Breaking and Mending Read online

  Breaking & Mending

  JOANNA

  CANNON

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  PROFILE BOOKS LTD

  3 Holford Yard

  Bevin Way

  London

  WC1X 9HD

  www.profilebooks.com

  Published in association with Wellcome Collection

  183 Euston Road

  London NW1 2BE

  www.wellcomecollection.org

  Copyright © Joanna Cannon, 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788160575

  eISBN 9781782834526

  Contents

  Breaking

  Stories

  Wild Cards

  Hearts

  Bodies

  Choices

  Mirrors

  Words

  The Wrong Kind of Kindness

  Rose Cottage

  Spaces

  Beginnings

  Harvested

  The Darkest Hour

  Roles

  Buried

  Birthstones

  Minds

  Miracles

  Peripheries

  Landscapes

  Mending

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Joanna Cannon is the author of the Sunday Times bestsellers, The Trouble with Goats a Sheep, which was published in fifteen languages, and Three Things About Elsie, longlisted for the Women’s Prize. Her novels have sold over half a million copies in the UK alone.

  Her love of narrative had always drawn her to psychiatry but it wasn’t until her thirties that she decided to go back to university to study medicine. Before specialising in psychiatry, she rotated through a series of hospital jobs, from A&E to palliative care.

  Author photograph: Philippa Gedge

  ALSO BY JOANNA CANNON

  The Trouble with Goats and Sheep

  Three Things About Elsie

  For Michaela

  Breaking & Mending

  Breaking

  We always strive to do the best for our patients, to provide the best possible care – why do we not do the same for our colleagues?

  The junior doctor

  A few years ago, I found myself in A&E.

  I had never felt so ill. I was mentally and physically broken. So fractured, in fact, that I hadn’t eaten properly or slept well, or even changed my expression, for months. My hands shook. My eyes swam with too much seeing, and I sat in a cubicle, behind paper-thin curtains, listening to the rest of the hospital happen around me. It was the effort of not crying that stole the most energy. It felt as though the frame of my existence – the fragile scaffolding that held me together – was beginning to snap and splinter, and if no one reached out to help, if no one noticed, the very sense of who I was would soon be spilled from me and lost forever. I knew I was an inch away from defeat, from the acceptance of a failure I assumed would be inevitable, but equally, I knew I had to carry on. I had to somehow walk through it.

  Because I wasn’t the patient. I was the doctor.

  Each time we visit a hospital, we see them. An army of scrubs and stethoscopes, travelling the corridors with a quiet confidence. We imagine, strangely, that they are invincible. That understanding the mechanism of a disease somehow prevents a person from contracting it. You will never find a cardiologist with angina, a respiratory physician cannot suffer with asthma, and a psychiatrist can never truly understand what it’s like to live with depression. Fallacies. All of them. But perhaps necessary fallacies because they help us to hold on to the belief that a doctor has the power to save us – and if doctors are unable to save themselves, what hope can be offered to anyone else?

  For some, though, a stethoscope is less of a protective talisman, and more of a risk factor, because it carries with it an unimaginable burden. The burden of what it means to be a doctor – the internal and external pressure of a definition we have shaped and polished since childhood. A definition moulded by films and television shows, by books and soap operas and magazines. Doctors are objective, calm, knowledgeable. Doctors protect and heal and mend. Doctors fix things. You spend five years at medical school, learning how to fix things, only to arrive on the wards and discover very quickly that there are many, many things you will never be able to fix. During those five years, you sit in front of endless exam papers – exam papers with empty white boxes waiting to be filled with the answers to what you would do in imaginary scenarios – only to find that in many real-life situations, the very best thing you can do is absolutely nothing at all. As the textbooks transform into living, breathing people and the imaginary scenarios become a reality, you will eventually learn that being a good doctor really has nothing whatsoever to do with fixing people. You will also learn that a failure to mend doesn’t make you a failure, and you will learn that an empty white box is sometimes the correct answer after all. But you will only learn these things after walking hundreds of miles of hospital corridors, navigating a landscape so alien and so challenging, you wonder why you ever chose to walk through it in the first place.

  But you will learn. Eventually. As long as the landscape doesn’t break you first.

  Each time I read that another doctor has vanished from their life, that someone else has felt the need to disappear from this landscape, it takes my breath away for a moment, because it could have been any one of us. It most definitely could have been me, as I sat there in an A&E cubicle trying to work out how a job I had been so determined to do, and so desperate to be good at, had turned itself into my nemesis. I thought back to medical school, to all the past moments that had tied and knotted together and had led me to this one. I thought even further back, to my medical school interview, when I spoke with such passion about a profession I wanted so badly to be a part of. This was my dream, my ultimate goal, and yet it had turned into a nightmare so vivid and so brutal that I could hardly bear to look any more.

  On that day, in the middle of a busy emergency department, as I tried to claw my way back from the edge of a cliff, if you had shown me a door marked ‘escape’, I would have gladly walked through it.

  Stories

  Before medical school, the idea of becoming a doctor was nothing but a faraway dream. A dream based on those early experiences of my childhood, my memories of our general practitioner, a family doctor, of the operation and rehabilitation for my club foot, of my appendectomy. Those brief but intense moments that found their way into my chronological life and somehow carved themselves deeper than others. That carving formed a draft image of what a doctor was. My memory of feeling safe among the fear, of great abilities, but mainly of kindness. Those memories were of the doctor I wanted to be.

  The consultant

  At your medical school interview, among the many topics you might be encouraged to speak about, there is only one question you know will definitely be asked, only one question you can actually prepare for:

  Tell me, why do you want to become a doctor?

  We all say ‘I want to become a doctor because I like people’, but what we’re really saying is that we like stories. Stories bind us together, stories unite us, and we tell our stories in the hope that someone out there will listen, and we will be understood.

  Months later, th
ose of us fortunate enough to be offered a place from that interview were thrown together on a grey September morning at the very beginning of medical school. We didn’t realise that the experiences we were destined to share would bind us all for a lifetime, that walking together through the next five years would grow friendships, relationships – even marriages and children – because at that moment we were still strangers, held in the darkness of a lecture theatre, by a magical and breathless excitement.

  It was our inaugural lecture. A learned and dazzlingly qualified professor stood on the stage before us, and he leaned on the podium and gazed out at his audience, in a learned and dazzlingly qualified silence, and we waited. All three hundred of us. When he finally spoke, he dug into the bones of how each of us felt. How we had felt in all the weeks beforehand, buying books from a list four pages long and staring endlessly at the timetable of our future selves. Being paraded in front of friends and relatives. Imagining. Daring to believe, but dismissing those beliefs as foolishness. We had all felt it that morning, as we walked or cycled, or drove to our new beginning. For every seat in that lecture theatre, there had been four other people who had wanted to sit there. Surely this meant we were capable? Surely this meant we were finally allowed to turn to long-held dreams and taste the possibility? Yet still we felt foolish, because it all seemed so ridiculous. So unlikely. But with his words on that grey September morning, a wise professor managed to find the very pinpoint of how each of us was feeling, and in that moment it all became less foolish. Less unlikely. In that moment, it all became real.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to the first day of your medical career.’

  We were a mixed bunch of three hundred in that lecture theatre. There were some who came from family trees littered with doctors, some who were the first to see the inside of a university. There were those who had travelled only a few miles to be there, and those who had travelled halfway around the world. Some were fresh from A-levels or a gap year spent wandering the planet, while others – like me – had found medicine later in life, in their thirties or even in their forties, having arrived from a succession of seemingly unrelated jobs that would – in time – prove strangely useful. But it was a love of stories that made our common ground, and we would spend the rest of our lives listening to them. Stories told in the handkerchief quiet of palliative care, stories told in the rush of an outpatient clinic. Stories whispered under the crash and chaos of an emergency department. Funny stories. Sad stories. Stories woven with lies that needed to be unpicked. Stories that made us laugh, or despair or worry. Stories that made us smile on the drive home, and stories so profoundly moving, we would carry them with us for the rest of our lives.

  I am very often asked about the similarities between being a doctor and being an author, and the answer is very simple. Writing always rests on a narrative, on hearing a voice, and it’s exactly the same for medicine – because medicine is all about people, and people are made out of stories.

  Wild Cards

  Five years sounds like a long time to be studying for a degree, but in reality, it’s the briefest of moments. Five short years in which to turn perfectly predicted grades into doctors. Not only to impart vast amounts of knowledge and information, but to impart a different way of looking at the world. A different attitude, a different identity. Some wear the identity with ease, but struggle with the workload. Others pass exams without difficulty, but discover their new identity is not one with which they feel comfortable. We have five years to rectify that, to nurture and support, to prepare and tidy. At the end of those five years, we have to let someone go and hope that we have done enough.

  Sometimes, we haven’t. Sometimes, they fracture. You select the highest achievers, the perfectionists, the school prefects and the sports captains, children who have spent the whole of their short lives being the best, being prize winners and medallists, being applauded and noticed and being accustomed to standing out. If you take those people and put them in a room with three hundred identical people, until no one stands out any more and those who have previously achieved A-grades with ease now have to fight and scramble just to keep up, and you add to that mix an overwhelming workload and an intense amount of pressure, it’s understandable some of them break. In all honesty, I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.

  I remember all my students, but it’s the ones who break that I remember most clearly, because I always wonder, if I had looked more closely, if I had concentrated a little better, perhaps I could have spotted the fracture lines in time. Perhaps I could have prevented it from happening.

  The admissions tutor

  I was a wild card.

  An elderly and about-to-retire professor interviewed me for medical school, and the only other time I saw him – ironically – was graduation day. I thanked him for giving me a chance, not thinking for a second that he would remember me.

  He did.

  ‘Each year, I would pick an outsider. A high risk. That year, I picked you,’ he said. ‘You were my wild card.’

  As wild cards go, I was pretty wild.

  I had left school at fifteen with only one O-level and very little else. Like many children then and many children now, we are asked to make huge decisions about what we want to do with our lives before we’ve even really discovered who we are. At fifteen I had no idea, and so I left. I decided to think about it. I ended up thinking about it for quite a while.

  I did lots of other jobs as I thought. I typed letters and pulled pints, and delivered pizzas. I worked at a wonderful animal rescue centre. I waited tables. I was one of those really annoying women in department stores, the ones who try to spray you with fragrance as you walk through the shop. The ones you try desperately to avoid. I was that woman, and I spent months of my life watching people run away from me.

  But I never lost a vague and quiet hope at the back of my mind that one day I would return to education. I never let go of my need to learn and I would do lots of things to satisfy that need. I would read textbooks just for fun. I watched documentaries on rare and unimaginable diseases. I did courses and workshops, and looked out for any other exposure to education, however small, that I could.

  One August morning, in the summer of 2003, I saw a very basic first-aid course advertised on a postcard in a newsagent’s window. I happened to look up as I walked through the door. A chance. A small moment tied and knotted to many other small moments, that eventually joined together and led me to being a doctor. I rang and booked myself a place, and in the coffee break on that course, I told the paramedic who was teaching us how much I loved medicine and how interested I was in psychiatry, but how – in my thirties – I was too old to even consider it now. He told me I wasn’t. He told me people in their thirties, people in their forties, apply for medical school, and in a moment of wild spontaneity the very next day I enrolled to do three science A-levels. Just over a year later, I found myself sitting opposite the elderly and about-to-be retired professor in an interview room deep within the bowels of a medical school. He was concerned about my age.

  ‘I’m worried how you’ll cope with the workload at your age,’ he said.

  ‘I’m worried how you’ll support yourself,’ he said.

  ‘I’m worried how you’ll feel when the consultant you are working for is younger than you are,’ he said.

  I brushed these remarks, and many others, away as best I could, even the last one, which made me hesitate just for a moment.

  The professor leaned back and folded his arms. He stared at me in silence. I stared back. There were no more questions to answer and I decided I had nothing to lose.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I completely understand if you reject me. Reject me because you don’t think I’m smart enough. Reject me because you don’t think I’ll make a very good doctor. Reject me for the hundred and one reasons you reject people, but please – please – don’t reject me just because of my date of birth, because that wouldn’t be a very good reason at all, would it?’

/>   His eyebrows raised just ever so slightly. That’s it, I thought, I’ve blown it.

  A couple of weeks later, the offer of a place arrived in the post.

  ‘Merry Christmas’ it said, handwritten at the bottom of the letter.

  I couldn’t be certain, and it was never confirmed, but I think it might have been that little outburst of indignation that secured me my seat at medical school.

  Hearts

  There are many reasons why people decide to go to medical school, but if you had asked each of us on that first day why we were there, we would have told you it was because we wanted to make a difference. We would have told you it was because we wanted to do something valuable – something important. We would have told you it was because we wanted to save lives.

  Saving lives is a big crowd-puller when it comes to medical school entry and you can truly understand it. Many years later, on my last placement before finals, I would find myself in the emergency department, the not-quite-a-doctor, trying desperately to avoid getting in anyone’s way.

  On one of my shifts, a woman was brought in by ambulance. A woman who was in her forties and usually in good health. A woman whose presenting complaint was a racing pulse and a feeling that something terrible was about to happen. A sense of impending doom. The general opinion was that she was having an anxiety attack (or rather, just having an anxiety attack, because society still likes to put ‘just’ in front of anything to do with mental health), and the woman sat in a cubicle in the assessment unit, and waited for a series of routine tests.

  Ten minutes later, she went into cardiac arrest.

  She slid, very gently, from the chair and on to the floor, and her heart stopped beating. If you have ever wondered about the definition of teamwork, you will find it on a crash call. It’s a sharp, blinding algorithm of efficiency. A crash call has its own tribe, its own trolley, its own rules, and, as a medical student, I was told I should stay and watch. In the very next cubicle to the woman there just happened to be a consultant cardiologist seeing another patient, and he appeared from behind a curtain and took over.