I Want to Live, Andy!

I want to live, Andy!
“Dr. George, Dr. George, are you alright?”

Nurse Emily grabbed the sleeve of Dr. George Evans, but he slipped away from her, leaning heavily against the wall, head bowed in the dim corridor, silent.

Emily, with a touch of pride for the whole hospital staff, instantly concluded how much doctors gave of themselves to their patientsworking until they nearly collapsed from exhaustion! And nobody appreciated it. The patient whom Dr. George Evans had just operated on wouldn’t see any of it.

“Dr. George, what’s wrong? Ill call”

“No need,” he interrupted, peeling his head from the wall and stumbling into the doctors lounge. “Im alright, honestly. Dont worry,” he tossed back to a panicked Emily as he disappeared inside.

George collapsed onto the battered leather sofa and stretched out. Was he alright? Such dizzy spells werent new, and yeshe knew the cause: pure, relentless overwork.

There had been a time when weekends existedreal weekends, when you could recover from the symphony of hospital alarms and drama. Perhaps a football match with the lads, a roast dinner, or a trip to the park with the family.

But now? Every doctor was spread across three trusts, holidays had become fairy tales, and Georgeon his second marriagehad a younger wife, school-age children, mounting expenses, and, of course, he wanted a new car.

But that wasnt the main thing. The main thing was George was used to being essential. He wanted to be the best, he dreamt of respect and triumphs in medicine… And over twenty years, hed nearly managed it. Patients scrambled to see him, colleagues valued him, offers poured in, and yesthe money wasnt bad either.

“Paddy,” he muttered into the phone to his anaesthetist friend, “Is Sophie on the ward today?”

“Hi, mate. Yeah, shes there.”

By the end of his shift he was lying inside the MRI scanner, Sophie’s machine shrieking offensively while even his headphones couldnt drown it out.

Suddenly panic rolled in. He felt as though hed happily chew through a bowling ball just to escape this metal tube. He needed distraction. Happy memories? Hmm, what have I got for the highlight reel?

His mind retreated down the stairs of his life. The second marriage: he was already an established consultant and father, while she was the young teacher for his year-three daughter.

The thumping MRI noises snuffed out any cheerful nostalgia for this life chapter. There was work, then home, then work, all on repeat. The first marriage had been even worsea messy divorce. No fond memories there.

Student days? Yes! The first four years at least.

Georges thoughts snagged there, whirled back in time, drifting away from the ugly whirring. Summer jobs, the lads, Martha from the canteeneveryone fancied her…

The three of them: George, Victor, and Andrewfreshers at medical school, fast friends from day one. Manchester was a foreign city for all of them; they lived in halls.

Andrew was the classic nerd from a small northern townreserved, a bit naïve, but with a charisma that made you want to listen to his gentle talk and stare into those bottomless blue eyes behind thick glasses.

Andys memory was the stuff of legends, every exam answer laid out perfectly, every topic at his fingertips.

Victor was the opposite: a burly, loud, unpretentious lad from a village outside York or perhaps Leeds. He talked non-stop, panicked about the exams, made friends with everyone, wrote out cheat sheets instead of actually learning.

George worried plenty. He figured hed be the one not to make it in. Andys knowledge and Victors smooth talking amazed him. In the end, only Michaelthe fourth in their roomfailed to get in, and the three of them remained inseparable.

No rooms in halls for first years, so Andys mumcaring and always in a fluttercame down and found them a little flat together.

“God bless you, boys. Keep the peace,” she declared, cooking enough ready meals to last a month.

“Wow! Thats dedication, Mrs. Jenkins! What does your mum do, Andy?”

“Works in the church bookshop.” Andy munched toast.

“The what?” George and Victor shot each other a look.

“Sells candles and all that in the church. Not only that…”

“Shes a believer?”

“Course. So am I.”

The lads looked across at the little religious icons on the window sill.

“Yours, are they? Thought your mum forgot them here.”

“Nope, she left them for me, really.” He sounded calm, but glanced at the others and quietly corrected himself, “Just for me.”

Victor always spoke before thinking: “What? Why med school if youre into that sort of thing? Like God helps those who help themselves, eh?”

“A doctor cares for the body, God cares for the soul,” said Andy calmly. The others shrugged and went quiet.

After that, religion wasnt much discussed. Theyd noticed Andy crossing himself. But he never made a show of it. He studied hard, and smoothed over rows between Georges stubborn streak and Victors hot head with quiet logic.

Andy was just… different. Housework fussed him the least. When Victor and George argued about hoovering, Andy just picked it up and got on.

“Is sweeping the floor worth this much drama? Better to clean than quarrel…”

And then the others would feel awkward and join in after a minute.

Perhaps God was helping Andy, or perhaps he was just gifted, but he breezed through the first exams with flying colours. He picked up medical Latin like a baby picks up English and became the glue holding the trio together.

Oddly, he was first to fall in love. Hed been chosen for the student committee, met his future wife Sally therea feisty, kind girl with a sharp bob and a huge heart. By second year, hand-in-hand everywhere.

Victor, simple as he seemed, turned out quite the practical medic. By second years winter break, he was working ambulance shifts, getting noticed in hospital placements, trusted with difficult tasks.

George trundled along, steady and unremarkable; medicine fascinated himhe desperately wanted to be a decent doctor.

***

The MRI spat him out. George peered out a window and sucked in a deep breath. Where had this claustrophobia come from?

Sophie, the radiographer, came to remove the kit from his head.

“Well, whats the story, Soph?” he fussed.

“Wait a bitthe radiologist will write it up. Ill call. Come back later,” she dodged his gaze. Perhaps just a long day…

“Ill collect it tomorrow then. I want to go home.”

He didnt even get out of the hospital before Sophie rang and brought the report, disc, and images straight to him.

“George, youre a doctor; you know how it looks. Dont delay. Go see Dr. Armstrong. Let him look.”

Barely glancing at the report, George opened the scans, spinning his own brain round and round, his eyes refusing to believe what he sawa neat, bald patch of inflammation. An obvious, unmissable lesion.

It might have been any patients brain, not his. It still didnt sink innot as he drove home, not even as he unlocked the door. This couldnt possibly be happening. Not to him.

***

Dr. Armstrong was the best neurosurgeon at their trust.

“Id sugar-coat this, but, George, youre as sharp a surgeon as any of us. No point pretending. You can see it as well as I can.”

“I see it. Is this itam I finished?”

“Oh, come on,” Armstrong winced, squirming in his seat. “Snap out of it with the melodrama. If anyone should know, its you: lifes in the surgeons hands andif you likethe Big Mans up there, too.”

“I cant believe it… I was meant to go to London for the Medics Galafamily, little holiday. Now…” He trailed off. “What would you do, in my position?”

“Id go to Londonbut not for the party. For Simon Rockford, their star neurosurgeon. His clinic is legendary. The numbers are unmatched.”

“But?”

“But Simon doesnt operate himself anymore; hes a bit of an old-timer. His team is still top-drawer and uses his methods. Problem is, the waiting lists a year long. How you wrangle your way in, I dont knowbut as a respected surgeon, you should have a shot.”

George worked. He operated, he consulted, scribbled reports. The pain was barely therea little weakness, a wobble when he stood. But he found ways round it, medical and otherwise.

He began searching for a way to reach Rockford. Armstrong was right: getting on that list was like entering the Queens box at Wimbledon.

Eventually, he had to tell his wife, who immediately launched full evacuation to London mode.

“Kath, I’ll have to go to London alone,” he broke the news.

“Sorry, what? Are you joking?” She dropped her cardigan, hands on hips, ready for a full marital showdown. “And the kids?”

“Im not going for a conference or a show. Im going to hospital. Ivetheres a tumour. In my brain.” He spoke slowly and, as if saying itfinallymade it real. Hed been running away from the thought until now.

Kaths eyes glistened.

“Oh God, George… How…? Im coming with you.”

“No, Kath, were not talking about an operationyet. I may have to wait around; Im going to be there on standby. It might be a long haul before anything happens.”

“So its that serious?” She sank down, still clutching her jumper. “Tell me everything.”

And George, sniffling hard, started pouring it all outnot as a doctor, but in jagged pieces: the suspicions, the scans, the endless fatigue… His thoughts, his history, his hopes…

She listened, silent, fiercely gripping her sweater, watching her struggling husband. And he was glad she was there, glad to spill his heart. His first wife never let him confide in this way.

***

“The Jehovahs Witnesses usually refuse blood transfusion,” the lecturer droned on, “citing the Bible. There are also parts of the Church that denounce organ donation, surrogacy, IVFthe list goes on. They use their own self-serving interpretations. Medicine and faith? Not compatible.”

“Thats not true,” piped a calm voice from the back.

“What was that?” The thin, weary lecturer raised his head. “Who said that?”

“Me,” said Andy, standing up. “Church and medicine both help people live decent lives.”

“Care to argue?”

“No. Theres nothing to argue about.”

“Oh come now. Since you started, come to the front. Lets hear it,” the lecturer smirked, relishing the prospect.

Andy hated this, but he stood his ground, answering questions quietly, rationally.

“The Church thinks about peoples souls. If a couple cant have children and all medical options fail, perhaps it should be accepted as part of Gods plan. Adoptions an option. And actually, the Church is fine with IVF using the couples own cells; its third-party involvement thats problematic. Thats about marriage, responsibility…”

“Then why oppose surrogacy, eh?” the lecturer pressed. “Both cells are from the married couple.”

“Because you have to consider the surrogatethe baby, too. It isnt so simple…”

“Nonsense!” The lecturer started ranting, shouting even. “Religious dogma stands in the way of progress! The Church is terrified of medicine outpacing Godbecause that puts it out of business!”

While the lecturer raged and sneered, Andy just stood there, sometimes lifting his eyes in a look that could have been interpreted as pity.

For Andy, God was in his own hearta still, deep well to draw from for everyone he loved.

He answered quietly. The class was rapt. The lecturer hurled every argument, but Andy was unshakeable, quoting Scripture, defending his faith, his mum, the little brick church, and everyone dear.

His dignity, his patience, unsettled the lecturer, and by the end, everyone in the hall knew whod won.

But trouble followed. Andy was called to the Dean. He came back, downcast, said little to anyone but Sally. She was loyalwouldnt say a word.

Fifth year arrived and Andy never came back. They got a letter; hed joined the seminary, wishing his friends well, grateful, asking to keep in touch.

George and Victor were stunned. The best of them! Gifted. He would have made a wonderful doctor… All those years, and thengone!

They hunted Sally down. She refused to divulge, so they went up to Andys place one weekend. His mum, Mrs Jenkins, answered, beaming with prideher son had entered the seminary.

They left loaded with homemade jams and pies, but none the wiser.

“Oh come on! How could he? God almighty!” Victor thumped his knee.

“You see,” George smirked, “Gods in our expressions now, too. And so God snatched him away from us. Daft old Andy…”

***

“Candle, what are you on about, Armstrong? Im off to see an old mate. Already booked holiday.”

A few days later, George loaded his bag and took the train to a place famous for its minster, hiking trails, andinevitablyan excess of churches. The town itself was distinctly… unchic, but the number of chapels per capita was impressive.

He headed for Trinity Abbey. Odd, but he hadnt had a single wobble on the whole journey. Maybe the old “faith healing” crowd were onto something, he mused.

White stone walls and green lawns. Flowerbeds bursting with colour, gold domes blazing so brightly in the sun you had to squint.

A passerby told him a service was underwayFather Andrew was busy. Best wait. Whats a “liturgy”? He didnt like to ask. Strolled around instead.

Behind the church: a small graveyard, then a steep path down to the river. Groups of old ladies made repeated treks to a well below, carrying bottles up a hill rather than using the steps. Why three times? Ritual? He shrugged.

“Not getting your holy water?” a middle-aged lady with a cheeky grin asked.

“Holy water? Im not”

“There are bottles in the box. You go up and down three times.”

“Why?”

“Youd know why, wouldnt you? Since youre here…”

He nearly replied that hed come to see a priest-friend, but left it. Not just a social call, was it?

Left alone with his thoughts, he took a bottle, made the journeys, climbing up and down. Not as easy as it looked, but he managed the three tripsgot the water, had a sip: cold, sweet, pure as hope.

Oddly, his spirits brightened. Maybe Andy had carved out a better life here.

Back at the abbey, the crowd flowed out. A priest appeared: full beard, barrel chest, soft bass voicenot the Andy he remembered, surely. But then, those familiar blue eyes… Andy, for sure.

George walked up.

“Alright, Father,” he grinned.

A parishioner glared: “You must say Bless me, Father…”

But Andy had already recognised him and was smiling.

“George! Well, look at this. Welcome, my friend!”

The two old friends embraced. The congregation drifted off. Andy led George onto the path.

“What a blessing today! Sally will be chuffed.”

“Sally? You mean?”

“Yes, the Mrs. Paediatrician at the local surgery. Stubbornwouldnt give up her career, and I dont mind. Five kids. The youngest is ten.”

“No way! Ive three myself. Daughter from the first marriage, two more after. And youre settled here?”

“We like itbeautiful countryside, friendly monastery. Other jobs have tried to pull us away, but were happy here.”

“Youve grown,” George observed.

“Kept growing after twenty! Eyes are alright nowsurgery and contact lenses.”

“So, Anglicanism doesnt shun medicine after all?”

Both men laughed.

“Remember when we tried to pinch a book from the main library? You had the librarian wrapped around your little finger while Victor and I”

“dropped the book with a crash. God, the shame…”

“And your mumhow is Mrs. Jenkins?”

“Fine. Not young, but well. Shes nearby, actually, now Sister Martha in the convent.”

“Thats career progression for you!”

The pair laughed.

A young woman whispered to Andy.

“Sorry, mate, needs mustthe flock awaits. Youll come home with me; Sally will meet you, well talk this evening when Im back.”

“Not planning to leave just yet,” George shrugged, and Andy blessed him with the sign of the cross.

He followed the black Volvo driven by Andys helper. The priest had a lovely house: single storey, big loft extension, manicured garden, and a sweet little chapel. Sally greeted George at the door with a hug. Flowers in every window, a grand Madonna beside the fireplace, little candles burning.

Otherwise, it was a bright and lively homeTV, computers, snazzy kitchen gadgets. Sally fussed over him, laying out food, telling of all their moves and how the rural surgery kept her busy. Only their youngest son was at home.

George forgot why hed come. It felt like visiting old family friends. He nibbled on pie, told a bit of his story, avoiding “the illness,” then napped in a stiff hammock on the back porch.

He no longer wanted to rush home. He had the timea break from work, a few days to spare.

***

“You know the story then?”

“Of course. Kept up with Victor for yearsletters at first, then calls when mobiles came in. Lost touch lately. Gods will.”

“Do you judge me?”

“God judges; people muddle through as best they can. Sowhat trouble brings you, George? I can see it…”

“Brain tumour. Malignant.”

Andy sighed deeply.

“Right then. Tomorrow, come to service, confess, take communion, and the rest well work out…”

“Dont bury me just yet, mate.”

“Nothing of the sort. But remember: nobody can help you but yourself. A priest points the way, but that’s itrest is up to your heart and soul.”

George started to tell the old story of his worst betrayalthe day he stole Victors fiancée.

“No need now,” Andy interrupted. “Save it for the confession tomorrow.”

Strangely enough, by morning, the story sounded less like an explanation and more like an honest confession.

Yes, that’s how tight-knit friends could become bitter foes in an instant.

***

The service ended. Not many people left in the old stone church.

Andy intoned a prayer and said, “Christ stands unseen, taking your confession, I am only a witness. Speak, George.”

George began: “I was always jealous of Victor. Everyone adored him at uni, at the hospital, in the halls… And then there was Alice.”

Here’s how it happened. Victor, well into his clinical years, had a run-in with a high-flying civil servant from London, whod come north to visit relatives and ended up in hospital. Alice, his daughter, spent days by her dads bedside.

Victor and Alice got together, long-distance at first. Victors horizons opened upjob offers in London, the works.

“It grated with me, Father Andrew,” George admitted, “he was just a farm boy, really. And still… Anyway, out of spite I told Alice he was seeing Katie Carlinjust made it up. Im ashamed…”

Then at a friends wedding, the damage was done. Victor brought Alice, played the clown, made toasts, and Alice looked left out. I took her onto the balcony… Later someone told me Victor had seen us out there, watched for a minute, then left. We didn’t noticetoo busy snogging.

After that, Victor moved out, Alice and I took a flat, but it didnt last. In London, her mother called the shots, then her dad died, her mother remarried, and Alice became demanding. We moved back up northI took a new post. She showed her true colours and we split up.

Were my sins with Victor the worst? There were graver errors. A man died on my table onceit was my fault. Not the only time, not for any surgeon. I cheated on my wife, too. It wasnt as if I had a reputation for it, but after I married, I had a few flings. Couldnt help myself. Once, a pretty nurse refused, so I made sure she was sacked. I thought, who has the right to refuse me?

Then I met Katheverything changed. Shes simple, from a village, my daughters old teacher. She and Diane are still friendsmy daughters studying teaching, by the way. Kaths lovely. But yes, Ive let her down a few times, too.

He fell silent. What more could he say?

“So, can you absolve me, Father Andy?”

“Only God can. The point is, do you actually repent, George?”

George met his gaze, and before he knew it, tears blurred his eyes. He gripped the altar, fell to his knees.

“Please, Andy, tell God Im sorry. I want to live, Andy. I want to love Kath; I want to see my children grow. I want to work. I dont need anything else. Any job, anywhereIll take it. Please tell Him!”

Andy murmured a prayer, then fell silent.

George rose, red-eyed, catching Andys calm, bottomless gaze.

“You know, what you really should do is find Victor, talk to him, apologise,” Andy said quietly.

“How? Im off to London in two days,” George shrugged.

“You must try. Hes in Newcastle now, working in oncology. Maybe you should go there, not London.”

“Oh, dont tell me Im supposed to let him operate on me!” George scoffed.

“Why not?”

“You’re out of touch, Andy. In London, theyre decades aheadRockfords team have the latest kit. You cant compare.”

“Maybe, but Victors been researching neurosurgery, too. He goes down to London often. You should see him.”

“Maybe so. But London comes first. I havent got time…”

“And the nurse? The one who lost her job. Find her, too.”

“That ones easy. Ill do it,” George winced at the memory. “I will. Pray for me, please. The main thing is to get Rockford to see me, to get that window for surgery. Otherwise… Newcastle it is,” George grinned wryly.

Before leaving, George climbed the hill by the river fifteen times, just as the pilgrims did. After every three climbs, he drank from the well, and climbed again.

The faithful eyed him, making the sign of the cross for him and themselves. May God help.

God willing.