it a more welcoming, community feel. The building my property developer husband, David, had built for me. I thought about the thousands of patients on my list, many of whom had become like friends. I’d watched their children grow up, I’d listened to them when they worried, seen some make huge life changes. I’d held the hands of heartbroken elderly patients as they cried with loneliness. I hadn’t been just a doctor: at times I felt as if I’d been a counsellor, a social worker, a vicar, a friend, all rolled into one. I had loved my life as a village GP, and over the years I had grown to know and love so many of the people I cared for that I used to joke I could write a book on many of them. Apart from my family, my surgery had been the most important thing in my life.
And just like that, it was all over.
*
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d been staring at the same spot on the ceiling for hours. David held my hand while I lay there, chewing over my decision. My husband, my boys – Rob and Charlie – they were everything to me. Doing something that lurched us into financial risk wasn’t something that sat well.
David had reassured me it would be okay. Luckily he had a good job and would be able to take care of us. I wasn’t used to someone taking care of me though. Ever since I was a little girl I’d wanted to stand on my own two feet. I loved working, it gave me a purpose, I didn’t want to give that up. I also loved helping people, that’s why I became a doctor. My thoughts went back to my patients. I felt a huge pang of guilt for walking away from them.
Guilt, fear, sadness, anger – a cocktail of emotions were turning and churning around in my mind, growing louder and more intrusive in the quiet of the night, until I finally snapped.
I peeled back the duvet, tiptoed across the room and slipped into my thick fleece dressing gown that was hanging from the hook on the back of the door. The cold fabric, chilled by the winter air, sent a shiver down my spine.
David stirred. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, go back to sleep.’
Downstairs, I made myself a cup of warmed milk. I took a seat at our chunky wooden table and stared through the kitchen windows into the night. The infinity of black felt as dark as my future.
I didn’t have a formal agreement with my partners about my notice period. We had agreed I would leave the surgery in just three weeks’ time.
Leave my surgery – those words stoked my anger again. I didn’t feel it was right! GPs shouldn’t be getting paid bonuses for doing their jobs!
I took another furious slurp from my mug.
My partners had also been keen that I keep appointment times to ten minutes, and only address one problem in that time. But often my patients had been waiting weeks to see me, and if they came in with more than one problem I didn’t have the heart to tell them they would have to book another appointment, that they would have to wait another three weeks to tell me the rest of what was bothering them. More importantly, one ailment could be related to another; it was important to hear the full story.
I felt more indignant than ever.
I stared through the kitchen window again. But this time I looked past the darkness to see my own reflection.
My hair, short as it was, had managed to find entirely absurd, startled shapes. I flattened it down the best I could with my hand, and swept my fringe from my eyes.
I looked utterly exhausted but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep until I had got everything off my chest.
I made my way to the study.
I didn’t need to switch the light on, the moon was beaming through the large sash windows, illuminating the cluttered room.
The shelves were so packed with medical journals they were warping under the weight, sinking in the middle like a hammock. The desk which overlooked the garden wasn’t much better. Either side of the computer were mountains of paperwork. The weight of a life, mountains and mountains of paper, and I was throwing it all away.
Beside the keyboard were silver-framed pictures of my boys in their school uniforms. They sported proud grins. Were they proud of me?
Twenty years. Twenty years of looking after people and it was all over.
I switched on the computer and reached down to turn on the electric heater by my feet. It rattled and hummed, the noise strangely comforting.
I started writing. Pouring my heart out at half past three in the morning, tipping all of my emotions onto the blank page.
It was everything I wished I had expressed in the meeting earlier, every argument against the new contract and their new policies. Explaining exactly how it had forced me into quitting the job I loved.
I wrote for nearly an hour and then sunk back into the padded leather swivel chair, letting out a huge sigh of relief.
What I should have done was pressed ‘Save’, slipped back under my duvet and snuggled into David, now that I had got everything off my chest.
Instead, I pressed ‘Send’.
I didn’t expect to make the front page!
Sitting in my room at the surgery, I found myself staring at my own words, splashed across the pages of Pulse, a national magazine for GPs.
‘I just ride off into the sunset and no one gives a toss.’
That was what I’d said, but I didn’t think they were going to quote me word for word!
I cursed myself for being so impulsive and emotional. What I meant by that line was that I’d worked so hard to try to do a good job, for nearly twenty years, but it felt like it counted for nothing in the end because no one cared. All they wanted to see was boxes being ticked.
I wished I’d packed a pair of sunglasses to hide behind.
But there was nothing I could do about it now. My opinions were in black and white for all to see. The best thing I could do was straighten my back and get on with working out my three weeks’ notice at the practice.
I was yo-yoing back and forth between anger and regret again. It wasn’t a healthy place to be and thank goodness I had a half-hour break in my schedule. I grabbed my bag and made a run for some fresh air.
Everywhere I looked I was reminded of what I was losing. As I walked through the waiting room, I could feel dozens of pairs of eyes staring at me in disbelief – the leaving letter I’d written to patients was pinned to the notice board.
I crossed the tree-lined street to the coffee shop opposite the surgery, but the atmosphere in there wasn’t much better. Sandra, the pharmacist from the chemist next door, was in front of me in the queue. She’d been dispensing medication as long as I’d been a GP in the area. I thought she was going to mention the article, but she had other news for me.
‘It’s as if the village is in mourning,’ she blurted.
Sandra had become a close friend over the years. She had the kindest face, which was framed by her masses of chestnut hair. She wasn’t much over five foot tall, and looked up at me with her dark eyes.
I couldn’t respond. I had no idea what to say. She carried on, every word tugging at my heart.
‘Your patients are so sad. They don’t know what they’re going to do without you. Amanda, do you really have to go …?’
I gently squeezed Sandra’s arm. Really I wanted to throw my arms around her and give her a bear hug.
‘I’ve made my decision, and I’m just going to have to see it through now. I feel terrible though,’ I admitted. The urge to cry rose up in me. That was the last thing I needed: to burst into tears in the middle of a coffee shop queue.
Then came the