The Island Nurse

by Mary J. Macleod

  How lucky we were to be surrounded by so many helpful people!

  THIRTY-TWO

  The signpost

  ‘Tis gone!’ Archie was indignant.

  ‘What’s gone?’ queried Morag.

  ‘The signpost. I’m no surprised there were nae many visitors at the laird’s ceilidh last night. They couldna find their way in the dark because some daftie has made off wi’ the sign to the castle.’

  There were only two signposts on the island; this one was on the road from our little harbour town of Dalhavaig, where most of the tourists stayed. People for the ceilidh would come from there and would look for the sign, which pointed to the castle in one direction and to our village of Dhubaig in the other.

  ‘No wonder I heard so many cars go by last night,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, some folk must have taken the turn for Dhubaig by mistake. They would have a bad shock, foreby, when they found themselves drivin over the Ben in the dark with no ceilidh at the end of it.’

  Archie was not speaking of the spontaneous getting together of the villagers for fun and entertainment in the dark winter evenings but of the big organised ceilidhs put on at the laird’s castle for the benefit of the tourists, raising much-needed money for the uncertain economy of our small island.

  The evenings were drawing in. We were used to driving on our narrow, uneven roads high on the mighty Ben Criel, or between small lochans with the brown peaty water winking at us in the failing light, or peering down to Loch Annan where it brooded far below as we engaged first gear to descend the tortuous track that clung uncertainly to the rocky hillside. But to a tourist, used to double-width roads, white lines, decent tarmac surfaces and street lights for much of their way, the prospect of such a journey must have been daunting in the extreme. And entirely unnecessary, as the castle was in a different direction altogether!

  ‘There’s another the night. The last one afore the winter. We’ve looked all over for that sign and there’s no sign of it.’ Archie guffawed loudly at his own joke. ‘What will we do?’

  Mary had been thinking. ‘We’ll have to destruct one,’ she asserted.

  We all stared at her. After a moment, Archie gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘The woman means construct one.’ He turned to his wife, ‘Why do you no just say “make” one?’

  ‘Aye,’ murmured an unrepentant Mary.

  ‘She’s right, though,’ said Morag. ‘My Angus will make the arms for it. He’s good with the wood.’

  Old Janet piped up, ‘Nay, ma Douggy is better with the wood than your Angus.’

  Morag was affronted. ‘And what about the letterin? My Angus is better at the letterin than your Douggy. And he can spell “castle”.’

  Janet bridled. ‘So can ma Douggy . . .’

  Archie waded in. ‘Och! Haud your wheesht, you! Tis only two pieces o’ wood: one pointin to the castle and one to Dhubaig. The post is still there, so they can just be nailed to it. It’s no difficult.’

  Janet and Morag glowered at each other, but I had to leave at that point in the discussion and I just assumed that the matter would be dealt with in the usual way of the Gaels: with heated disagreement but laughing compromise in the end.

  Once again, I heard quite a few cars pass that night instead of the usual one or two. Did they not get the sign up after all, so the tourists were still confused, I wondered?

  Next morning, as I rattled towards the junction, I could see in the distance two sturdy pieces of wood in place at the top of the post. They were shaped and pointing, one towards the castle and one towards our village.

  Archie was standing in the road beside his tractor, looking at the signs. He was shaking his head.

  ‘Can you believe it, Nurse? Those two silly, stubborn old bodachs! They both just had to prove that they could spell “castle”. Just look!’

  I looked. The arm pointing to the left read ‘To The Castle’ and the arm pointing to the right read . . . ‘To The Castle’. No wonder the tourists were confused!

  THIRTY-THREE

  A bonny baby and some cheery children

  On the whole, my work consisted of tending the elderly and chronically sick, administering daily injections to long-term patients such as diabetics, treating others with antibiotics and anti-inflammatory drugs, giving routine immunisations to babies and school-age children, together with dressings of injuries, ulcers, burns and other superficial problems. There were also the advisory visits to mothers of under-fives (no baby clinics here – it was easier for the nurse to visit the home) and frequent attendances at the primary school. Amidst all this work there were the occasions when last offices had to be performed for some departed person or, at the happier end of life, there was the birth of a baby. If these wee souls arrived when expected and not before, they were born in a hospital either on the mainland, if it was deemed to be a necessary precaution, or in the island hospital if we had no reason to expect any complications. Sometimes the ‘best-laid plans’ went very much awry, as unborn babies do not know the rules.

  One October night, the worst autumn storm for many years was raging when suddenly all the lights went out. Such electricity failures were commonplace in winter, but with an open fire, night storage heaters and a Rayburn, we could keep warm and we could cook our food. The freezer was our greatest worry, but like most households we retained all our old blankets with which to wrap the appliance to keep it cool. Just as I had dealt with this, the phone rang.

  ‘Nurse.’ It was Dr Mac, and I could tell from his tone that this was no social call. ‘Sheena’s mother in Coiravaig rang, and it sounds to me as if Sheena is going into premature labour. She’s about 33 weeks, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ I paused. ‘We have no electricity here, you know.’

  ‘Neither have we, and it is a rather blustery night. I shall set off now but you should be able to get there much faster, so I’ll see you at Sheena’s home.’

  Rather blustery night! The wind was howling and rain mingled with hailstones like golf balls was lashing down, the sea was a roaring cauldron and Dr Mac called it a ‘rather blustery night’.

  Gathering my trusty bag, I set off. The little car was buffeted from one side of the narrow road to the other, and where that road perched daringly above the sea cliffs it was not a comfortable feeling. Drawing up to the croft house, which was all in darkness, I spied Sheena’s mother, Dolly, waiting in the doorway with a torch.

  ‘She’s upstairs, Nurse.’

  It was cold upstairs, as, without the electric fire, there was no way of heating the room. But Sheena looked anything but cold. Her face was flushed, and she was frightened and uncomfortable. Her husband, Walter, had planned to be home for the birth but was still at sea, somewhere off the coast of Africa.

  ‘What’s happening, Nurse? Am I going to lose the baby?’ She began to cry.

  ‘No, no! But it may be thinking of being born a little early. I’m just going to have a look at you.’ I was able to examine her by the light of my torch. I patted her hand.

  ‘I think you should just lie quietly for now. Dr Mac will be here in a minute and then we’ll decide what is to be done with you.’ It was obvious that the baby would be born very soon, and the domestic conditions combined with the power failure were anything but ideal.

  As the storm raged on, Dolly dabbed Sheena’s forehead with a cool flannel until we saw the flash of the doctor’s car headlights.

  After a fairly brief examination, he decided that we could not risk having to deliver her in that cold, dark bedroom. Thunder and lightning had been gradually coming nearer. The island hospital was our only option, as it would be madness to get the steamer crew out and toss the poor girl around on a small ship, attempting to get to the mainland. The captain would probably refuse to put to sea anyway in weather like this.

  Dr Mac had a large estate car, so we gathered eiderdowns and blankets and made a passable bed for Sheena in the back of the car. Very carefully, she came down the steep, narrow stairs, and it needed the stre
ngth of all three of us to stop the fierce gusts of wind from knocking her off her feet. At last, we installed her in the car. I climbed into the back with her and Dolly sat beside the doctor. Sheena was amazingly brave, but it soon became plain that this little baby was going to be born quite soon as she began to moan and the pains started to come more frequently, but it was impossible to time them for the bumping and swaying of the car.

  We entered the village of Rachadal, which was all in darkness. The whole island was probably affected, but we knew that the hospital would have emergency lighting. We also knew that it had no incubators. This was a big worry as, at seven or eight weeks premature, the baby would probably be very tiny and ideally would have been better in the well-equipped mainland hospital.

  We pulled up outside, several staff came out with a stretcher and we entered the haven of subdued lighting. Sheena was whisked off to the delivery room, where a hospital midwife was ready, so I was free to sit consoling Dolly. Dr Mac reappeared in theatre whites and followed the patient into the delivery room. It seemed no time at all until he was before us once more.

  ‘Well, we only just made it, Nurse! Baby is here! A girl! Congratulations, Dolly. You are a grandmother. I’m going to ring Craigmor and the steamer, and see what the position is to move her on. The child is only 4lb.’

  The steamer captain was of the opinion that the storm was abating, so he would get the crew mustered. Then the ambulance driver was called to transport Sheena to the harbour, by which time the steamer would be ready. The roll-on-roll-off ferry (the second sea crossing) was alerted and told of the emergency. Another ambulance would meet the ferry when it reached the mainland and Sheena would be transferred once more to complete her journey. All these people cheerfully left their beds to take Sheena and her baby to safety.

  Two weeks later, Sheena was home. Baby Dolleena was thriving and had reached 5lb 2oz.

  Most district nurses, whether in remote areas or conurbations, have a few worrying cases on their books: people who are deemed to be ‘at risk’. In the case of children, it is sometimes the health of the child that causes concern, sometimes the environment, and all too often abuse or neglect is suspected. In the Hebrides, however, actual abuse and neglect are most uncommon. The homes are often very basic, the childcare a little haphazard, the food stodgy, the income low, but in spite of these factors I never came across a real case of child neglect or abuse on Papavray. The small homes were always warm where there were children, meals were on the table at roughly the right time, and what does it matter to a child if the chairs are old or the dog sleeps on his bed or if the loo is outside the back door? So long as his parents love him and he has friends like himself, he is usually happy and well adjusted.

  But life was not always like that, and I had several people with learning difficulties on my ‘at risk’ register. There was one family that was a nightmare to try to assist: they were so cantankerous that there was little we could do to improve their lifestyle and squalid surroundings. The mother (I never found out what happened to the father) was now getting old and immobile. When young and strong, she had ruled the house with the proverbial rod of iron because her son and daughter were both ‘unfortunate’ – a euphemistic term used to cover any condition where the mental abilities were in question. The daughter, Mona, in her 30s, had now to tend her mother, and poor Shona often had no meals or had not been washed or helped from her bed because Mona had gone off and forgotten all about her. The son, Donald, at 20 years old was large and aggressive. Shona had managed him well, but Mona left him very much alone and the neighbours were frightened of him. Oddly, however, he seemed to have an immense respect for anyone in uniform. I was always in uniform when visiting, and even the minister’s collar seemed to count, but Dr Mac had to keep an old white coat, left over from his hospital days, to put on before approaching the house.

  We all knew that Donald should have been committed years before, but Shona flatly refused. Even now that she was rapidly becoming bed ridden, she would not allow us to place her into a home where she could be properly cared for, because she realised that if she agreed, Donald would have to be sectioned and Mona, she said, would be ‘off wi’ men’. We tried to keep the volatile situation more or less in hand for several years, but when old Shona died we were forced to have Donald sent away.

  Mona did, in fact, ‘go off wi’ men’, as her mother had predicted. Eventually, one of the crofters married her, and we could not decide if, being a Christian, he was rescuing her from her sinful ways or was as crazy as she was. He was very strict with her, to the point of harshness, and we had to keep a very close eye on that situation too.

  One of the most enjoyable of my duties was the regular visits to the primary school. The children were a continuous source of interest and amusement. There were about fourteen or fifteen pupils and only one teacher. Mrs Campbell was very popular with her charges and had turned out many a grammar-school entrant, and all this in one room, dealing simultaneously with all ages from five to twelve.

  The classroom was cavernous, its proportions causing an echoing resonance. It was heated by a smoky stove and one rather elderly night store heater. For all this, it managed to be a cheerful and welcoming room. The wooden floor was cheered by some bright rugs – the result of craft lessons – while colourful childish paintings adorned the peeling walls.

  One lunchtime, I drew up outside the playground and sat for a moment watching the children rushing about. Mrs Campbell, Elizabeth, spied me and came across.

  ‘Ah, Nurse MacLeod! I’m glad of this moment to speak to you. I wanted to tell you, Nurse, that I think Geordie has the measles.’

  I was more than willing to accept her diagnosis.

  ‘I’ll take him home when I have finished here and have a word with his mother.’

  ‘What is it today?’ Elizabeth asked, referring to my visit.

  ‘It’s “heads, hands and feet” today,’ I said with a smile, thinking of all the none-too-clean little feet, grubby hands and wriggling children. Heads were usually ‘clean’ – that is, free of ‘livestock’ – but they had to be checked about once a term.

  We had a jolly afternoon with the usual crop of dirty fingernails, whose owners were dispatched to the cloakroom with hot water, soap and nail scrubbers. Feet were often rather smelly through no real fault of the child or their mother but because wellington boots were worn nearly all the time due to the weather conditions. Feet were never cramped or misshapen, as wellies mould to the foot, but as rubber does not allow the skin to ‘breathe’, athlete’s foot was not uncommon.

  The children loved to watch each other’s hair being inspected, and there was not the slightest embarrassment if I found some ‘wee craturs’. Even the child concerned would laugh heartily and depart with me to the washbasins to have their hair treated. They always found fun in the inspection.

  ‘Ach, Nurse, wee Henry’s got big fat nits.’

  ‘No, I havenae – they are skinny wee things wi’ brown boots.’ Laughter at this.

  ‘Ally has mice in his hair instead – there’s that much of it, Nurse. Tis a haystack, indeed.’

  A good-natured scuffle would ensue. Then, when we got to the feet, there would be more joking.

  ‘Phew! I canna breathe for Archie’s feets.’

  ‘Look! There’s better tatties than on our croft ’tween Murdo’s toes.’ And so it went on.

  Most of the children were from the same kind of background, their fathers being sailors, fishermen, crofters or working at the pier or the harbour. Their empirical knowledge of the island was most important.

  Where was the best place to fish? Where could you see eagles soaring? Who made the best dumpling and was therefore worth a visit? Where was it safe to swim? Roddy had bought a new boat and he might give us a ride to Rhuna. There was a dead seal on the beach that would be worth a look. And so on. Things that mattered in their young lives!

  I finished the afternoon’s work with a certain amount of regret and gathered up the
protesting Geordie to take him home. Even if he stayed away from school now, the damage was probably already done and we might well be in for an epidemic.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  DIY island style

  Living on a remote island meant that many things normally accomplished by professionals or skilled specialists had to be done by ourselves. Painting and decorating, small carpentry jobs, hair cutting, bookkeeping, some house repairs and maintenance were but a few of our DIY ‘skills’. But added to these, in my case, were all manner of extras that would not have appeared in any nurse’s job description, had there been such a thing!

  I had been in twice-daily attendance on a young girl who had suffered from multiple sclerosis for much of her 22 years. It was only due to the devotion of her mother that she was still able to take part in everyday family life, albeit from her bed. Trisha was a pretty girl but due to being so inactive – in fact, virtually static – she had become very heavy. Until recently, her sister had been on hand to help Maggie with the lifting, bathing and bed changing, but she had married and moved away, so Maggie had to call on district nursing care: myself and my relief nurse.

  Maggie ran the post office near the pier in Dalhavaig. Her husband, Trisha’s father, was away at sea for much of the time, and so the whole burden of the business – customers, mail, pensions, suppliers and so on – fell on Maggie, together with the care of Trisha. She had become exhausted, and Dr Mac had arranged a bed in the local hospital for Trisha so that her mother could have a much-needed holiday. This was the big day.

  I was at the post office getting Trisha bathed and ready for the short journey to the hospital – only a couple of miles distant – while Maggie attended to customers.

  The steamer was at the quay and would depart in about an hour, and tourists were buying and posting cards before leaving, so that the ‘Papavray’ postmark would appear on their mail. Maggie also sold little trinkets and ‘touristy’ things to supplement the rather meagre income from the post office.