Runner-up — Practitioner category
The spirit of adventure came upon me one Tuesday morning. I was battling to stay awake during a particularly tedious preamble. I knew my patient would get to the point eventually — she usually did, but experience had taught me that resistance was futile. By focusing my attention on the wall calendar hanging strategically behind her head, I could feign undivided attention while dreaming of an escape to this month’s exotic location. It was March. The Andes.
By August — at an age when convention would have me taking up golf or bridge instead — I found myself wedged between a bull-necked businessman and a tattooed hipster with a bushy beard. The monotonous tshh-tshh-tshh of the bass-line from his headphones rendered fresh insight into the misery of my chronic tinnitus patients. I was trapped, with ready access neither to the stunning view of the mountains below nor to the toilets. I wasn’t sure which worried me more. The static from the nylon airline blanket had sent my hair into a silver halo and the neck pillow was already aggravating my psoriasis. It was going to be a long flight. Luckily, I was prepared and reached for the white pill bottle in my bag.
I kicked my brand new hiking boots off under the seat in front and pulled down my tray table in anticipation. A glass of Sauvignon Blanc would be an excellent choice to wash down my temazepam.
I generally have no need for medication. But ahead of me lay the inevitable slide into a world of specialists, prescriptions and podiatrists. There would come a time when I would rely on my Webster-pak for the correct day of the week. I shuddered and picked up the duty-free catalogue for distraction. I’d barely made it past the mini-perfume collections, when the captain made an announcement.
Ironically, in the many years since I qualified, I’d never been called upon to perform a Good Samaritan act. Now that I’d retired, however, it appeared my luck had run out. I barely had time for his words to sink in before the captain made a second announcement. This time there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice. I could make out his thinly veiled alarm, even above the wailing of the fractious toddler in the row behind me. If there was a doctor on board, could they please make themselves known to the cabin crew?
By now, a plastic tray containing my dinner had materialised. I froze, torn for a microsecond between a sense of vocation and the green chicken curry sitting in front of me. I sighed and pressed the call button.
A young stewardess appeared, panic etched into her perfect make-up. “Follow me, please,” she said, her pencilled eyebrows tangled in a frown.
Somehow, I managed to extricate myself from the blanket that had lassoed my ankles together. Stumbling into the aisle like a drunk evicted from a bar, I straightened my non-crease walking trousers and attempted to tame my wayward hair. So much for a professional persona. They’d have to take me as they found me. I casually flicked a piece of chicken curry from my left breast and hoped no-one would notice my bunions, tented beneath my elastic flight socks.
A knot began to tighten in my stomach as I followed the stewardess towards the back of the plane. Relax, I tried telling myself. Someone will have splashed hand soap in their eye or stubbed a toe on the drinks trolley. If I timed it right, I would arrive just behind a team of emergency physicians, all travelling on the same flight to a conference.
A small crowd had gathered in the aisle. As I arrived, they parted like a shoal of startled fish to reveal a pair of feet emerging across the threshold of the toilet cubicle. But instead of the proverbial traveller left robbed and beaten on the road to Jericho, I found a young backpacker slumped altogether less biblically over the pan of the economy class toilet. His bloated face — what I could see of it above the white porcelain bowl — was the colour of a boiled lobster and his gastrointestinal system was attempting to expel his in-flight meal simultaneously from both ends.
“He had the beef,” the stewardess added.
“The beef is trying to kill him,” I muttered.
“What? Am I going to die?” wheezed the backpacker, terror briefly prising his oedematous eyelids apart.
“Of course not,” I replied. Not if I could pull myself together and focus.
I was painfully aware how long it had been since I’d handled a life-threatening medical emergency, let alone an acute anaphylaxis aboard a 747-400. Perhaps I’d become complacent lately, signing sick notes and writing referrals to other doctors. I could perform a Pap smear with my eyes closed. Fat lot of good that would do me right now. I had to go back to basics.
Airway, breathing, circulation.
I tried to avoid the anxious glances from the cabin crew as they manoeuvred their trolleys around the makeshift resuscitation area. The backpacker’s body continued to swell and his fingernails tore at angry welts, leaving vivid red trails of blood down his forearms. I tried taking his blood pressure, but all I could hear was a thud-thud-thud that I recognised as my own galloping pulse.
The plane’s medical kit turned out to be surprisingly well equipped. My relief was short-lived, however, as I examined several identical glass vials. The dim light of the toilet cubicle was woeful and I struggled to read the drug names on the outside of the vials. The letters danced in front of my eyes like twerking insects. With a man’s life hanging in the balance, I turned to the audience and with all the authority of a surgeon demanding a scalpel, I held out my hand.
“Reading glasses!”
The elderly gentleman who was next in line for the toilet plucked a pair of half-moon spectacles from his face and placed them into my outstretched palm. The magnification was much stronger than I needed and, as I fought to regain my equilibrium, I had a sudden urge to curl up on the floor next to my patient.
With valuable seconds ticking away, I managed to identify the adrenaline vial, broke off the lid and started to draw up the clear liquid into a syringe.
How many millilitres was 0.3 mg again?
A doctor had once saved a passenger’s life on a flight by improvising with a coat hanger and a ballpoint pen. Here, I was struggling with the simplest of mental arithmetic. It was time to face facts. I was past my best, capable of little more than totting up the score on a par 4.
Yet medicine had been the one constant in my life. Two husbands and three children had come and gone. I’d formed more enduring relationships with some of my patients than with either of my spouses. My own narrative was written in the lives of people who had never even used my first name. Exchanging a lifetime of knowledge and wisdom for a world of coffee mornings and daytime television filled me with despair.
“0.3 mg of 1:1000 is 0.3 mL,” whispered a tiny voice inside my head.
I plunged the needle into the backpacker’s thigh. Almost immediately, the wheezing subsided and the rash began to fade. A smile crept into the corners of the young man’s swollen lips.
“Thank you, doctor,” he said.
I slumped back against the cubicle door next to my patient. There was a ripple of muted applause from the other passengers, no doubt relieved to find another toilet cubicle free at last. Presently, the backpacker returned to his seat and I realised that I would never see him again. By the time he made it home with a head full of adventures and a pile of dirty laundry, the episode on the plane would be nothing more than an amusing travel anecdote. For me, however, it spelled out what it meant to be a doctor. The lives touched in a moment of shared intimacy. The trust, the duty and, above all, the privilege.
Returning to my seat, I climbed over the hirsute hipster and slipped in next to the snoring businessman. His crescendo of porcine rumbles was punctuated by periods when he appeared to stop breathing altogether. I debated whether to wake him and recommend a sleep study, but thought better of it. Instead, I picked up the duty-free brochure and pressed the cabin crew call button once more.
“I’d like a bottle of this, please,” I said pointing to a special edition champagne bottle.
It was time to celebrate. Not my retirement, nor even the imminent arrival of my first grandchild, but a new beginning. A fresh chapter. Far from winding down, I now realised it was time for a real adventure. Besides, I’d always fancied the idea of a career in expedition medicine. All I had to do was squeeze my bunions back into those hiking boots.