And junior doctors running the marathon in response to a cardiac arrest call. In the night, however, the long straight corridor was frighteningly quiet except for the occasional sounds of doors being closed or the rattling of worn out trolley rollers. Otherwise, it was all tranquil and peaceful.
Mrs Braver stood anxiously in front of the secured partly glazed theatre door. She could not help wondering what was going on inside. “Oh my Ollie,” she had herself say, wondering what was going on behind this door which looked so ordinary. Yet, behind it was her son. Her only son, being operated on by his father. Behind that door. Right there, life could be saved. And right there too, people have been sent to their early grave through surgeon’s blunders. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she imagined her husband slashing her son’s abdomen and blood gushing out after each stroke of the scalpel. And then, she remembered the story of Abraham and Isaac in the bible. God sent a ram and spared Abraham from slaughtering his precious son. “God, save my precious son like you did for Abraham,” she said, as she walked away from the theatre wing.
For one moment, Mrs Braver thought it better for her to go back home. She could not stand it anymore. She desperately needed someone to talk to. She needed to phone her dad but she would have to go home, as she had to find his number from her address book. Nevertheless, she could not find the courage to leave the hospital when her son was lying somewhere in the theatre under the knife of his husband. “What if Alex got it wrong? What if the knife slipped or something?” She felt all these thoughts going uncomfortably through her mind. And she fought desperately to get them out of her head. “Be strong, girl. Be strong,” she said to herself, reminding her of how her father used to encourage her in Africa when preparing to have routine immunisation.
Her mouth felt dry. She wasn’t sure if she was truly thirsty or just her state of mind. The drinks dispensing machine was only a few metres away. And as she walked towards the well-lit vending machine, she fiddled in her purse for some loose coins. She slot in a 50p coin and as the can of tango orange rolled down, her mind wondered again back to what could be going on in the theatre. And she quickly walked away from the ‘no smoking’ zone, desperately craving for a good smoke.
As she drew on her cigarette and watched the thick smoke disperse into the air, she saw a huge image of a person coming from the other end of the long dimly lit corridor. She had been desperate to talk to someone. Someone. Anyone. This large image became more familiar as it walked closer. And then she noticed the characteristic smile of Dr Jerry Bigfellow, as he opened his large arms to embrace her.
“I am sorry about Alex and all that went on in the theatre,” Dr Bigfellow said, not realising that Jezzie was not aware of the incident in the theatre.
She pulled away briefly. Her heart sank. She perspired profusely and her heart beat fast. Her lips felt like a ton of lead. “Tell me,” she struggled to ask Dr Bigfellow, holding helplessly to his shirt, “What happened? Where is Alex? Is Ollie OK?”
Dr Bigfellow gently eased himself and led Jezzie to a seat near the vending machine.