It's a Vet's Life: (44 page)

‘Chest drain?’ I ask.

‘What do you think?’

‘We’d have to keep her sedated for a while. I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’

‘Let’s try without. We can put one in later, if we need to.’

I check the other wounds which turn out to have penetrated the skin, not the chest, and leave them open so as not to trap any infection from the other creature’s teeth.

‘Eyes next then, before I give those wounds a good flush,’ I say, but Emma’s already on the case, soaking
them
in warm saline. The longer they are outside the sockets, the more they swell, the more difficult they become to put back in place, and the more likely it will be that Miff loses her sight. I watch Emma trying to push the first eye back, but it won’t go.

‘I’ll do it,’ I offer, noticing how her fingers tremble as she holds the eyeball carefully in a wet swab.

‘Thanks, Maz. I don’t seem to be able to do it.’

‘Will you grab a stool and sit down, Em? I’d feel better if you weren’t on your feet.’ She does as I ask, and I take over on eyeball duty. Luckily, I’m not squeamish, but it still unnerves me.

I try to push each one back into its socket, but I have no more luck than Emma did. I don’t like doing it, but there’s only one way to go, and that’s to snip the eyelids to give more room for manoeuvre. It works and the eyes slide back in. A wave of relief washes through me. Chest sorted, and eyes back where they belong. We’re getting there. I’ll flush the open wounds while Miff’s still asleep, then all we need to know is how Miff’s brain has been affected by the trauma and what sight she has left, both of which will take some time to discover.

‘So, tell me,’ I begin. ‘Why were you out walking on the Green in this freezing weather when it was almost dark? I thought you were supposed to be resting.’

‘I’ve had enough of not doing anything, Maz. It’s so boring all this hanging around. Miff asked for a walk, as usual, and Ben’s travelling back from a seminar in Plymouth.’

‘Miff could have missed a walk or two. She’ll have to get used to it when the twins arrive.’

‘I know, but I was feeling uncomfortable. I thought it might help.’

I hesitate. ‘How uncomfortable? On a scale of one to ten,’ I add, when she doesn’t answer. ‘Emma?’

‘Don’t panic, Maz. I’ve been having some of those practice contractions, that’s all.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ She dismisses any concerns I might have that she’s about to go into labour by changing the subject. ‘You should be looking forward to your wedding tomorrow. I’m sorry I’ve got you into this. I should have stayed at home.’ She smiles wryly. ‘You are ready?’

‘Maybe,’ I say, teasing. ‘If I’m not ready, it’s not for want of you and Frances and everyone else trying. I’ve got lists up all over the house – on the fridge, everywhere.’

‘You did order some extra buttonholes from Bridget, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. I knew you’d be after me otherwise.’

‘Someone has to be. You’re a great vet, but you don’t show any of the qualities of a good wedding planner.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be changing career any time soon.’

I sew the eyelids closed over Miff’s eyes so they can’t pop straight back out again, and fit a lampshade collar, one of the soft ones – only the best for our patients – which will stay on for a full week while the stitches are in. It will be disorientating for Miff to wake up temporarily blind, but it’s essential. By the time I’ve finished flushing the open wounds on Miff’s chest, we must have been working on her for over three hours.

As Emma allows Miff to come round on oxygen for a few minutes, there’s a gasp.

‘Was that you or the dog?’ I ask her.

Emma gazes back at me, eyes glittering.

‘Those aren’t practice contractions, Em. They’re the real thing. Trust me, I know these things. I made the same mistake myself when I was going into labour with George.’ I monitor the tension in Miff’s jaw to assess when I can remove the tube from her windpipe. ‘Have you called Ben?’

‘I left a message on his voicemail.’ Emma relaxes again. ‘I’m okay now. Don’t worry about me, Maz. Miff should have some more pain relief. What do you think would be best for her?’

‘I’ll get it,’ I say, ‘then I’ll make the tea while we watch her coming round.’ We can try to get hold of Ben again then, I think.

‘I hope she’s okay,’ Emma says quietly, as I inject the painkiller.

‘We haven’t lost her yet. She’s a tough little madam. She won’t give up without a fight, and neither will I.’

‘Thanks.’ Emma touches my arm as I remove my gown.

‘Let’s take her to the staffroom.’ It’s against protocol, but I’d prefer Emma to be sat securely on the sofa than perched on a stool with that enormous bump stuck out in front of her. ‘I’ll carry her.’ I hesitate. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

Emma nods, one hand touching her stomach that looks taut like an overinflated football, the other gripping the edge of the operating table.

I pick Miff up carefully. ‘I’ll follow you. You can do the doors.’

‘What’s that, Maz? Where are we going?’ Emma stops, catching her breath.

‘The staffroom,’ I say lightly. ‘Can you remember the way?’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘Come on then.’ I move ahead of her and reverse into the doors so I can shove them open with my back, Miff in my arms and the bag of fluid between my teeth. Okay, that’s against protocol too, and health and safety, but Emma seems distant, hardly concentrating on what I’m saying. I’m not sure if it’s a delayed reaction to what’s happened to Miff, or she’s worried about how Miff will be when she comes round, or she’s distracted by the babies.

On the way to the staffroom, Emma stoops forward, holding her bump. There’s an audible pop. ‘My waters,’ she gasps. ‘They’ve broken.’

I don’t know whether to attend to Emma or Miff first. I decide on the latter, lowering Miff onto a Vetbed beside the sofa and balancing a drip bag on a stool before returning to rescue Emma who’s leaning with her back against the wall, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead, and crying out.

‘My babies – they’re on their way,’ she groans. ‘This feels wrong …’

‘Hey, everything will be fine. Come and sit with Miff.’ I hold Emma’s arm and help her into the staffroom before grabbing a towel and spreading it across the sofa. ‘Sit down, Em,’ I say. I don’t know how Miff’s managed it, still drunk from the anaesthetic and with her eyes sewn shut, possible brain damage and the hindrance of a lampshade collar, but she’s on her end of the sofa with her head resting on the arm.

I grab my mobile from my bag where I left it on the side when I came in, and dial for an ambulance. We’ve had one baby born at the practice, Lynsey’s last one – named after Frances. It isn’t a maternity unit, and I don’t want any more, especially vulnerable and premature twins.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ I say, holding Emma’s hand. She gives my fingers a squeeze, forcing the blood out of them, then won’t let go as a contraction takes hold of her in a pythonesque grip. As I dial Ben’s mobile number one-handed, I count the minutes before the next contraction. They are too close together for comfort. I think these babies could arrive very soon, possibly before the ambulance if there’s much traffic. I console myself with the thought that there shouldn’t be very much at this time of night, or day. I’ve lost track of time …

Ben’s mobile is switched off. I leave two messages on his voicemail in the hope he’ll pick them up.

‘Emma, where did you say Ben was?’

‘I don’t know.’ Emma bites her lip as if trying to remember. ‘He’s in Plymouth. He’s probably in the car. He doesn’t always hear his mobile over the radio.’

‘He should be home soon then?’ I cross my fingers, hoping Ben will call back, as I contact Shannon to ask her to come in and look after Miff, because I can’t leave her as she is. She needs to be monitored. If her breathing deteriorates, she’ll need urgent attention. I’m beginning to regret not putting that chest drain in.

Shannon arrives within minutes, wrapped up in not one, but two, hoodies, fingerless gloves, a scarf and faux Ugg boots.

‘Is it snowing?’ I ask her.

‘It’s stopped. What we have had hasn’t settled.’ Shannon turns to Emma, but Emma appears to be in a world of her own.

‘Don’t worry, Shan,’ I say. ‘The ambulance should be here at any moment.’

Shannon goes over to Miff and squats down in front of her.

‘Miff, your poor eyes. Where are they? Maz, have you taken them out?’

‘They’re safely tucked up behind her eyelids. She was attacked on the Green. Another dog grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and shook her, making her eyes pop out of the sockets. Hopefully, she’ll be fine. Are you happy to stay here? You aren’t supposed to be keeping an eye on your mum?’

‘Yes, and no. Everything’s cool with her diabetes now. She hasn’t had a hypo for at least three months.’

‘She was looking pretty trim when I last saw her.’ I check my watch. Where is the ambulance? Emma needs help.

‘Maz, I’m bleeding,’ she mutters. Her face has no colour. Her lips are pale. I don’t like it. She’s shivering and going into shock. If Emma was one of my patients, I would be preparing to go in.

Shannon looks at me, her eyes wide with concern.

‘It’s all right. You look after Miff. I’ll see to Emma.’ I’ve never been so happy to hear a siren as I am now, or to see the lights flashing up from the car park outside, but it isn’t over yet. I won’t be able to relax until Emma is in hospital with her babies safely delivered. I hold that image in my head: Emma with her twins. The alternatives are too painful to bear.

‘I haven’t got my bag,’ Emma says, when we’re in the ambulance at last.

‘You don’t need a bag.’

‘It has all my things in it, music and a sponge.’

‘Is the sponge for mopping your brow, or Ben’s?’

‘It might have to be yours, if he doesn’t arrive in time,’ she says, in a moment of lucidity.

‘Don’t worry about it, Emma. I’ll fetch it later.’

Emma is worrying about her bag. I find myself
beginning
to worry about the wedding. It is as if it is fated, as if it isn’t meant to be …

‘Where is Ben? Something must have happened to him.’

‘Emma, stop worrying about Ben. He’ll catch up with us in time. And anyway, he can look after himself. You have to concentrate on you and the babies.’

‘Don’t leave me, Maz.’

‘As if,’ I say, forcing a smile.

When we arrive at the hospital, we are whisked away to the maternity unit. Emma lies on a trolley, a drip in her hand, blood taken for crossmatching for a transfusion. She’s been scanned and the babies’ heartbeats are being monitored on a machine at her side. One of the heartbeats is steady. The other is gradually rising.

There is talk of haemorrhage and foetal distress with the consultant, and discussion over who is Emma’s next of kin, and all the time I’m watching the twins’ heartbeats and thinking, it’s time to go in and get those babies out.

‘She needs a Caesarean,’ I cut in, while the consultant in his dicky bow and short-sleeved shirt procrastinates.

He gives me a weary, what-the-hell-do-you-know look.

‘I’m a vet,’ I say. ‘So is Emma. We all know that if those babies aren’t born very soon … Well, I don’t have to tell you what the outcome will be.’

‘Let’s get her into theatre,’ he says smoothly. ‘GA. There’s not time for an epidural.’

‘Don’t leave me,’ Emma repeats, and I walk briskly alongside the trolley.

‘I’ll be here.’ She’s my best, my dearest friend. My chest is tight. I feel completely helpless, especially when the hospital staff refuse to let me stay with her until she’s had her anaesthetic. I’m not afraid of losing the twins any more. What I’m deeply afraid of, is that I’m losing Emma.

I watch the doors close behind her, and pace the corridor.

‘Maz, where is she?’

I turn to find Ben right beside me, his suit creased and his tie undone.

‘In theatre,’ I say. ‘An emergency Caesarean.’

‘There was an accident. The traffic … How long’s she been in there?’

‘A while.’ I wish I could be more exact.

‘I’m going to find someone to speak to.’ Ben pushes through the doors that are marked ‘No Entry’, and I remember that he’s a doctor as well as Emma’s husband and has contacts within the hospital.

I have to wait alone, and it’s the longest wait of my life.

I go outside to call Alex.

‘Where are you?’ he says.

‘At the hospital. Emma’s gone in for an emergency Caesarean.’

‘Oh no … Maz, that’s … I don’t know what to say, except she’s in good hands.’

‘She was haemorrhaging and one of the babies was in distress. Alex, this is hideous.’ I start to cry.

‘Shall I come over and wait with you? I can leave the children with Mother.’

I think for a moment. I’d love to have Alex here. I could do with a hug, but I’d forgotten he’d got all three children with him tonight.

‘They’re all up,’ Alex says ruefully. ‘They’re too excited …’ His voice trails off. I know what he’s thinking. The wedding. What does that matter now?