Wednesday, 17th May
Stared at the framed photograph again today – wiped the dust as usual. Me, young and hopeful in my white coat beside my clinic colleagues. Felt so certain back then that life stretched gloriously ahead, full of promise to heal and be appreciated. Laughter seemed woven into the very fabric of the future.
“Mother, must you revisit this?” Eleanor’s voice drifted down the hallway. “Honestly, put those photos away. Why torment yourself?”
“Not your concern, Eleanor,” I mumbled, but my hands betrayed me, trembling. “See to the washing up.”
She stepped into the sitting room and settled onto the sofa beside me. “Enough now. Decades have passed. You cling to it. Nobody else even remembers… except you.”
“They forget?” A bitter scoff escaped me. “Elizabeth Thompson remembers perfectly well. Spotted her yesterday at the grocer’s; wouldn’t even turn her head. Carried on as though I were invisible.”
“Perhaps she didn’t see you! Left her spectacles at home? Truly, Mum, stop torturing yourself.”
Replaced the frame on the shelf and turned to the window. A thin, dreary drizzle came down, perfectly matching my mood. And to think I once loved the rain, claimed it washed away troubles…
It began thirty years ago, a newly qualified GP, working long shifts at the local practice in a small Dorset town. Full of energy, determined to help every patient, working twelve-hour days. Respected by my colleagues, valued by patients, held up as a model by my supervisor, Dr. Harriet Clarke.
That particular day, Mrs. Edith Hopkins came for an appointment, an elderly widow well-known for frequent visits complaining of chest pains. Had grown accustomed to seeing her, knew she lived entirely alone – the surgery visits were her main human contact. “Doctor, my dear,” she fluttered, easing onto the chair, “this dreadful pain in my chest grew fierce last night. Barely slept a wink, feared the worst.”
“Let me listen,” I murmured, placing the stethoscope. Steady rhythm, no irregularities audible.
“Mrs. Hopkins, all seems perfectly regular. Could worry be the cause?”
“Oh, no, Doctor! The pain’s sharp, like a knife! An injection, perhaps? Or a hospital referral? Frightful being so alone…” Outside, the queue for tomorrow’s appointments was thickening, time was vanishing, and my own young son waited at home, feverish and needing me. I rubbed my temples, weary. “Mrs. Hopkins, my examination was thorough. Heart function is stable, blood pressure ideal. Take some valerian root and rest properly. Call an ambulance immediately if things worsen.”
“But Doctor—”
“Please, I have many others waiting. Good afternoon.”
Slowly, painfully, she rose from her chair, her eyes pleading, but I was already calling the next patient. She sighed heavily, her steps shuffling towards the door.
I forgot Edith Hopkins entirely that evening. My sick son consumed my attention; husband delayed at the office; chores demanded effort. The next day brought the usual onslaught: patients, paperwork, clamour.
Then, the next morning, a call from the ambulance service.
“Dr. Henderson? You saw Edith Hopkins yesterday? Massive coronary. She didn’t survive the trip to hospital…”
The receiver slipped from my grasp. The room swam violently before me. Impossible. Yesterday, her heart beat so steadily…
“Mummy? What’s wrong?” Little Eleanor’s fearful voice reached me from the rug where she played with her dolls.
“Nothing, darling,” I managed, tears already hot on my cheeks.
Word spread like wildfire through the practice. The supervisor summoned me. “Dr. Henderson. This incident concerning Edith Hopkins?”
“Dr. Clarke, I examined her thoroughly! Vital signs were stable! Commonplace complaints for her age—”
“Niece from Bristol is filing a complaint with the health board. Active woman, works for the Crown Prosecution Service. I recognise your excellent work, but this is grievous. An inquiry is unavoidable.”
The inquiry stretched over months. Committees summoned me, demanded explanations, scrutinised Hopkins’ medical file. Colleagues offered initial support, then gradually withdrew. Whispers echoed in corridors. “Heard they might revoke Dr. Henderson’s licence,” nurse Margaret Blake murmured. “Says she dismissed the old lady, showed her the door.”
“Nonsense!” protested a colleague. “Dr. Henderson’s frightfully conscientious! Couldn’t be!”
“Oh, could indeed,” Margaret persisted. “Elizabeth was queueing, heard the woman beg for pain relief, but our Dr. Henderson refused.”
Rumours spawned legs – whispers I’d been drinking, been rude, neglected even to examine her. Facts vanished beneath conjecture and tattle.
My husband tried to bolster me, saw my decline. Sleep deserted me; weight dissolved; I grew fractious. Home was silence or tears. “Margaret, perhaps see someone? Talk this through?” he once gently proposed.
“I’m not mad!” I snapped. “I simply can’t fathom it! Her vitals truly were stable!”
“Medicine isn’t an absolute science. You aren’t to blame for her attack.”
“Could I be? Did I miss something? Might hospitalisation have saved her?”
“Perhaps not. Don’t spend life agonising over maybes.”
But I couldn’t release it. Six months later, the board concluded: no evidence of negligence, but urged heightened caution with elderly patients. Officially exonerated, my reputation irreparably scarred.
Working at the practice became intolerable. Colleagues avoided eye contact; patients were fearful or morbidly curious – booking appointments just to see “that doctor who killed the old woman.”
“Dr. Clarke,” I pleaded, “could I transfer clinics? A different department?”
“Dr. Henderson, the current climate is challenging. Wait for time to mend things.”
But time offered no healing. Daily reminders haunted me. Fearful of elderly patients, I over-referred for every minor complaint. Colleagues noticed the hesitancy and mocked gently, “Our Dr. Henderson sends everyone to hospital now. Fears losing another one.”
Within a year, I resigned from the NHS. Found work at a private clinic, my history unknown. Yet the fear persisted; elderly patients made my hands shake. My vocation ended.
I returned to the same practice as a lab technician. Wages plummeted, status disappeared, but decisions on lives were thankfully absent.
“Mum, why return there?” Eleanor protested later, grown. “They all remember!”
“And where else would I work? My training is medical. I cannot practise.”
“Retrain! It’s surely not too late for a new path!”
“Easily said. What if that also fails? Better here, familiar ground at least.”
Colleagues’ reactions varied: pity from some, veiled satisfaction from others. Elizabeth Thompson – who’d been in the queue – now Matron. Never missed a chance to revive that day: “Remember, Margaret, turning old Mrs. Hopkins away?” She’d remark pointedly near colleagues. “Poor soul knew she was dying, surely, and you ignored her.”
“Elizabeth, enough,” some colleagues murmured, but she remained relentless.
“Enough? Doctors must face their actions. Trust is eroded by people like her.”
I clenched my teeth and continued working. Home was venting to my husband, but he grew weary of it. “Margaret, must guilt consume you? You did your utmost. Heart attacks strike unpredictably.”
“Did I? Had I listened, sent her straight off, might she be alive?”
“Might not. Cease dwelling on possibilities.”
But I couldn’t let it rest. Pored over medical texts, symptoms of impending infarctions, desperate to uncover my oversight. More I read, clearer it became: Edith Hopkins exhibited no classic warning signs.
Guilt remained. Worse encountering townsfolk who recalled the whispers: averted glances, pitying stares, hissed comments.
“Mum, let’s relocate,” Eleanor urged upon adulthood. “Fresh start elsewhere.”
“Where? Who’d want me there? Job, home – both are here.”
“That ‘job’! A brilliant woman reduced to delivering test tubes!”
“At least it’s peaceful. I treat no one; I harm no one.” Eleanor studied, married, started a family miles away. Infrequent visits brought the same circular conversation: that ill-fated day.
“Mother, the grandchildren barely know you because of this fixation,” she’d state during visits, gesturing towards the children who played awkwardly around my subdued presence.
The diary faded in my lap as rain blurred the windowpane, and I finally understood the tears weren’t the rain’s, but my own relentless shame still drowning me all these years later.
