A Dublin Student Doctor Read Online Free PDF

examining couch.
    The smells were ones he’d known for more than thirty years, and those in Belfast differed not one jot from the ones he’d first encountered in Sir Patrick Dun’s, a Dublin teaching hospital. He was barely aware of the niffs of disinfectant, floor polish, vomit. Sounds of retching came from behind curtains.
    Donal was wheeled into the nearest cubicle, where a nurse would record his pulse, blood pressure, respiratory rate, and level of consciousness before a doctor came.
    O’Reilly stopped near the front of the room at a tall desk that looked like something out of a Dickensian counting house. A young woman house officer leant against it. Her blue eyes behind rimless spectacles had dark bags beneath. He knew the hours these youngsters worked, could still recall the breaking dawns of his own junior years.
    “I’m Doctor O’Reilly. I’ve come with the man with the concussion,” he said, “and this is—”
    “Hello, Sister O’Hallorhan,” the young woman said. “I’ve just done three months on ward 21.”
    “Doctor Fleming,” Kitty said. “Good evening.”
    The house officer pulled out a lined four-by-eight card. “I’ll have to get a few details, Doctor O’Reilly.”
    “I’ll give you them in a tick,” said O’Reilly, turning to Kitty. “Why don’t you go and sit down? Or head home? I’m going to wait until I see Donal settled.”
    He felt Kitty squeeze his arm. “I know you’re worried.”
    “Och, not really,” he said, “but—”
    “I know you, O’Reilly. I still remember you sitting up all night with a patient when you were a student.”
    “Sergeant Paddy Keogh. Pneumonia. I remember him too.” He smiled. “I just want to be able to tell Julie that Donal’s fine.”
    “I understand.” She looked down the room. “There’s nothing for me to do,” she said, “and the staff won’t like having an off-duty sister breathing down their necks, but would you like me to stay and keep you company?”
    O’Reilly shook his head. “Head home.” He’d like to have kissed her, but not here. He lowered his voice. “You and I have to go shopping in the next week. I hear tell Sharman D. Neill’s do a nice line in rings.”
    “I know,” she said, and smiled. “I’ll look forward to that, but I will run on now,” she said. “I might see you tomorrow if you’re still here at the hospital. I’ll be on the ward in the morning.”
    “We’ll see,” he said, “but I hope Donal’s well enough that I’ll be able to get home soon.”
    “Good night, Fingal. Look after yourself—and Donal.” She turned and left. It wasn’t a long walk home and the hospital grounds were well lit.
    O’Reilly turned to the house officer and gave her Donal’s details.
    He heard a voice behind him. “Doctor O’Reilly?”
    He turned. “Yes?”
    “I’m Mister Rajat Gupta, neurosurgery senior registrar.” He held out a hand. O’Reilly shook it and appraised the young East Asian. His hair was glossy black, his eyes deep set and mahogany brown. His grip was firm. As the man’s title was Mister, not Doctor, he had already passed the Fellowship examinations of the Royal College of Surgeons. It was one of the peculiarities of the British and Irish system of medical titles. Being a fully qualified general surgeon was a prerequisite for training as a brain surgeon.
    “Thank you for coming,” O’Reilly said. “It’s probably just concussion, but I’m a country GP and there’s no harm getting an opinion from an expert.”
    Mister Gupta smiled. “A trainee expert.”
    “You’d be surprised,” O’Reilly said, “by how little brain surgery I practice.”
    “I understand.”
    “Donal Donnelly’s in there.” O’Reilly indicated the cubicle.
    “Come in.” The senior registrar held back the curtain and O’Reilly followed.
    Donal lay on the trolley taking short, shallow breaths.
    “Donal, wake up, you lazy bugg— so-and-so,” O’Reilly said, moderating his language for the