British Vogue: The Go-Between
On a Thursday evening in early March, I picked up a friend to go to the opening of Jonathan Anderson’s store in London. It was nine days after the close of the seasonal fashion circuit, which I had been covering for a New York newspaper, and, as I caught up with friends who’d likewise not long returned home, there were distant drumbeats of unease in the air. There’d been talk of a guest at the Gucci show in Milan being diagnosed with coronavirus, and by the last day of the Paris collections, there’d been a reported 285 cases diagnosed in France. I’d noticed an increasing number of people wearing face masks, while hand sanitiser was in abundance at every show. Editors were flying home early. The usual front-row gossip was replaced by whispered conversations about Covid-19.
Later, over drinks in a nearby pub, friends talked about the grim statistics coming out of northern Italy; about cancelling travel plans amid rumours of borders closing; and about how fellow Asians were experiencing open racism – a mood that Trump would play into with his reference to the “Chinese virus”. Not long after, Boris Johnson said all non-essential travel and public gatherings had to stop, and a few days after that, on 23 March, we entered a period of lockdown.
The rest of the story has been endlessly documented. At time of writing, the death toll in the UK is approaching 30,000 and unemployment has increased massively. Back in March, my husband and I cancel our upcoming honeymoon to Japan and adjust to the realities of working from home together – the “new normal” of multiple Zoom meetings. Yet I can’t fully assuage a feeling of rising panic and helplessness: surely there’s something I can do?
Then, I receive an email saying the government is considering emergency legislation to get doctors who are not currently with the NHS back into work. It has been three years since I stopped practising as an oncologist, choosing instead to follow a path of medical research and fashion journalism, and it brought to mind a vivid memory of a summer’s day 15 years ago, when, as a junior doctor,
I volunteered to work back-to-back shifts at a south London hospital to care for the victims of the 2005 terrorist bombings. With the same feeling that had been summoned more than a decade ago, I texted a consultant friend saying that, if he needed any help, I’d be ready to step back in. Just like that, three years after leaving clinical practice, I rejoined the NHS.
To give some context: my love of writing preceded my love of medicine. Growing up in Australia, I would routinely spend my pocket money buying imported magazines and, later, wrote for the university paper during medical school. Shortly after moving to the UK, aged 24, I took a sabbatical from my hospital residency to do a top magazine internship. Even when I went back to the NHS, I kept pitching and writing. After my residency, I entered training as an oncologist.
It felt like a privilege to treat cancer patients and see them through some of the most difficult, vulnerable moments in their lives. But the arduous hours, plus the constant pressure to complete postgraduate exams and publish papers, took their toll on me. When I received a job offer to work in cancer research – which offered me saner, more flexible working hours, allowing me to fit in my commissions around my day job and taking time off for travelling assignments – I jumped at the chance. Re-entering the NHS during an unprecedented public health emergency would no doubt disturb the balance I’d spent so long trying to achieve – but it also felt like an act of duty.
On my first day back at hospital, I set my alarm for 6am to head into the hospital for a 7.30am induction of new doctors. There, in a crowded room, we huddle over a laptop screen to watch a tired-looking infectious disease consultant talk us through how the coronavirus has upset every aspect of how we practise medicine.
Despite health secretary Matt Hancock’s assertion that testing of front-line staff for Covid-19 would be widely available, we find that this is not yet the case, and the test itself isn’t always accurate. There are discussions about whether there is enough personal protective equipment available, and whether it’s OK to reuse some of it. We learn new rituals of donning and doffing PPE, and learn to smear Vaseline and stick a plaster on the bridge of our noses to prevent the metal strip of the N95 mask from cutting into the skin. We are informed that, in cases of cardiac arrest, we must put on the PPE before proceeding to the patient – a delay of at least two minutes in a situation where every second counts.
A quarter of medical staff are off, either ill, self-isolating or in high-risk social situations that preclude them from working at the hospital. We read the devastating stories of healthcare workers dying after becoming infected with the virus, which activates our hypochondriac tendencies. We nervously self-monitor for any telltale signs of cough, fever or loss of taste, and worry if our disinfection strategies are sufficient to reduce the risk to ourselves and our families.
Being an oncologist in the time of Covid-19 means constantly having to make difficult decisions: balancing treating a patient’s cancer with the risk that the treatment we give (in the form of chemotherapy or immunotherapy) will compromise their immune system. So we adapt to new protocols quickly – shortening radiation regimens and deferring treatment where it is safe to do so – in an effort to minimise the risk to our patients while ensuring we still deliver the best possible treatment.
The remote clinics I conduct by telephone become almost like therapy sessions, as patients share with me how they are coping in isolation, and their fears about coming to hospital. For an oncologist, so much of the work is palliative not curative, but even if we cannot cure everyone, we can ease the pain of their suffering and provide closure for patients and their families. Covid-19 robs patients of even that one last dignity – as they are usually isolated from loved ones right through the very end. After more than 12 years as a hospital doctor, the sight of a patient saying goodbye to his family and young grandson over FaceTime is the most wrenching.
My days are now a far cry from the heady glamour of the fashion circuit – spent juggling long shifts at the hospital with working on my cancer research in the evenings and weekends. But despite all of this, the heavy feeling of dread and agitation that permeated my first couple of weeks in lockdown has lifted since I’ve returned to work in the NHS. Any initial trepidation about re-entering clinical practice is alleviated when I see the faces of ex-colleagues, and feel an instant sense of camaraderie and a clear sense of purpose. I’m not alone. Thousands of former NHS staff have heeded the government’s call to rejoin the health service.
I missed the first “clap for carers” – I’d just got home from the hospital after a long shift and didn’t catch it until it was broadcast later that evening. To be honest, I didn’t think much of it – given his own experiences with the disease, the sight of Boris Johnson applauding medical staff after years of Tory underfunding of the NHS struck me as hypocritical. But, over the past few weeks, I’ve grown to appreciate the sound of whoops, hollers and cheering that spills from homes every Thursday evening across the nation. I take it to mean not just a rediscovered love of the NHS but also a show of appreciation to the supermarket workers, the ambulance drivers, sanitation workers, postal service, the caregivers at nursing homes and the police officers who make the country work while we are in lockdown.
As stressful and all-consuming as my return has been, it has also reminded me of why I went into medicine in the first place. Working as a doctor through a pandemic is a reminder that, while we can’t control the world, we can control how we respond to it – and caring for others seems like the best thing that I can do in this moment. The pandemic has caused a seismic re-alignment in all our values, one I hope will result in more compassion and empathy.
At the same time, like so many others, I’m yearning for the day where some semblance of normality is restored. When my services to the NHS are no longer needed, I’m looking forward to experiencing the visceral thrills of a concert, the emotional punch of a play, the collective swoon at a fashion show, the embrace of a friend, the charged electricity of London on a summer’s night. To be able to experience these pleasures – after spending so long in a state of suspended animation – won’t be something I take for granted.
There are small glimmers of hope – the death toll is seemingly reducing and social distancing is working. It’s finally spring and it’s been cheering to see the cherry blossoms in luxuriant, excessive bloom. As I put on my surgical mask to board the bus to work, I look up and marvel at the ephemeral beauty of seeing the sky aflutter with clouds of sugar-spun pink in the clear blue – a reminder, hopefully, that this too shall pass.
