Margaret Stephens brushed dust off the photo frame showing her younger self in a white coat with colleagues. Smiling, hopeful – back then life seemed full of promise. She truly believed she’d be a brilliant doctor, saving lives and earning everyone’s gratitude.
“Mum, not those photos again?” Her daughter’s voice echoed from the hall. “Why keep torturing yourself?”
“Not your business, Eleanor,” Margaret muttered, though her hands shook slightly. “Go wash the dishes.”
Eleanor walked in and sat beside her on the sofa. “Mum, honestly. It’s been decades. Let it go. You’re the only one still carrying this.”
“Am I?” Margaret gave a bitter laugh. “Joanne remembers perfectly. I bumped into her at Tesco yesterday. Couldn’t even be bothered to nod.”
“She might not have seen you! Maybe she forgot her specs. Please stop punishing yourself!”
Margaret placed the frame back and turned towards the window. A dreary drizzle matched her mood. Funny, she used to love the rain, said it washed everything bad away…
It started thirty years ago. Margaret was a young, energetic GP at the local health centre. She poured herself into her patients, working twelve-hour days. Respected by colleagues, loved by her patients, held up as exemplary by her manager, Dr. Bennett.
That day, Edith Turner shuffled in. A regular, often complaining of chest pains. Margaret knew the lonely pensioner well; the surgery visit was Edith’s main social outing.
“Doctor dear,” Edith fretted, settling heavily onto the chair. “My heart’s really playing up. Didn’t sleep a wink, thought I’d die.”
Margaret placed her stethoscope. The heartbeat was steady, no apparent abnormalities.
“Edith, everything sounds fine. Perhaps you’re a bit overwrought?”
“Oh, Doctor! Such pain, sharp as a knife!” Edith clutched her chest. “Could you give me an injection? Or send me to hospital? It’s frightening being alone!”
The waiting room was packed for the afternoon clinic; time was tight, and Margaret’s little boy at home had a fever. She rubbed her temples tiredly. “Edith, I’ve checked thoroughly. Heart sounds normal, blood pressure’s fine. Take some Valerian drops and have a proper rest. Ring 999 immediately if it worsens.”
“But Doctor…”
“Sorry, I’ve a queue of patients waiting now. Do take care.”
Slowly, Edith rose, casting a hopeful glance that Margaret missed as she called the next patient. Edith sighed and shuffled out.
Margaret forgot the visit instantly. Her sick boy demanded attention, her husband was late, she was properly snowed under. Next day brought another packed clinic: queues, paperwork, a whirlwind.
Then the call came, early morning. From the ambulance dispatcher.
“Dr. Stephens? Edith Turner came to see you yesterday. Massive coronary. We lost her en route.”
The receiver slipped from Margaret’s grasp. The room swam. Impossible. Yesterday, Edith’s heart sounded perfectly fine…
“Mummy? What happened?” asked little Eleanor, looking up from her dolls.
“Nothing, sweetheart, nothing,” Margaret whispered, tears already tracking down her face.
Word spread like wildfire in their small town. Dr. Bennett called Margaret into her office.
“This business with Edith Turner?”
“Dr. Bennett, I examined her – everything was fine! Steady pulse, just her usual aches…”
“Relatives are lodging a complaint with the NHS. Say you refused hospital care.”
“What relatives? She had nobody!”
“Turns out there’s a niece in London. Quite forceful, works as a legal secretary. Margaret, I know your record, but this is serious. Expect an inquiry.”
The investigation dragged on for months. Margaret faced committees, explained endlessly, Edith’s notes were scrutinised. Colleagues’ initial support faded; whispers filled corridors.
“Heard Dr. Stephens might lose her licence?” gossiped Nurse Susan. “Ignored the poor old dear, threw her out.”
“Surely not!” protested another doctor. “Margaret’s ever so careful!”
“Oh, yes,” Susan insisted. “Joanne Baker was queuing. Heard Edith beg for an injection, heard Margaret refuse.”
Rumours ballooned daily – Margaret was drunk, rude, hadn’t examined Edith at all. Truth vanished beneath gossip.
Her husband tried to help, seeing her unravel: sleepless nights, weight loss, short temper. Silent weeping replaced chatter at home.
“Margaret, love… maybe see a counsellor?” he suggested gently one evening.
“I’m not mad!” she flared. “I just… how? Her readings *were* normal!”
“Medicine isn’t perfect. Edith’s heart attack wasn’t your fault.”
“But what if it *was*? Did I miss something? Should I have sent her?”
Six months later, the verdict: no negligence found, but urged caution with elderly patients. Officially cleared, yet her reputation was shredded.
Staying at the health centre became unbearable. Colleagues’ glances said it all. Patients reacted oddly – some terrified to see her, others booked appointments to gawk at the “doctor who killed that old lady.”
“Dr. Bennett,” Margaret pleaded, “could I transfer? A different practice?”
“It’s… sensitive right now, Margaret. Best let things settle. Time heals.”
But time didn’t heal. Every day echoed the tragedy. Margaret grew fearful of elderly patients, referring them for scans on flimsy pretexts. Colleagues noticed.
“Margaret Stephens sends everyone packing to hospital nowadays. Dodging another disaster.”
A year later, she quit. Joined a private clinic. But even there, whenever a pensioner walked in, her hands trembled, her voice cracked. Her doctoring days were over.
She returned to her old health centre as a lab assistant. The pay plummeted, her status vanished, but she was free from life-or-death choices.
“Mum, *why* go back there?” Eleanor, older now, was furious. “They all remember!”
“Where else? Medical training, but I can’t practice.”
“Retrain! It’s not too late!”
“Easy to say. What if I fail again? Better the devil you know.”
Colleagues’ reactions were mixed: pity, sly triumph. Joanne Baker, who’d overheard that fateful consultation, was now head nurse. She never missed a chance to remind Margaret.
“Recall turfing Edith Turner out, Margaret?” she’d say loudly near the water cooler. “Poor old dear knew she was dying. You didn’t listen.”
“Give it a rest, Joanne,” others muttered, but Joanne was relentless.
“Rest? Doctors must be accountable. Breeds distrust!”
Margaret clenched her teeth, endured. Home became another battle; her husband was weary.
“Margaret, enough blame. You did your best. Heart attacks happen.”
“But *what if*? What if hospital care saved her?”
“You can’t spend a lifetime on ‘what ifs’.”
Yet Margaret couldn’t let go. She devoured medical journals, studying pre-infarction symptoms, hunting
She hunted tirelessly through those journals for answers, but all she found was the same hollow truth—that uncertainty has a way of lingering like the damp chill in an old Liverpool terrace, and some losses stay with you long after the world has moved on.
