15November2025 Diary
The doctor caring for my little Lucy is called DrEmily. They all say shes an excellent clinician, and I cant complain. Ive never seen her face; shes always hidden behind a surgical mask and spectacles. Shes an infectiousdisease specialist brilliant with bugs but terrible at soothing nerves.
Since Lucy fell ill, Emily has spoken to me only in numbers and facts.
Whitecell count is twelve.
Is that good? I asked.
Its lower than before but still above the normal range. The fontanelle has sunk a bit.
Is that dangerous?
Ill prescribe a drug that should stabilise it.
She answers reluctantly, because every word she utters could be used against her later. Each sentence carries a hidden legal counsel, the result of meticulous analysis. Emily just wants to treat patients in silence, without endless questioning, but the hospital demands more.
I cant decide whether I like her or not. Im forced to trust her; my daughters health is in her hands. She never tries to comfort me or quell my panic, perhaps because thats not her role. Shes here to fight infection, not hysteria. I see shes tired; behind her glasses I glimpse reddened eyes, as if shes been crying.
I stop asking questions. The trend is positive regardless. Two days ago Lucy was nearly unconscious; today she sits, smiles, and munches an apple with appetite. Emily checks Lucy, listens, gives a quick wink, and says, Well done, Lucy. She says nothing to me, and I dont press.
After lunch a oneyearold boy was brought in a very ill little lad. Emily called the tertiary centre, because our infectious ward has no highdependency unit. The specialist there bluntly replied, He has a neuroinfection, treat him here; we have no beds.
Emilys shift ends at three oclock, but she has a husband, Mark, and her own children at home. The baby boy, however, needs her. She stays, demanding a neurologist and a specific medication, arguing with the central hospital and even with Mark, who wants her home. The nurses fall silent; theyre used to senior staff disappearing after three, leaving the ward to run itself.
The infant lies next to us with his mother in the adjoining cubicle. Her voice comes through the thin wall as she phones friends, begging them to pray for Tommy. She rattles off prayers, mentions a fortyprayer and asks someone to tell the vicar to intercede, believing a priests blessing travels faster to God than a laypersons.
Later I hear Emily enter their room, telling the mother that the medication must be bought privately because the hospital doesnt stock it. She writes down the prescription, among which is Mecodine.
The mother shrieks, We pay taxes! Youre supposed to treat the child! This is extortion! Ill sue you! Emily says nothing and leaves.
Lucy also receives Mecodine, which weve bought ourselves. I have a spare pack. I slip out into the corridor technically forbidden, as the bays are isolated but Im looking for Emily. I find her in the oncall room, dictating a drug list to Mark, who is on the other end of a handset. She doesnt notice me, turned away.
Vicky, bring it now. The boys will be alone for twenty minutes. Theyre not little infants Mark shouts from the phone.
I call back, Heres Mecodine I have an extra bottle. Let him not buy another.
Emily flinches, spins around, and for the first time I see her face without a mask. Shes strikingly beautiful.
Ah, thank you, she says, adding into the line, Mecodine isnt needed, weve got it. I slip a tenpound note into the pocket of her gown.
How mad you are, you dont need that! she snaps, grabbing my wrist. Its not for you, its for Tommy. She lowers her eyes, whispers, Thank you, and smooths her coat.
I correct her, For you, and head back to my cubicle.
That night Tommys condition worsens. In my halfasleep state I hear Emily directing nurses on the drip rate and antipyretic, while his mother murmurs prayers in the background.
When Lucy fell ill, a flood of people wanted to help. Roughly eightyfive per cent of the wellmeaning strangers offered prayers, suggested I confess, called the vicar, lit a candle, or quoted some obscure Bible verse. Five per cent recommended alternative therapies homeopathy, osteopathy, acupuncture, Reiki, even a local healer. The remaining ten per cent pragmatically gave me contacts for reputable consultants or urged me to seek treatment abroad, claiming theres nothing decent here.
By dawn Tommys fever broke; he slept soundly, his mothers voice fell silent, replaced by a soft snore.
Emily didnt sleep a wink. At nine oclock she started a new shift, made her rounds, and entered our bay.
White cells nine, she announced.
Thank you, I replied.
Thats good. Inflammation is receding.
Yes, I understand.
I asked nothing else. I felt a deep sympathy for her; behind her mask and glasses I could still see the reddened, tearstained eyes. She moved on to the next patients.
At three she finished her shift. Tommy was considerably better, cheerful, and eating well. Before heading home she stopped at his bedside, checked his vitals, and coaxed the mother to let her listen to his heartbeat.
At that moment the mothers phone rang, and she exclaimed to the caller, Hes healed! Hes healed!
I watched from my window as DrEmily trudged home, shoulders heavy with fatigue. She is a superb infectiousdisease doctor and, in my eyes, a genuinely good person perhaps a messenger of something greater. She defeated Tommys illness with knowledge, experience, and antibiotics. She walks home without applause, just the weight of another nights work.
Lesson learned: In medicine, compassion may be scarce, but competence and steady resolve are the true gifts we can offer those we love.
