‘Oh, you are a funny girl.’ That’s me.The lovely, funny girl who lives next door. She’s a lady doctor, you know.It’s not that I’m a female doctor that makes me interesting to the older ladies. It’s that I’m a doctor of female anatomy that makes me an oddity. I’m only pleased they haven’t asked me to look at theirbitsyet. After all, the chiropodist does house visits.
Still, it wouldn’t be the first time. Thankfully, no one has yet popped themselves up on the kitchen table to spread their legs with the words “would you mind having a look at this?” though I have been cornered at parties and quizzed about everything from rashes to fertility. So much so that I usually refrain from telling people I’m a doctor. Not that I go to many parties these days. The highlight of my month lately has been a cheese and wine party for one. Easily catered for—a small bag of singular portion cheeses from the service station on the way home, a bag packet of crackers, and a bottle of wine from Liam’s horde.
That’s me, living it large.
‘Oh, Penny, dear,’ she calls as I reach the garden gate. ‘There was a delivery driver call at your door yesterday.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think they had the wrong address because she was looking for a Mrs Monroe. Maybe she put a card through the door?’
‘I’ll check. Thanks for letting me know,’ I say, closing the gate behind me.
Who needs CCTV when you’ve a Mrs H. I make a mental not to mention it to Ben. Monroe, Mrs or not, the parcel has to be for him.
~*~
Tonight’s night shift circus includes one c-section, a veritable tidal wave of amniotic fluid, and being summoned to the accident and emergency department for the delightful task of removing a plastic egg the size of a Kinder Surprise from the inside a twenty-five-year-old woman’s vagina. Mine is not to reason it happens to be there in the first place or even why her boyfriend thought it would be helpful to bring along barbeque tongs.
The longer I do this job, the more I wonder how long it’ll be before idiocy renders the planet extinct. Some days, I love my job, and some days, I wished I worked in Starbucks. I hear their benefits are pretty good.
I’m on my way back to the ward when Melody texts.
I think you should sign up for Tinder.
Sometimes, I wished I could swipe left on your messages and erase your words.
Pfft, comes her response.I’m signing you up on Saturday. No excuse, mkay?
Got to go.
Me, too. I’m heading to Tim’s butthole.
Use lube, I respond.... because he is a total tight-ass. I wouldn’t want her to get stuck.Also, please don’t use your head. I don’t want to see you in A&E.
OMG! Autocorrect failure!! I’m heading to Tim’s BOLTHOLE!!
Sure, you were. GTG.
Yes, she responds.I can hear the vaginas signing the call of your people. See you Saturday.
Thankfully, my evening improves from there when a couple I’d met in a recent antenatal clinic arrive to the delivery suite. The Fitzgibbons are in their early forties, quite late to parenthood, but after a slew of fertility treatment that arrived at nothing, they told me they’d given up only to find themselves cautiously optimistic and terrified when Mrs Fitzgibbon had fallen pregnant naturally the following year. I’m honoured to have been involved in delivering their daughter a few minutes after three this morning. It was my hope that Karen, the senior midwife on duty tonight, would’ve seen them through the experience—a midwife delivery is usually one without complications—but after five hours, the babe began to show signs of distress, so it was time to get the vacuum out. Literally. That’s exactly what a ventouse delivery is. Domestic appliances aside, as their daughter was placed on Mom’s chest, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. And that included me, though for a mixture of reasons.
It’s moments like this that make the hours worthwhile, but I can’t help but feel a little hollow as I watch the scene in the delivery room. Bringing new life into the world is amazing. On a daily basis, I get to see the workings of love firsthand. Partners and families and friends receiving tiny bundles with open hearts. Men watching their partners suffer through labour, their helplessness and distress not quite going away until a new babe is passed into their arms. Their adoration and pride, the way they look at their loved one as though they are revered. A queen among women, rather than a tear-tracked, sweat-stained mess.
I imagined Liam and I would go through this very experience. That he would be the one holding my hand as I grunted like a pig and hurled insults that would make a sailor blush. Actually, I more saw him holding my hand during an elective caesarean, but that’s another story.
And now? Well, that’s not going to happen and as much as I’ve come to terms with the fact that we’re through, I’m still processing what it means for the future.
But back to my amazing job. It really is amazing. When I’m not being puked on. Or shat on. But that’s a tale for another (never) day.
Chapter 7
PENNY
What I’d written in my note was right because over the next couple of days, I barely saw Ben. It’s not like having a lodger at all. Maybe more like having a friendly ghost? Like I’m aware of his presence in the house without the apparition manifesting. Other than a bed that has clearly been slept in. Yeah, so I snooped a little bit. I was curious! Maybe a friendly elf would be a better description, though not the Harry Potter kind.He’s much sexier than Dobby.And if he’s the elf, that would make me the shoemaker. You know the story—the shoemaker goes to bed, leaving out tools and materials, and the elves arrive during the night to make shoes. Instead of footwear, Ben appears to have taken it upon himself to finish some of the jobs abandoned since Liam left. My half-installed kitchen looks more like a kitchen, and the lawn has been mowed.
It seems, despite our somewhat strange start—the whole bathroom deal—I find Ben isn’t a bad lodger at all. I might have said as much in one of my notes because I’ve decided the best road forward is the friendly, civil one. So, yeah, I’ve taken to leaving him short missives and notes of thanks. It feels like the least I can do, and I’ve come to appreciate the masculine scrawl across the bottom of the paper.
