I want to live, Andrew!
Dr. George, Dr. George, are you alright?
Nurse Isabelle clutched the surgeon’s sleeve, her eyes wide with concern. But she couldnt steady himhe leaned into the cool, tiled wall, dropped his head into the crook of his elbow, silent.
For a fleeting moment, Isabelle almost felt proud on behalf of all hospital staff: see how doctors give themselves up to patients, working nearly to the point of collapse! Yet no one truly values it. The patient George had just operated on would never know what it cost.
Dr. George, whats wrong? Shall I call for help?
No need, he muttered, lifting his head. Swaying slightly, he shuffled towards the staff room, glancing back at the anxious nurse by the door. Alls fine. Please, dont fuss.
He let himself drop onto the worn leather sofa, lying back, eyes closed. Was it really fine? It wasnt the first time these dizzy spells struck. Exhaustion? Most likely.
Weekends used to exist for himreal weekends. A chance to catch his breath after the frenzied blur of hospital corridors, to visit friends with his wife, take the children to Hyde Park.
But now… when every doctor in London was stretched thin among three different hospitals, what kind of rest was that? Georges second marriage meant a younger wife, school-aged childrena stack of expenses. The car needed replacing, too.
But even that wasnt the heart of it. More than money, George craved to be needed, to excel, to win respect, to achieve medical triumphsand for two decades in medicine, hed managed all that. Patients jostled for a place with him, colleagues admired him, invitations and promises flowed, and his pay was handsome.
Paul, he called his anaesthetist friend, is your Natasha working today?
Hello, George. Yes, shes on shift.
By sunset, George lay inside the MRI scanner, the mechanical wail of the machine gnawing at his nerves beneath the headphones thin shield of music.
Sudden, suffocating fear swamped him. He had to distract himself, think of something good. But what? What did he have left to remember fondly?
His memory started pacing slowly down the spiral staircase of his life. His second marriage… He was already a practicing surgeon, father, and his wife a young teacher to his daughter. But the monotonous rhythm was: work, home, work. The MRIs relentless clatter buried any attempt to find warmth in that era. His first marriageworse stilla bitter divorce left nothing but pain, memories he refused to entertain.
University days? Maybeyes! The first four years, at least.
Georges memory hooked on, spun back, drawing him away from the drone of the MRIs magnets: summer work parties, the lads, Mary from the refectory, whom all the boys sparred over…
George, Victor, and Andrewthree friends, medical students together, united since freshers week. Oxford was a foreign world for them all; they huddled in the same halls of residence.
Andrew had thick glasses and came from a small market town. Quiet, earnest, almost ingenuous, yet with a charisma that drew people. You just wanted to hear his soft musings, to look into those deep, clear blue eyes behind his spectacles.
Andrew remembered everythingevery exam topic, any question.
Victor was his oppositea burly bloke from the Cotswolds, loud but unpretentious, always nattering, fretting about upcoming exams, befriending everyone on their floor. Hed jot down cheat sheets for others rather than study for himself.
George, too, fretted about the exams. He never thought hed make the cut, awed by Andrews deep knowledge and Victors effortless sociability. Yet in the end, only Michael, the fourth in their dorm, didnt get in. The other three stuck together.
During first year, they didnt get a room in halls, so Andrews caring but slightly frantic mother came down to find them a little flat, staying a few days to fuss over them and fill their freezer.
Heavens above, boys! Try to live sensibly, shed said, pressing her hands together before taking the train home.
Brilliant! Mrs. Thomas knows her stuff. Andy, what does your mum do? Victor asked, mouth full.
She works at the church bookstall, Andrew replied.
Where?
Sells candles and whatnot. And keeps the church in order
What, is she religious, then?
Of course. And so am I, Andrew said quietly.
They eyed the little icons lined up on the windowsill.
Are those yours? Thought Mrs. Thomas left them by accident.
Theyre for me. She didnt forget.
Victor was always the first to shoot his mouth off, then think: Youre barking, arent you? Whyd you sign up to medicine if you believe in all that church nonsense? You expect God to cure people?
A doctor treats the body; God heals the soul, Andrew replied calmly. They shrugged.
They steered clear of faith after that, noticing that Andrew crossed himself quietly, discreetly. He was a brilliant student, and could defuse quarrels between Victors passion and Georges stubbornness gently and swiftly.
Andrew cared little for the small stuff. When Victor and George argued about cleaning up, Andrew simply grabbed a cloth and started scrubbing the floors: No need for dramamuch quicker this way.
And the others, feeling awkward, would pitch in too.
Perhaps God helped Andrew, or perhaps he was gifted; either way, he aced his first termmastered Latin as if taught from birth. He wove them tighter together.
And, strangely enough, he was the first to fall in love. He got elected to the student council where he met his soulmateHarriet. Petite, jet-black fringe, a tough but kind-hearted girl. They held hands on campus by their second year.
Victor, for all his country ways, quickly became practicalworking on ambulances in the winter of his second year, impressing staff with his skill and willingness. Soon enough, hospitals kept him on as a voluntary assistant in the oncology department at the county clinic.
George, meanwhile, worked steadily. No stand-out achievements, but he cared deeply and wanted above all to be a good doctor.
***
The MRI spat George out into daylight. He stared out the window, gulping in cool London air. Where had this claustrophobia sprung from?
Natasha entered, unfastening the head equipment.
Well, what do you think, Nats? Have you seen the pictures?
Wait a minute, the doctors drafting the report. Ill call youcome back later. She avoided his eyesmaybe just tired, on her feet all day.
Ill collect it tomorrow. I just need to get home.
But before he could escape the hospital, Natasha brought the disc and report to him herself.
George, youre a doctoryou understand. But dont sit on this. Go see Dr. Atkins. He should take a look.
He scanned the report, slotted the disc into his computer, staring bleakly at the imageshis brain, his lesion: stark, definite, undeniable.
He studied them as though they belonged to a patient, not himself. Even driving home, it wouldnt sink inhe simply refused to believe it could happen to him.
***
Dr. Charles Atkins was the hospitals top neurosurgeon.
Id soften it, mate, but youre a better surgeon than I am; theres no sense in sugarcoating it. You see?
I see. Is this it, then?
Atkins winced. What kind of question is that for a surgeon like you? You know how it worksits in the hands of your consultant… and the Lord, maybe.
I cant believe it. I was meant to go to London for the Doctors Summittake the family, have a break. Now… what would you do, in my shoes?
Id still go to London, but to see Simon Redgrave, not for a holiday. They work miracles at that clinic, best stats in the country. Only
What?
He doesnt operate himself nowadays, but his teams excellent and uses his methods. Thing is, the waiting lists a year. No clue how youd get inmaybe the doctors network could help. Youre top rate. Lets try.
George plunged back into work. He wrote diagnoses, operated, consulted. The pain was manageablejust mild weakness, occasional dizzinessquick fixes with the right medication.
He started making enquiries about Redgrave. Atkins was right; getting on that surgical list was near impossible.
It was time to tell his wifeand she immediately started planning for London.
Ina, Ill have to go to London by myself.
What? On your own? She put down the blouse shed been folding. Are you serious? The kids?
Im not going for a conference, not for theatre. Im going to hospital. Theres a… brain tumour. He spoke slowly, surprised by his own admission. Saying it meant accepting it.
Ingrid stared, her eyes filling.
Oh God, George… How? Then I must come with you.
No, Ingrid. Its not scheduled yetif I can get in, Ill wait there for an opening. I might have to wait a long time.
It really is that serious? She sank onto the settee beside him. Tell me everything.
And George, wiping his nose like a boy, stumbled through the storynot as a rational doctor but hesitantly, jumping from one thing to another: suspicions, tests, results, and the whirlpool of thoughts, memories, and hopes.
She listened, blouse forgotten, brow furrowed, watching her bewildered husband. He was grateful, deeply. With his first wife, this sort of openness was unthinkable.
***
Jehovahs Witnesses often refuse blood transfusions, quoting the Bible: But you shall not eat flesh with its life, that is, its blood.
It was fourth year now, and they sat in a packed medical ethics lecture.
Clergy protest organ and tissue donation, regardless of law. The Church opposes reproductive methods that defy naturethey condemn surrogacy, egg and sperm donors, all backed by their selective dogma. Faith in miracles and evidence-based medicinemutually exclusive.
Thats not true, echoed a calm voice from the back.
Sorry? Who said that? The lean lecturer peered over his glasses.
I did, Andrew said, standing. Church and medicine both help people live as people.
Care to debate, young man?
No. Whats the use of arguing? Its simply so. He sat.
Oh, no, come out here. Enlighten us. The lecturers lips curled into a sly smile, relishing the challenge.
Andrew joined him, upright and serene. The lecturer started firing questionsAndrew answered gently, clearly.
The Church cares for the human soul. If a couple cant have children naturally, and medical means fail, they accept their childlessness as vocation, perhaps a path to God. Or perhaps theyll adopt. The Church doesnt object to IVF if both gametes come from husband and wifebut not from outsiders, never. That undermines marriage, it brings irresponsible parenthood.
Then why is the Church against surrogacy, if the child is the couples biologically?
One must also think of the surrogate mother who bears the baby and gives it up. And the child, too
Rubbish! the lecturer barked. You contradict yourself! The Church claims to care for souls yet creates misery? At my hospital, a couple refused to donate their dead sons heart, though all was ready. Another boy died as a result. Was that godly?
They couldnt give up their childs heart. You must understand
There, the religious opiate laid bare! It is the greatest hindrance to scientific progress! The lecturer was furious, eyes bulging. Faith blocks invention, fearing man supersedes God. The Church thrives on this opiate. Science is the only true creator!
He ranted, tried to break down Andrews composure, but Andrew stood, head bowed, only occasionally lifting his eyes toward the embittered man as if pitying him.
For Andrew, God dwelt withina soul listening onward, stretching wide, passing through those soul-gates to beloved people around him.
He replied to the lecturer patiently, with dignity. The class was electrified, hanging on their words. The lecturer gave his allprobing, sneering, but by the end even he knew the room sided with Andrew.
That year, Andrew drew constant trouble. Summoned by the Dean, he returned subdued, speaking little, confiding only in Harriet. She wouldnt say a word to anyone.
For fifth year, Andrew simply didnt return. They received a letterhe had found a new path, said sincere farewells, gave thanks, and begged their friendship remain.
George and Victor were stunned. The best of their cohort! Gifted. Hed have made a superb surgeon and walked out, almost at the finish! Why?
They found Harrietshe kept her lips sealed. So, one weekend, they took the train to Andrews home. Mrs. Thomas welcomed them with warmthand happiness: her son had entered seminary.
They left with homemade pies and preserves, but none the wiser for why Andrew had chosen another road.
How could he, for heavens sake! Victor banged his knee.
Seefor heavens sakewere infected, too, George replied wryly. Gods taken him from us. Fool, that Andrew. A fool!
***
What, lighting a candle? Dont be daft, Charles. Im going to see a friendalready booked the leave.
Three days before London, George spoke with Charles in the staff room. Hed bought a train tickethe dared not drive, as the dizzy spells had worsened, and anyway, he hoped for surgery.
To which friend?
A university one. Weve not met in over twenty years. He left after year four for seminary. Proper vicar nownot far from here. Ill drive there tomorrow.
I wouldnt risk it.
I know. But I must
The townfamous for old abbey ruins and country walksproved drab, dotted with churches at every corner.
George made his way to Trinity Abbey. Oddly, the journey had been smoothno vertigo. Perhaps, he smiled, the road to faith is indeed the road to healing.
The abbeys white walls gleamed above the lush forest: towers, domes, a security-patrolled car park, lawns blooming with giant rose beds, golden spires so bright they dazzled.
He was told: the service is runningthe Father is occupied. Liturgy sounded foreign on his tongue. How long did he have to wait? Embarrassed, he took a stroll.
Behind the church, a small cemetery, then the path dropped down to the river. At the bottom, a well people lined up, some elderly climbing back up the steep hill, deliberately, instead of using the path.
Why had he come here? He still needed surgery, and here he was lost among fields and churches.
Arent you going down for holy water? asked a cheerful woman.
Holy water? Not exactly
There are bottles by the gate. But you must go down three times and climb up the bank each time.
Why?
You know bestwhy else are you here? she grinned.
He nearly said hed come to see the vicar, but stopped. He wasnt here just to catch up.
He grabbed a bottle and walked towards the well, down the steps, up the steep bank. It was harder than it looked, but he went three times, filled his flask, gulped the icy sweet water.
Something lifted from his chesta little happiness, maybe. If all this was Andrews kingdom, well, then perhaps Andrew truly had found something better. George smiled, imagining Andrews reply.
He returned as the crowd drifted gently out. A portly, bearded priest with a clear bass voice emergeda stranger, surely not Andrew. Andrew had been slim, shorter, and always wearing glasses.
The priest was blessing people, chattingthen suddenly their eyes met: deep, blue, familiar.
George walked up behind him.
Well then, Father, he said with a sly smile.
A parishioner hushed him: Address him, Bless me, Father! Thats the way.
But the priest grinned, too.
George! Oh, George, my friend
They embraced warmly. The congregation melted away, and the two old friends headed along the abbeys garden path.
What a joyful day! Harriet will be over the moon.
Harriet? So she?
Shes my wife now. Paediatrician in the local practice. Didnt want to give up medicine; I never argued. Weve five children! The youngest is ten already.
Blimey! Didnt know. I’ve got threedaughter from my first, two from my second. And you, settled here?
We love it. Others invited me to their churches, but the lands too beautiful to leave. And theres plenty of work.
You seem taller.
Grew after twenty as well. As for the eyeshad surgery years ago. Got lenses if need be.
So, Christianity doesnt shun medicine?
They both laughed, remembering.
Remember us trying to pinch that book from the Bodleian? You distracted the librarian, Victor and I dropped itit clattered everywhere
You acted like youd never met us! George chuckled.
I was mortified for weeks.
And what about your mumMrs. Thomas?
Shes not young, but well. Shes actually joined a nunnery nearbySister Irene.
Quite a career move!
The conversation broke off as a young woman in a headscarf brought Andrew a message.
Sorry, people have come a long way, I must see to them. But youre not here just for a visit, are you? Ill send a driveryoull come to my house, Harriet will meet you. Well have time later.
I cant stay long. But as you wish. George shrugged; Andrew crossed him with a broad, priestly hand.
He followed the vicars car to a proper, lived-in family home: flowers in every window, a brass icon lamp, but also a telly, computers, a bustling but warmly domestic kitchen.
Harriet made tea, set the table, nattered away about the move, life in the country, Andrews tiring days. Only their youngest, a boy, was at home.
George all but forgot the purpose of his visitit simply felt like being among family. He snacked, gave a vague update, and soon dozed in a sturdy hammock on the veranda.
Leaving tonight? No chance. Hed taken leave; there was time before London yet.
***
So you know the whole story? George asked.
Of course. Victor and I wrote a lot, called often once mobiles arrived. But latelylost touch. Gods will. Wrote, called, tried Facebook, but Let it be.
Do you judge me?
God judges. For people, their own conscience is court. But tell me, George, whats the trouble? I see it
A glioblastoma Brain tumour.
Andrew sighed.
Thats a rough one. Tomorrow, you come to service, sit if you must; then confession, then communion. Then well see.
Youre burying me already?
Not at all. But remember: its your fight, no one can live it for you. The priest points the paththe heart and soul walk it.
Ill tell you how it happened, back then
Confession tomorrow, mate.
Strangely, by the next morning, the tale of stealing Victors fiancée had changed in Georges mindfrom an excuse to a confession.
Theyd been thick as thieves, then, in a moment, enemies.
***
Service ended; only a few were left praying in the cool silence.
Andrew read the prayer, nodded to George to bow his head.
Christ stands unseen, receiving your confession; I am only a witness. Speak, George.
George began. I envied Victor. He was worshippedin class, the hospital, even the halls. And there was Alice.
A London civil servant, with family in Oxford, came in ill. Alice was his daughter. While he was stuck in hospital, she hung around; thats when she and Victor grew close.
When Alice moved back to London with her family, Victor followedopening doors in the city, new prospects.
And I George looked at his friend, then awayI was jealous. Why should he, a country bumpkin, have all the luck? Out of spite, I hinted to Alice he was seeing other women. It wasnt even truepure jealousy. I was wrong, and I confess it.
At Vovka Smiths wedding, it happened. Victor, as ever, was the life of the party, but Alice was bored. We went out for air. Later they said Victor had seen us kissing on the balconyhe left and moved out that night. Alice and I soon took a flat together.
I was satisfied for a while. Victor and I blanked each other at uni. But it was short-lived bliss. Alice, at first sweet, later turned coldher mother dictated life. My father-in-law died; Alices mother took hold, married anew, and Alice demanded the earth. Eventually, we returned to Oxfordthere she truly changed. I barely escaped.
As for Victor, was that my worst sin? There were others. A patient died on my table. He was old, but my error doomed him. There are so many small errors like that.
I was unfaithful to my first wife and later, even to Ingrid. Nurses were always about, smiling, askingwhy not? One nurse I nearly ruined because she resistedI pulled strings until she was sacked. Who had the right to say no to me?
But when I met Ingrid, things changed. She was simple, a teacher from a village; she befriended my daughter, Diane. Theyre close to this day. Yet I strayed, even with Ingrida couple of times.
He stopped. What else could he say? Foolish, maybe.
Will you grant me absolution, Father Andrew?
Only God can do that. What matters is that you truly repent, George.
George nodded, tears suddenly welling. He gripped the lectern, sank to his knees.
Tell God Im sorry, Andrewplease, he whispered. I want to live. I want to love Ingrid, watch my children grow, see my son through school. I want to work. Ill be a simple doctor anywhere, I dont care. Just please, tell Him
May our Lord Jesus Christ, through his grace and abundance of love, forgive you all your sins, child George Andrew prayed.
Then, silence. George looked up, eyes red and brimmed, and caught Andrews gazethose ageless, blue eyes.
Theres one thing to do, Georgefind Victor. Apologise.
How? I leave for London the day after tomorrow, George protested.
You must try. Hes in Manchester now, at the oncology centre. Go there, not to London.
Dont say I should have him do my surgery! George joked.
Why not?
Shows how far you are from modern medicine! The technology in London is light-years ahead of Manchester. Youve no idea, George scoffed.
Maybe so. But I know Victors respectedhes a research lead in neurosurgery, travels to London often. At least contact him.
I should. But London callsI cant wait too long
And that nursetrack her down too, the one you got sacked.
That I can do. Ill manage it, George forced a smile, though the memory stung. I will. Pray for me, Andrew. Most of all, I need the London surgeon to see me, find a slototherwise, well Maybe Manchester is next.
Before leaving, George clambered up the riverbank fifteen times, drinking from the holy well after every third go.
The faithful crossed themselves, crossed him. May God help.
