A Sister's Life: The ups and downs of life as a 1950s Theatre Sister (Nurse Jane Grant Book 3)

by Jane Grant

  There were the Irish nurses, attractive to listen to; the tough, dark little Mooney, who had a theory that she knew the proper way to nurse and wouldn’t be told, and the junior Kerrigan, in her first year, a general dogsbody, always protesting that she would never stick it. There were also the night nurses, haggard Night Sister, who looked as if she had a secret sorrow, and the others, constantly shifting, of whom Brunton was the most stable.

  The patients too; pretty, dissatisfied Gloria, either complaining, or trying to flirt with any available male (even the chaplain), or else escaping into the world of ‘True Stories’. And poor stocky Miss Caulfield, good-natured but grasping, who when you offered her a grape would take the whole bunch with a polite ‘Thank you very much.’

  There was also Grannie Weedon, who at first had appeared a poor helpless old creature, but who gradually revealed herself as a stubborn, serpentine character, with powers of resistance and flarings of rebellion; but for all that a pathetic human being, struggling in a net of old age and weakness, and longing for the lost security of home and cherishing, and for the family which had deserted her.

  Other faces came and went on the ward, but these few, with the surgeons, stood out as important.

  Being country bred, Mrs McKie spent much time watching the changes outside as the season progressed; the nest-building of the rooks in the tall elms, the flowering of the pink and white may trees; the hares that played on the lawn in the early misty mornings; the pheasants that stalked in a family party on the perimeter. To watch such things was a healing therapy in itself.

  One morning when she awoke; she had a sense that something had wakened her. The sky was lightening, and she realized with the satisfaction many patients feel at having got through the night, that it was almost time for nurses with their bowls, thermometers, and more important, cups of tea.

  She struggled to a sitting position. There was a slight mist over the lawn; a hare ran across zig-zag; two fat rooks flew down, and spreading their wings and bending sideways, tried to bathe in the dew.

  Her gaze turned to the interior of the ward. Opposite her Gloria slept humped up, her pillows pushed up behind her head. Snores came from Miss Caulfield’s bed. Mrs McKie turned her head to the right and saw to her amazement that Grannie’s cot side was down and her bed was empty. At the same time there came a loud cry from its far side.

  ‘A-ah! Oh Lord! Good Lord ‒ take me!’

  ‘Grannie, what’s the matter?’

  Full consciousness coming to Mrs McKie, she called out, ‘What are you doing out of bed? Did you fall, Grannie?’

  A low moan came from Grannie. ‘A-Ah! Oh my good Lord! Oh, the pain ‒ the pain!’

  Gloria and Miss Caulfield both waking, they all joined in a cry of ‘Nurse!’ that reverberated down the corridor and through the main ward, being taken up by patients nearest the communicating door.

  Nurse Brunton came hurrying; ‘Oh my God! Oh, save us! Grannie, what have ye done?’

  She immediately hurried out again, and they could hear her (against all etiquette for nurses) running at full speed down the corridor. In a very short while she was back with the dark Staff Nurse, and the two nurses lifted Grannie back into her bed with infinite care.

  The situation was too serious for scolding. Staff Nurse questioned the old lady about the pain, put screens round the bed and went away.

  ‘If she moves again, call at once,’ she instructed Nurse Brunton.

  Sister having been called came on duty early and went behind the screens. They could hear snatches of the conversation. ‘You feel cold, love? Yes ‒ just let me see. There, love?’ Turning to nurse, she said quietly, ‘You’d better get Dr Banyard.’

  With the same quietness, Teddy came in and went out again, to return with Camden. After an examination, the two doctors and Sister emerged from behind the screen.

  The Registrar’s questions sounded irrelevant to the listening patients. ‘When did she eat, Sister?’

  ‘They gave her a little tea in a feeding cup. That’s all, not half a cup.’

  ‘I’ll give her her pre-med now. I’ll fix it with the theatre in about an hour. What have I got on the list?’ he asked Teddy.

  Teddy reeled off a formidable list of operations. ‘All right, all right,’ said Camden testily. ‘I’ll fit her in between the arthrodesis and the bunions.’

  The doctors walked off, and Sister followed, just pausing to say to Staff Nurse Copley, ‘Tell Dr Watson to put off his pre-meds. This’ll put the list right out this morning.’

  ‘Pity Mr Penhallow’s still away,’ said Staff.

  The daily life of the ward resumed after Grannie was wheeled off. Miss Caulfield wondered what was wrong with her. ‘She was crying dreadful in the night. Dreadful it was. I couldn’t slape for it.’

  Mrs McKie recalled seeing the fat recumbent figure lying immobile from lights out till dawn, but bit back her comment. All patients, she reflected, think they have been awake all night.

  ‘What’s wrong with old Gran?’ Gloria asked Nurse Mooney.

  ‘Never you mind, she’ll be okay,’ said Nurse Mooney, who never made any concessions to patient’s curiosity. ‘Now come on, Kerrigan,’ she snapped at her compatriot. ‘We’ll never get through at all.’

  They arrived at Miss Caulfield’s bed. ‘Come along, my dear, you’re getting up,’ said Nurse Mooney, stripping off the clothes. ‘Where are ye slippers?’

  Miss Caulfield did not dare to resist, though she had been building up a front of lassitude and weakness, hoping to be allowed to stay in bed. She might wish to stay in bed but her fellow patients breathed a sigh of relief as soon as her back was turned. Mrs McKie hoped for peace, but Gloria wanted sympathy.

  ‘My foot’s just burning this morning. Oh crumbs, if Miss Foster comes and makes me lift my leg in the air, I’ll just scream, that’s all. Crumbs ‒ she does hurt me. You wait.’

  ‘I wish I was far enough on for physiotherapy.’

  ‘Oh, you wait. It’s the worst part. Miss Foster’s terrible. She even makes the men cry.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ll be getting up soon. Sitting out there with Miss Caulfield.’

  ‘Crumbs!’ was all Gloria could find to say to that prospect.

  Patients who were up but not walking sat either in the day ward or in the corridor, where the sun, if there was any, poured in through the glass and made patterns on the green and white tiles. When the windows were opened the ward sparrow, a knowing and fearless bird, hopped on to the frame and looked around to see if anyone was in a crumb-giving mood. The patients, of course, at once threw breadcrumbs at him if it was mealtime, or if not, began to rummage in their lockers and crumble up biscuits.

  This morning Fred the porter, who always whizzed the trolley down the corridor at breakneck speed, caught the sparrow unawares as he was wrestling with an awkward-shaped piece of biscuit. He dropped his prize and fluttered to left and right, missing his usual window entrance, and when he reached the end of the corridor without finding an exit, he turned back, squawking with dismay.

  Nurse Mooney had shot out of the Women’s Orthopaedic Ward to join Fred and the trolley. ‘Hi, wait for me, boyo. Ah ‒ look at the little boid.’

  ‘Boid! Can’t you talk English yet?’

  ‘Well, robin, then.’

  ‘Don’t you know a sparrer from a robin? Look ‒ dear, are you pushing this trolley or lying on it?

  The trolleys ran up and down to theatres all morning. Quiet, well-wrapped figures went down, and returned some hours later, some still quiet, and others snoring, and others with a nurse walking beside holding a drip in the air with a tube attached somewhere to the patient.

  The convalescent patients, sitting outside the ward in the sun, seemed unable to escape the theatre themselves in their conversation. Some of it was solemn, relating to their own experiences, and some of it was facetious.

  ‘Terrific list this morning. Started a quarter to nine.’

  ‘Doctor asked me how I was ‒ I said w
ell, I suppose you couldn’t have made a bigger hole, could you? He said “anything to oblige”.’

  ‘Crumbs ‒ old Mrs Parker’ll be a weight.’

  A male patient passing down the corridor returning from the bathroom with his sponge bag, was condoled with, ‘What, didn’t they give you no breakfast, Mr Miles? What a shame!’

  The intrepid Mr Miles replied, ‘Hope they don’t throw the wrong bit away.’

  An old lady with her legs up remarked in a disappointed tone as she did her knitting; ‘People don’t seem to make the noise they used to, coming back from the theatre.’

  The nurses were chattering away as they gave out mid-morning drinks. ‘What a list! It’ll be chaos tomorrow. Who’ll be on? Will Harvey be back?’

  ‘No, she’s got another week.’

  ‘Gosh, what are we supposed to do, Kerrigan’s off and the new junior.’

  ‘Typical of the Office, letting people off just when we need them. After this list we’ll need extra people, not less.’

  Among other passers-by in the corridor was a tall lugubrious man with a northern accent. ‘Doan’t know how many you’ll want, Sister. I’ve left fower, is there more than fower operaytions in this ward? I can bring you more along.’

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Mrs McKie, and Gloria replied without looking up, ‘It’s only the Spittoon Man.’

  The unfortunately named Spittoon Man, in spite of his melancholy voice and appearance, was not averse to exchanging cracks with the ward wit. ‘Got to do another fortnight’s hard, have you? Coo, you should think yourself lucky. They caught me twenty years ago and I’m still here.’

  Yet another patient passed on his way back from the theatre to the Men’s Ward, pushed by Fred at breakneck speed; this one had a stopper in his mouth and was making a horrid groaning noise, enough noise to make the old lady look up from her knitting with satisfaction. Fred and Nurse Mooney were blanketing the demonstration by laughing and talking.

  ‘Dare you to, then, Fred.’

  ‘I don’t need no dare.’

  ‘That’s right, boyo.’

  ‘Shan’t miss my coffee break, don’t you think it.’

  Fred whizzed by with empty trolley a few moments later, at rocket-like speed. He did not, however, re-appear within five minutes as usual. Instead, an angry anaesthetist arrived in the corridor, in white theatre garb and cap, his mask dangling.

  ‘Sister! What’s happened to Fred?’

  Sister appeared from the main ward, almost at a run.

  ‘We’re all standing round, waiting!’ He spoke incredulously. ‘Waiting, Sister!’ he added, as if such a situation were almost impossible to believe.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Will you please see what is happening?’

  It was not long before Fred reappeared, whistling, his trolley whizzing along before him.

  ‘Tempers will be up in theatre this morning,’ said Staff Nurse Copley, handing out tablets.

  In the middle of the morning Grannie Weedon’s bed and locker were suddenly wheeled out by Staff Nurse.

  ‘Isn't Grannie coming back?’ asked Mrs McKie.

  ‘No, my dear. Sister thinks she’ll be better in the corner with the other Grans, where we can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘That’s a bit of luck,’ said Gloria.

  ‘I’ll quite miss old Gran. I wonder who’ll come instead.’

  ‘Bet we get another old creep.’

  By the evening Mrs McKie felt utterly exhausted, as if exhaustion was catching, and the hospital rush of hard work had been experienced also by her, who had lain all day supine in her bed. Gloria, too, lay back silently, and even Miss Caulfield’s tongue was stilled as her old mother sat quietly beside her.

  When Don came at visiting hour, Mrs McKie did not ask about the farm, or show any curiosity as to his day. All she could think of in connection with Don was that his girl the Theatre Sister must have had a hard day. She assumed that Don would be meeting her at eight, after visiting hours, but she did not dare to question him, because she felt that if tonight he snubbed her she would burst into tears.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday and Thursday, the Orthopaedic Days, seemed to arrive in the week with extraordinary quickness. The frantic rush of packing drums between cases, juggling the instruments to spin them out for each case; the worry in case the linen and gloves ran out; the decision whether to run a glove pig or a linen one, gloves needing to be sterilized for a shorter period and at a lower temperature than linen. In fact, all the minor worries attending a small theatre trying to cope with too heavy a list. It must be the same the world over, I thought, manipulating the heavy chisels into a boiling sterilizer without either splashing myself or landing the sharpened edge point down.

  ‘Hullo, Sister.’ A shy voice obtruded into my thoughts. I looked up to see Camden’s house surgeon, Teddy Banyard, a tall thin young man whom I had had very little to do with since my arrival because after that first case I had been relegated to Theatre II and the other registrar, Morley, while Maitland danced attendance on Hunt, the visiting surgeon from Bernard’s, on Penhallow, another Honorary, and also on her heart-throb, Camden. Banyard would be assisting in that theatre, while Morley, an easy going, rather dull man, counted himself lucky to get a student to assist.

  ‘Sister, I’m sorry to trouble you,’ said Banyard. ‘Mr Camden has an emergency he’d like to do.’

  I sighed heavily, and glancing at the clock to set the sterilizer, came out of the sterilizing room prepared to meet the latest bit of bad news.

  Banyard smiled placatingly. He had very nice teeth and also nice dark eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Sister, to put you out. It’s a plating.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘A fractured tib and fib he did weeks ago that’s gone wrong. Don’t look so down-hearted, you make me feel guilty.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just one of those days. I’m actually quite approachable on Fridays.’

  ‘Well ‒ er ‒ do you think we could do it?’

  ‘I expect so,’ I said unenthusiastically. ‘When would suit you?’

  ‘Er ‒ now ‒actually.’

  ‘In other words,’ I said sternly, ‘this was just a courtesy call. You really might as well say, “I’m going to do this plating whether it suits you or not, so jolly well get the theatre ready.” Right?’

  ‘Aw ‒ Sister ‒ be fair. It isn’t my idea, and I came up as soon as Mr Camden arranged it.’

  ‘Oh well, don’t let’s make a meal of it. Maitland’s not on yet, you’d better have Theatre II. Can Mr Morley take the two bunions and the manipulations? We’ll be all right else.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all been fixed. I ‒ just happened to see him on my way in.’

  I contented myself with a sardonic. ‘Ha’ and went to prepare the set.

  Unless you are very experienced, very few fractures are visible in theatre until pointed out directly. Mostly, it takes the magic eye of X-ray to determine them. This case, as it happened, was quite a straightforward one with a fairly straightforward complication. The patient had walked along the pavement and had abruptly stepped off the kerb which, being old and dim-sighted, she hadn’t noticed. Instead of the usual sprained ankle her brittle lower leg bones had broken. Originally, instead of an open operation, Camden had reduced the fracture under a general anaesthetic and put it in plaster, but the old lady had unluckily tried to get out of bed, had fallen on the floor, and re-fractured the bone.

  The only course possible to the surgeon now was to perform an open operation and re-set the leg, using a metal plate.

  The plaster was removed and the leg prepared before the patient came on to the table. (All the theatre staff ever see of a patient is either a drowsy light-headed individual with a dry mouth in the anaesthetic room, or an inert body with a mask clapped over its face, on the operating table.) The body was now covered with towels and the flaccid dry skin anointed with skin preparation, more towels were put in position, so that only the immediate operating
site was on view.

  Camden had little dissection to do, as there was very little subcutaneous fat and the bone was near the surface. The Desoutter was soon roaring its way into the bone to make a bed for the screws that would keep the plate in position. The plate was put on, and Camden was sewing up, when he said suddenly; ‘This leg looks a funny colour. Where’s the anaesthetist?’

  A medical student was carelessly squeezing the rubber bladder forcing the patient’s lungs to absorb the nitrous oxide and oxygen mixture. ‘He’s gone to get the bunions ready,’ the student replied cheerfully.

  Camden said coldly; ‘Well, could you persuade him to come and visit us at his earliest convenience?’

  The boy’s lethargy disappeared, and he shot out of the theatre like a bullet from a gun. Collapse on the table is one of the dreads of all theatre staff. I re-fitted a large blade to the scalpel I had already dismantled, having visions of a cardiac massage; one of the most nervously exhausting things that can happen.

  The anaesthetist, a rather brash young man, came in.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Camden leaned towards him and said with quiet anger; ‘Get some oxygen into this woman. Now!’

  The casual façade dropped from the man and he became galvanized as he rushed to his machine, fiddling with keys, changing the empty O2 cylinder with surprising rapidity, and sending the life-giving oxygen into the unconscious woman. He then went through the motions of taking her pulse and blood pressure, but the crisis was over.