Dr Giraud,’ she said, clutching his arm. ‘Oh, he’s worse. He looks all grey and waxy—come in.’
Fran followed them down the hall to a bedroom at the back. An elderly man was lying in bed, his skin every bit as grey and waxy as Mrs Donaldson had said, and Fran took one look at him and her heart sank. He was obviously hypovolaemic and shocky, and his condition was all too familiar.
Please, no, she thought. Don’t let him bleed to death. Not the first patient I’m involved with.
‘Mr Donaldson, tell me about the pain,’ Dr Giraud said, quickly taking his blood pressure and pulse, scanning him with eyes that Fran sensed missed nothing.
‘It’s just here,’ he said, pointing to his midsection. ‘So sore. It’s been getting worse for days.’
‘Any change in bowel habits? Change of colour of stools?’
‘Black,’ he said weakly. ‘I read about that somewhere. That’s blood, isn’t it?’
Xavier nodded. ‘Could well be. I think you’ve got a little bleed going on in there. Fran, could you get a line in for me?’ he asked, turning towards her and giving her a reassuring smile. ‘A large-bore cannula and saline to start. I’m going to phone the ambulance station and bring the oxygen in from the car. Are you OK to do that?’
‘Sure,’ she said, quelling her doubts, and found the necessary equipment in his bag. Part of her interview, or just another pair of qualified hands? Whatever, within moments the line was in, she was running in the saline almost flat out and checking his blood pressure again with the portable electronic monitor.
‘What is it?’ Xavier asked, coming back in just as the cuff sighed and deflated automatically.
‘Ninety over fifty-two.’ It had been ninety over fifty-six before, she’d noticed, so it was falling too fast for comfort.
He frowned. ‘OK, I’ve told them to have some O-neg standing by. We’d better take some blood for cross-matching and a whole battery of other tests while we wait for the ambulance, because once they start the transfusion it’ll be useless. Could you do that for me? There are bottles in my bag.’
He turned to the patient. ‘Right, Mr Donaldson, let’s put this mask on your face and give you some oxygen, it’ll help you breathe more easily.’
Once that was done he sat on the edge of the bed and explained to them what was happening and what Fran was doing.
‘The ambulance is on its way—Mrs Donaldson, could you find him some pyjamas and wash things to take with him? They’ll be here in a minute and you don’t want to hold them up.’
‘Of course not. I’ll get everything ready.’
She started going through drawers, clearly flustered and panicked, and Mr Donaldson watched her worriedly.
‘Betty, not those, the blue ones,’ he said as she pulled out his pyjamas, and while he was distracted Fran caught Xavier’s eye.
‘I’ll check his BP again,’ he murmured, and while she labelled her blood bottles he repeated the test. It was eighty-seven over forty-eight, and he winced almost imperceptibly. Only a slight drop, but in a very short time, she thought, so the fluids weren’t holding him stable.
‘Open it right up,’ he said quietly, indicating the saline with a slight movement of his head. ‘I’ll call the ambulance station again, ask them to hurry. I’ve spoken to the surgical reg on call and told him to stand by, but there’s not much else we can do here.’
An endless five minutes later the ambulance arrived, and Mr Donaldson and his worried wife were whisked away, leaving Fran and Xavier standing on the drive watching them go.
They didn’t speak. There was nothing much to say. They both knew it was touch and go, and Mr Donaldson was already weakened from the slow and steady blood loss he’d suffered over the last few days.
Reaction set in, and Fran’s legs started to tremble. She didn’t think he’d noticed, but once they were in the car and driving back towards Woodbridge, Xavier shot her a weary smile.
‘Bit close for comfort, eh?’ he said softly, and she swallowed and nodded.
‘I thought it would be easier—less cutting edge.’
‘It is—or your part of it is under normal circumstances. Don’t forget, you wouldn’t usually have been there. Still, I’m glad you were with me. I needed that extra pair of hands, and you got the line in amazingly fast considering his low pressure. Thanks for that. Thanks for all your help, in fact, you were great.’
Odd, how those few words of praise and thanks could make her feel so very much better. She’d done nothing she hadn’t done hundreds of times before, but to have gained his approval was somehow extraordinarily uplifting.
She put Mr Donaldson firmly to the back of her mind, settled back against the seat and let the tension drain away. ‘So where to now?’ she asked after a minute.
‘My house. We can have coffee without interruption, I can show you the accommodation which goes with the job and if we get really lucky we might even find time for some lunch.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, realising she was starving hungry.
‘And then,’ he added with a grin, ‘if I still haven’t managed to put you off, you can meet the children.’
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