I want to live, Andy!
George, George, are you alright?
Nurse Daisy grabbed the sleeve of the surgeons coat, but failed to hold him. He slumped against the wall, bent his head into the alcove, and fell silent.
Daisy immediately thought, with a dash of pride for all medical staff, about how much doctors devote themselves to their patientsworking nearly to fainting. Not that anyone appreciates it. The patient George had just operated on would never know.
George, are you sure youre okay? Should I call?
No need, he mumbled, peeling himself off the wall and staggering towards the doctors lounge. At the door he glanced back at the worried nurse. Honestly, Im fine. Dont fret.
George dropped onto a battered leather sofa, stretched out. Was he fine? Hed been noticing these dizzy spells more and more lately. Overwork? Most likely.
Once upon a time, hed even had weekends. Real weekends, where you could escape the hospital madnessvisit friends with your wife, take the kids to the park.
Now? These days doctors covered several units, and who had the nerve to mention rest Plus, this was Georges second marriage, younger wife, school-age children, mounting bills. Andwell, the old car just wouldnt do anymore.
But that wasnt really the point. More important was that George had grown used to being in demand. He wanted to be the best, dreamt of respect, of triumphs in medicine. And for two decades, thats precisely what he got. Patients flocked to him, colleagues valued his opinion, the invites flowed So did the cheques.
Paul, he phoned the anaesthetist, is your Natalie around today?
Yeah, mate, shes in. Whats up?
So, by the end of the working day, George found himself wedged inside an MRI scanner at Natalies department, listening to that dreadful noise, barely blocked out by the music in his headphones.
A wave of panic crashed over him so intense he half expected to start thumping on the sides to be let out. He tried to distract himself with something pleasant. Except what was pleasant?
His memory drifted down the uneven staircase of life. Second marriage: he was already a practicing surgeon and a father, his wife a young teacher at his daughters primary school.
But the MRIs relentless clattering made it impossible to retrieve happy moments from that phase. Work-home-work. The first marriage was no bettera spectacularly uneven divorce had left those recollections best ignored.
Student days? Yes! Those first four years.
And there, finally, he caught onto somethinga gentle memory that whisked him off. Summer work crews, the lot of them, and Mary from the canteen, the heartthrob of the campus
George, Victor, and Andythree inseparable medical students, whod met during admissions. York was an alien town for all, and they bunked together in the halls.
Andythe one with thick glasses from a rural town. Quietly charismatic, slightly naive, but with an uncanny ability to draw people in. You just wanted to be by him, hear his slow, smart thoughts, gaze into those endless blue eyes gleaming behind spectacles.
He had a memory that verged on supernaturalcould recite every exam topic, answer any question.
Then Victor, his polar opposite. Solid lad from the backcountry of Norfolk or thereaboutsboisterous, simple and straightforward. Victor was pure energy, always fretting over the entrance exams, making friends with half the floor, scribbling cheat sheets rather than sitting down to revise.
George, for his part, was also anxious about making the grade. He found Andys encyclopaedic mind and Victors eloquence mind-boggling. Funnily enough, only Michaelthe fourth in their roomdidnt get in. The three of them stuck together ever since.
The first year, accommodation was so tight that Andys well-meaning mother came and found them a shared flat.
God bless you boys, now do try to get along, she fussed after a couple of days of settling them in, her anxiety only equalled by her devotion. She cooked a months worth of dubious casseroles.
Blimey, Mrs. Fosters something else! Andy, what does your mum do?
Works in a church bookshop, Andy replied, mouth half full.
Where?
Sells candles. And, er, a few other things
You meana believer?” asked Victor, cocking an eyebrow.
Of course. So am I, Andy said nonchalantly.
The boys eyed the icons on the windowsill.
They yours, then? Thought your mum just forgot to take them.
Nope. She left them. Or rather, left them for me.
Victor, never one to filter, blurted, Youre bonkers, arent you? What are you doing here if you think God will do the job for you?
Doctors fix the body, God sees to the soul, Andy replied calmly, and the others just shrugged.
After that, religion sort of slipped off the table. They noticed Andy crossing himself quietly, never making a display, and he was quick to douse sparks of argument between Victors hotheadedness and Georges stubborn nature.
He was differentmenial details rarely bothered him. If Victor and George lost it over cleaning, Andy would quietly grab a cloth and mop the floors himself.
Is it really worth the argument? Easier to mop and be done.
And somehow, it workedtheyd get flustered, pitch in, and the row would blow over.
Whether God was on Andys side or Andy was just gifted, he breezed through his first-year exams. Latin, as though hed been suckling Cicero since the cradle. He held their trio together.
Oddly, he was first to fall head-over-heels in lovejoined the student union, met his match in Helen, a sharp, feisty girl with a chic bob and a huge heart. By the second year, they were inseparable.
Victors rural simplicity disguised a knack for actionby his second year, he was volunteering with the paramedics, trusted with actual procedures in the hospital. In medicine, Victors recklessness turned to diligence and curiosity; he became a favourite, unofficial extra pair of hands in the oncology ward.
George worked steadilynever spectacular, but determined to be a decent doctor.
***
The MRI spat him out into the daylight once more. He looked out the window, sucked in a deep breath. When did he develop a phobia of tight spaces?
Natalie came in and unclipped bits from his head.
Well, Nat? Looked over anything yet?
Give me a sec, let the doc finish the report. Ill call you in later. She kept avoiding his eyessurely just fatigue? She was always run off her feet.
Ill grab it tomorrow. Just want to go home.
But before his shift ended, Natalie appearedreport, CD, and scans in hand.
George, youre a doctor, you know what youre looking at. Dont put this off. Go see Dr. Enfield. Really. Hell give you a proper look.
George only glanced at the report before slotting the disc into his office computer, scrolling through images of his very own brainseeing the clear, unwelcome spot, trying and failing to connect the dots that this was his. It felt like he was browsing a patients MRI; the penny didnt drop, not on the train home, not even by bedtime. It simply couldnt be happening to him.
***
Dr. Cyril Enfield was the best neurosurgeon in the region.
Id soften it up, George, but youre as savvy a surgeon as I am. No point in pretending. You see it, dont you?
Yeah. Is this it, then?
Oh, for heavens sakedont sound like a drama queen on the ward! You know as well as I do, its all in the surgeons hands well, and Gods, maybe.
It cant be true I was planning to go to London for the NHS conference. Was going to take the family, unwind for once. Now what would you do in my shoes?
Id go to London. And straight to Simon Rockfields clinic, actually. Theyre miracle workers and get the best outcomes. Though
Thoughwhat?
He doesnt operate himself these days, but his trainees are second to none, all using his techniques. Only problemthe waiting list is biblical. Getting on it is tough But you have connections, George. Lets try.
So, while continuing to consult, operate, and keep the show running (the headaches less distracting now that hed worked out some self-medicating tricks), George started plotting ways to reach Rockfields hallowed theatre. Enfield was right: you practically had to storm the Bastille to get in.
The time came to break the news to his wife, who instantly marshalled everyone for a London trip.
Ingrid, I’ll have to go to London alone.
What? Why? Her hands, mid-blouse-inspection, dropped. She gazed at him, wounded. Excuse me? And the kids?
Im not heading to a conference or the operaI’m off to hospital. Its serious. Ive got a brain tumour. The words came out slowly, as though spoken by someone else. But once said, it was realeven for him.
Ingrid stared at him; her eyes welled up.
Oh, God. Oh, George how why? But, well, then, Im coming with you.
No, In, the operation isnt set yet. I may have to wait, most likely thats the whole pointbe there and hope for a slot. There might never be a slot.
But is it that serious? She slid in next to him. Go on tell me.
So George, sounding like a lost schoolboy with a cold, began to spill everythingnot as a medic, but clumsily, jumping from one half-thought to another: suspicions, tests, results. All the thoughts, fears, hopes the lot.
Ingrid listened, clutching her blouse, frowning. She said little, just let him pour it out. For the first time in years, George wasnt alone with his worries. He thought, Couldnt have had this with my first wife. Not in a million years.
***
Jehovahs Witnesses usually refuse blood transfusions, quoting the BibleBut you shall not eat flesh with its life, that is, its blood.
It was the fourth year of their course; they sat in a packed lecture hall.
Priests campaign against the legal right for organ donation, droned the lecturer, and oppose every modern means of childbirth that isnt strictly natural. They denounce surrogacy, frown on donor sperm or eggs. They cherry-pick their own, convenient rules. Religion and medicineoil and water.
Thats not true, came a voice from the crowd.
Sorry, what? The youngish, gaunt lecturer peered up. Who said that?
I did, Andy stood, Church and medicine are both helping people achieve a decent life.
Do you want an argument, young man?
No. No need to argue. Its just true, thats all. He sat down.
Oh, come now. If youre going to speak up, do come here. The lecturers lips curled in anticipation of an easy win.
Andy sauntered up, expression serene.
The lecturer fired questions; Andy replied quietly, but with dignity.
The Church is concerned with the soul. If a couple are unable to have children, and all medical science has failed, then perhaps their task is to accept childlessness with humility, maybe thats their path. Perhaps theyll adopt. The Church does not condemn artificial insemination using a husbands sperm, contrary to what you said, though with a donor it draws the lineit breaches marriage, disrupts parenthood.
Then why oppose surrogacy, if the childs DNA comes from the parents?
Because you need to consider the surrogate motherhow she feels carrying a baby only to hand it away. Not to mention the child themselvesits not that simple
What nonsense! the lecturer snapped, voice rising. You cant have it both ways! Youre telling me making someone unhappy is godlier? Once, I saw parents refuse to donate their dead sons heartanother boy died, unnecessarily. How is that godly?
They simply couldnt do it. Their son they just couldnt.
There we are, religious opium at its deadliest! Churches terrify science with the thought that we may outdo God. The church guards its power as if its life depended on it. But peoplepeople and their mindsare the true creators!
The lecturer grew flushed, working himself into a lather. Andya quiet pillarstood behind the desk, head bowed, only occasionally looking up, eyes brimming with a sort of sympathy for this impassioned man.
God, to Andy, was the inner compass, a well that led to those he loved.
The debate stirred the studentseveryone listened intently. The lecturer jabbed away, convinced logic would burst Andys membrane any moment.
But Andy replied calmly, lucidly, gently quoting scripture, standing up not just for faith, but for his mother, his little red brick church, all believers, and his own heart.
His confidence only rattled the lecturer more. Loud or not, the audience was siding with Andy.
From then on, Andys university life got trickier. Summoned to the Deans office, hed return glum, say little. Opened up only to Helenbut she was a fortress.
By fifth year, Andy was gone. They got a letter: My path lies elsewhere, he wrote warmly. Thanked them, asked them to keep their friendship.
George and Victor were astounded. Hed been the best! So close to qualifying! Why? They tracked down Helen, but she refused to speak.
So, that weekend, they went to see Andys mum. Mrs. Foster was beaming. Hes at seminary now, she told them, bustling about, loading them up with cake and sandwiches for the road.
They left, arms full, not an ounce closer to understanding why.
How could he, honestly?! Victor muttered, drumming his knee.
Well, see? Now were all God help uswe got it from Andy. Hes left us to it. Silly Andy. Such a dolt
***
What candle, Cyril? Im off to see a mate. Ive already booked leave.
George and Dr. Enfield were chatting in the loungethree days until Georges London trip. Hed booked a train; driving wasnt on the cards, not with the dizzy spells. Plus, he hoped for an operation. Better play it safe.
Which mate?
Uni friendhavent seen him in over twenty years. Left after fourth year for seminary. Hes a proper priest now. Only up the road. Ill drive tomorrow.
I wouldnt risk it.
Yeah, but itll be fine.
The famous village, known for its abbey and hiking routes, turned out a bit dismal, the only standout feature: churches everywhere.
George headed for Trinity Abbey. Strangely, on the journey, not a single dizzy spell. Maybe the road to God really is a path to healing, he chuckled inwardly.
There: among the evergreens, white walls, spires, domes. Out here it looked like Chelsea Flower Showimmaculate carpark, flowery alleys, gold domes sparkling so brightly he squinted.
Service is still onFathers busy. Youll have to wait. George was too bashful to ask how long a liturgy was. Decided to walk.
Behind the church, he found a small graveyard, leading down to a river. Elders shuffled down a slopeagain and again. Across the river, more abbey buildings.
Why was he here? He needed an operation, yet here he was, meandering in some holy garden.
Not going down for holy water?
Pardon? No, honestly, Im here
There are bottles by the well. You walk down three times and come back up, old custom.
Why?
Oh, youd know bestwhy else would you be here?
George almost blurted out hed come to see an old friend, but didnt. Truthfully, this wasnt just a social call.
He fetched a bottle and trudged down and upthree times, as tradition demanded. Actually, it was harder than hed thought, but the watericy, faintly sweetwas wonderfully refreshing.
Strangely cheered, George thought maybe Andy had landed on his feet after all.
He returned just as the congregation poured out after the service. There, appearing at the gatea priest, bearded, deep voice, robust. Couldnt be Andy. Andy was slimmer, shorter, and would have been wearing glasses.
But then, their eyes lockeddeep, blue, and quite unmistakeably Andy.
He crept up behind.
Alright, Reverend! he called.
A parishioner hissed, You must say, Bless me, Father! Such manners.
But Andy was already smiling.
George! Oh, mate, its good to see you
They hugged. As the churchgoers dispersed, George and Andy strolled the alley.
Oh, what a treat! Helen will be delighted.
Helen? Shes
Yes, my wife. Shes the town paediatrician. Wont give up medicine, and I wouldnt ask her to. Five kids. Our youngest is ten.
Blimey! I didnt know. Ive got threeone from the first marriage, two more with Ingrid. So youre settled here?
Yup. We love it here. Tried elsewhere, but this place close to nature, busy enough at the abbey.
And youve grown a lot.
Oh yesI kept at it after twenty, surprisingly enough.
And your eyes? The famous specs?
Oh, had surgery years ago. Visions okay. Contact lenses when it gets tricky.
So the faith doesnt shun medicine then?
They both laughed.
Remember when we three tried to pinch that book from the library? You were chatting up the librarian while Victor and I
Yeah, and you dropped it with a crash, you idiots!
You acted like youd never seen us beforeOscar-worthy stuff!
Embarrassed me senseless Bless us all.
I still remember us visiting your mum, Mrs. Foster. How is she?
Oh, shes well, all things considered. Lives nearbyshes been cloistered, nun proper now.
What, is that a big promotion?
Absolutely! Andy laughed, proper churchman.
A young woman appeared, whispered something to the vicar.
Sorry, old mate. People have come from all over. Service to do. But youre not here just for the tea, are you? Heredriver will take you to mine. Helen will look after you until Im done.
I can only stay briefly. But as you say George spread his hands; Andy blessed him.
He followed Andys black BMW down winding roadspast a neat single-storey house with a loft, a garden that looked straight out of Country Living, a chapel in one corner.
Helen met him at the doorhug and all. The house was dazzlingly homeywindowsills lined with flowers, an icon of the Madonna, lamps glowing before it.
Otherwise, it was thoroughly moderntele, computers, gadgets galore. Helen bustled, set the table, nattered away about all the places theyd lived, how Andy kept too busy, how tired he got. Only the youngest lad was at home.
The weight of his hospital saga faded awayhed just turned up among old friends. He nibbled, told bits of his story (skipping the illness), then dozed peacefully on a hammock on the porch.
He no longer wanted to rush back home. Hed booked leave at work anyhow; travel wasnt till later.
***
You know the story, then?
Of course. We wrote loads, Victor and I. Called too, once mobile phones arrived. But lately lost touch. I keep meaning to look him up, but Well, Gods will.
Are you angry with me?
Who am I to judge? Each has their own truth, only the conscience knows. Out with it, George. Whats wrong?
Brain tumour. Malignant
Andy sighed.
Bad luck. Tomorrow youll attend service, sit if youre tired, then confession and communion. Afterwards, well talk
Sounds like youre prepping me for a funeral.
Oh, dont be daft. Its all in your hands. No one can help but yourself. The priest just points the route; your soul and heart do the rest.
Ill tell you the storyas it really happened George began.
Save it for confession, George.
Strangely, by that night, telling how hed pinched Victors girlfriend no longer sounded like justificationit was a heartfelt apology.
It was truesworn friends, enemies in an instant.
***
Service done, church nearly empty.
Andy said the prayer, told George to bow and intoned, Christ is invisibly present, hearing your confession; Im but a witness. Speak, George.
And so he began.
I was jealous of Victor. Everyone loved him, on the ward, in the flat, even at unigolden Victor. All the girls after him. Then along came Ella.
Thing isa senior officials daughter, Ella, landed in A&E, Victors beat. He got close. Weekend visits, even holidays in London.
Suddenly, Victors world opened up in London.
You know I was miffed. How had a country boy come so far? In a huff, I gossiped a bittold Ella he was off with Katie Carr.
At a mates wedding, with Victor playing toastmaster, him and Ella drifting, I took my shotstarter on the balcony, a kiss. Victor saw, left the wedding, and vanished.
After that, he moved out; Ella and I set up house. I thought Id scored but it was a nightmare. Controlling in-laws, constant nagging. Then her dad died; her mum ran the show, promptly remarried. Ella wanted the moon and more. Moved to York for a job, and thereI saw her true colours. We split.
But that wasnt my worst. I made mistakes in theatreone patient, an elderly man, died on table because of me. Loads of smaller errorspar for the course, but it stung.
And I cheated. Notoriously faithless as a student, so marriage didnt fix me. Nurses, always keen, flattered why not? One turned me down, and I pulled strings to get her fired. Who was she to say no?
Met Ingridfelt eased, calmer. She was a teacher, my daughter’s, as it happens. The two are still friends. Ingrids a good egg. I still cheated, not often but, well, it happened.
He trailed off. It all sounded so, so petty.
So, can you forgive my sins, Father Andy?
God forgives, not menin the end, thats what matters, George, as long as youre truly remorseful.
Tears welled as George gripped the lectern.
Tell God Im sorry, will you, Andy? Tell himI want to live, mate, to love Ingrid, see my kids grow up, get my son through school. Ill work anywhere, I swear. I want nothing specialjust a chance. Please tell Him
May the Lord Jesus Christ, by His mercy and compassion, forgive George, all his sins Andy prayed.
George met Andys blue eyespatient and bottomless.
I think you need to find Victor, Andy said softly, seek his forgiveness.
Where do I start? Im due in London in two days.
You need to find him. Hes at an oncology centre in Sheffield these days. You should go there, not London.
Oh, come off it, Andy! You think I should have the op there, too?
Well, why not?
Now I know youre out of touch with medicine. Rockfields is a league ahead. Not even comparable! George stood.
Maybe so. But Victors into neurosurgery techniques, too, a scientist, up to date, goes to London for conferences. You two need to talk.
I suppose we do. ButLondon first. Times running out
And that nursethe one you got sacked. You should find her too.
Thats possible. Ill do it, George nodded, though the memory stung, Ill find her. Pray for me, Andy. Really, all I ask is that the surgeon in London sees me, gives me a spot for an operation. Otherwise maybe youre right, and Ill need to fly to Sheffield.
Before leaving, George trekked up and down the river slope another fifteen times, drinking water after every third climb, just for luck.
Locals watched, some crossing themselves, others crossing him.
Perhaps prayer does work, after all.
