Champagne & Lemonade

by John A. D. Hickling

  My wife laughed as she ran; I made a snowball and ran after her, my throw just missing. I caught up to her and held her in my arms and kissed her. We tumbled, laughing, to the ground, which is where we then lay, making snow angels in the beautiful snow.

  Champagne and Lemonade

  It was the start of another day at the Dumpton hospital. The hospital was built in the ’50s — 1954 to be exact — apart from an old building that was built in the Victorian times, and was used in the wars — it’s still got the original paint on the walls.

  The part that was built in the ’50s apparently took six years to build. I don’t know how; it looks like it was just thrown up. Some of the members of staff think it needs a lick of paint, while others think it wants knocking down and rebuilding. It has ten floors and each block has different colours on the walls so you can identify where you are going. So, for example, white represents north, while brown is south, yellow is west, and red is the east block. Once, one poor chap was wandering around for two days — he was colour blind.

  The grounds are vast, car parks taking up the majority of the land; charging a fiver for an hour. The machines give you no change so when you leave your car to go and get some you normally come back to find it wheel clamped with an eighty pound fine stuffed so tightly behind your windscreen wiper that, when you do force it free, it normally costs another few quid for a new wiper.

  At the front of the hospital is a large driveway for ambulances, but they can never get in there for all the taxis and pushbikes. So, most of the time, it’s like a round of Total Wipe Out when trying to get the patients in. And for those patients who had only planned on a brief day clinic visit their ambulance bay experience usually leaves the poor muckers so traumatized that they end up having to stay in for days. I have known a couple of the ambulance drivers to be admitted ’an all.

  It is a very scruffy and dirty area with chewing gum on the floor and rubbish all over; I don’t think it has been cleaned since the day it was built. It was that bad even the rats wouldn’t dare venture there. Patients with chest drains, catheters, feed pumps and every other piece of medical apparatus there is attached to whatever hole was available would come and sit out here in their pyjamas and onesies, breathing in diesel fumes. On their last legs some of them, but they were still determined to make it out at all costs to have a fag. So, if, like me, you’re a non-smoker, you’ll soon find yourself in need of a hospital bed after battling your way through the mounds of cigarette butts and thick smoke to enter the building.

  Straight ahead of you as you walk through the hospital’s front doors is the reception desk where you’ll find Ethel and Margaret (one seventy-five, the other seventy-five and a half years old, both slightly deaf), two volunteers, both with Alzheimer’s disease. It is their job to help people with directions and if you ask me you’d be better off asking Stevie Wonder to direct you. Once, they even managed to send some people to a totally different hospital; they’re worse than some of the patients in the hospital.

  To the right is the cafe where you can relax with a sandwich and a cup of coffee for £9.99, excluding VAT (£11.99 excluding VAT if you want a filling in the sandwich). Coffee shops are all over the hospital; I swear there are more of them than wards, and if your hospital stay amounts to more than a week, tell your family and friends who visit these shops that they’d be better off setting up a direct debit. Across from the reception desk is the security office where folk of different sexes, backgrounds and sizes are there for your safety and protection. Personally, I wouldn’t trust them to look after my dead pet goldfish. We also have a small bank, which never has any money, with staff that are as polite as a German who has been ordered to take his towel off a sun lounger at the hotel pool; but still, we have one. When the bank is closed there is an out of hours cash machine which takes ages to get to as it is situated in the hospital grounds, in the middle of nowhere, and ten times out of nine is broken anyway. There’s a little clothes shop, a gift shop resembling Oxfam and a hairdresser’s too. It always tickles me to see women with monitors, catheters and other medical equipment attached to them, and stuffed up every hole the doctors could find, sitting there having their hair done at £55 a pop — oh excluding VAT of course.

  Now, to get to some of the wards you have to use the lifts. Well, you could use the stairs but you would more than likely need to be treated for a heart attack by the end of them. Mind you, using the lifts is always a gamble too; I have scrapped better steel.

  I do beg your pardon. My name is James Higgins, Higgo, and this is the place where I spend my working days. I stay here mainly for the laughs and the wellbeing of the patients, which at least takes your mind off the poor pay — I think the volunteers earn more!

  I work as a hospital porter. ‘What is one of those?’ I hear you ask Well, we move patients from ward to ward on beds, chairs and tugs, which are like golf buggies. Mind you, half of our equipment is knackered; we’d be better off throwing the patients over our shoulders and carrying ’em.

  We take patients to various clinics, take medical gases like oxygen to the wards and change them for the empty ones, and take medical equipment like syringe pumps, monitors, beds, mattresses and much more to the wards. We also have to take the deceased patients to the mortuary. Urgh you say, well someone has gotta do it and it might as well be us. Plus they have more life in them than some of the staff and you can have a better conversation with them, ’an all.

  Anyway, we, and a lot of other members of staff, consider us porters to be a big part of the operation; pardon the pun — operation, hospital — please yourselves. But others, especially management, think that us and the logistics porters are lower than a snake’s belly, bottom of the food chain; or, as Jim Kelsey (who is about four foot six, very round and fat, balding; with a great bushy beard and is as annoying as stepping in dog poo), the boss, once said, lemonade.

  I have worked at the Dump hospital for a few months now and I have never known it so bad: cuts, no communication; the bosses, managers and workers a world apart, especially from us porters. I suppose it didn’t help matters when the top dog, Jim Kelsey, said in a meeting that the management was like champagne while the rest of the staff, especially the porters, were like lemonade. My reaction when I first heard this was, ‘Yeah, champagne — urine in colour and full of bubbles.’ And, what with Kelsey agreeing to privatization, to say he is an unpopular figure with the staff at the moment would be an understatement. The general consensus was that he was selling us all down the river.

  Now, you could join the union for twenty quid a month. I don’t know why you would though really; all you get for ya money is ‘we’re sorting it’ and a pen — a working one if ya lucky. Yes, seems to me that they’re as much use as a thoroughbred racehorse with three legs.

  I was on days today, which are from six in the morning till two in the afternoon. So, after the usual wrestling with my alarm blaring out at 4.40 a.m., I blearily got up. I must have splashed more than enough water on my face to try and wake myself up but I still made my way downstairs with both eyes shut. Then, after taking my t-shirt off twice because I had put it on inside out, I finally got ready. I had my usual bowl of porridge and cup of coffee, locked up (then went back twice to make sure I really had locked up), then, still with one eye shut, I made my way to the bus stop in zombie mode and trudged in to work.

  Our department is located in an old bit of the hospital; the floors have got so many holes and craters in them that it’s like walking on the moon, or what I imagine walking on the moon would be like anyway. We are situated not far from an entrance on the east corridor and on the front desk sits a computer screen which lists our jobs for the day. Near there is our communal space, which consists of a small sitting area with a few seats and a TV, and a small kitchen where our lockers and mashing facilities are. There were four of us on today, which is a lot really what with the cuts ’an all. There was the team leader, Jack Roberts, who was mashing the tea, Pete Watkiss and Barry Minchin. />
  Jack is into all the fitness stuff. He is a good lad and will always do what he can to help, but he is a practical joker, especially when he’s together with Pete. Many of the porters have been signed up to grabagranny.com, which is a website that has mature, willing women offering let’s just say services for men. So, in the past, a few of the porters have had an earful from their wives, partners, etc. when they have received texts and emails from these eager older women. Pete is a good bloke, apart from being a Liverpool supporter, but he is on the opposite scale to Jack — the only physical exercise he does is lifting his pint to his lips.

  I got my uniform top on and nipped to the toilet. As I kicked the door open a water bucket dropped down from where it had been left perched on the door frame, just missing me. I smirked as I heard the giggles coming from the sitting room. We were always playing tricks on each other. You had to have a sense of humour in this job.

  I went and sat in the sitting room with the lads. Now, I’m a Man Utd fan whereas a couple of the lads are Liverpool and Chelsea supporters, so, as you can imagine, because of Utd’s poor form at the moment they were loving it. As I sat down I noticed, on the wall, that newspaper clippings and pictures of Utd’s latest thrashing had been pinned up. Pete was sat there whistling Ferry Cross the Mersey, trying to act like he had nothing to do with it.

  “Morning, ladies,” I said, interrupting Pete as he now attempted to whistle You’ll Never Walk Alone.

  “All right, Higgo,” they all replied.

  “How did United go on?” smirked Pete.

  I threw a bit of soggy tissue at him. “We were robbed. Not like jammy Liverpool — ya not win nowt, shag,” I said.

  Pete’s answer was the same as it always was. He just sat in silence holding five fingers up, indicating the five European cups Liverpool had won in the past. Barry and Jack laughed.

  I flicked Barry on the ear as I walked past where he was sitting reading the paper at the main desk and he tried to flick me back. We were always messing about. Barry is a laugh, though. Recently, he went to fetch a patient from a ward, but the patient was being argumentative. He picked his suitcase up and threw it at Barry. Now, sometimes these things can happen and we’re supposed to keep calm and deal with the situation. Not Barry; he picked up the case and threw it back at him.

  My first job of the day was to take some blood samples up to the labs so I picked up the container to put them in and set off to the ward. Now, it’s normally quiet at this time in the morning, 6.25 a.m., but it was chaos on the corridors because the hospital had had a tip off, you see. The word was that on this particular day the CQC was dropping in on us for an emergency inspection. Now, ‘what are the CQC?’ I hear you say. Well, what they are are Care Quality Commission inspectors and what they do is drop in on organizations such as hospitals, like us, to check on health and safety and quality. And it was our turn today.

  There were doctors and nurses rushing everywhere, maintenance men trying to make the place look tip top — a bomb would be my suggestion. The cleaners were dusting, polishing and scrubbing every nook and cranny they came across. Two cleaners decided to clean behind a coffee machine, which to their knowledge had never been done before. I wouldn’t be surprised if they found a dead patient behind there.

  I got to the Critical Care Ward; they care for all different things on here, and I popped the samples into my container. Working here sure makes you realize just how lucky you are when you look at the poor muckers lying there with tubes and wires and whatever else sticking out of them. A couple of patients lay looking at the ceiling, not wanting to look at the stump where their legs used to be.

  “Morning, James, are you well, ma duck?” said Barbara, the ward receptionist.

  “Morning, Barbara, not bad thanks, how’s ya self, darling?”

  “I’m fine, apart from running around because the CQC are coming. Thanks for that, duck,” she said, pointing at the samples.

  “No probs, see ya later.” And off I went, making my way up to the labs.

  A minute later, Dr Isaac Wilkutitov went running past. Now, I have heard about this geezer; a tough character, he was a bareknuckle champion apparently. He is from Ukraine, Poland or Russia, somewhere like that, well he ain’t English anyway. He would have no problem being in the mafia (if he already wasn’t). He was thickset, tall, with a skinhead and a scar to match. I heard last week that a couple of months ago he was supposed to have taken some dude’s appendix out, but last week the chap collapsed. When he was examined one of his kidneys was missing, but his appendix was still there; still no one knows where his kidney has gone.

  Dr Wilkutitov met another doctor, Dr Verity Sweat; they were needed in theatres to sort out a woman who had had a heart attack. She had been to the hospital shop and ordered four coffees, six sandwiches and a newspaper — it cost a quarter of her wages.

  I swiped into the blood labs using the card that hangs around my neck. The card is plastic, has my name and photo on it, and it allows me access to most places in the Dump. All of the staff have these. I placed the specimen samples into the correct baskets, which are in a little room staffed by middle aged, lovely, polite ladies. The blood cultures go into a box. After I put everything in the correct places I bid the ladies farewell and made my way out.

  As I was walking back a voice came from behind me. “Good morning; how the devil are ya, chiefy?” said the unmistakeable voice of Macko.

  “Morning, Higgo, man; how’s tricks?”

  “Sound, Tez; how are you? How’s Macko? Are you well, shag?” I said.

  Now, what can I say about these two? Macko and Tez Phillips: rule breakers. They collect rubbish, dirty linen, take out stores, etc.

  Macko nodded his head as he threw some rubbish into a cage, causing some liquid to seep from one of the bags and cover the wall. “Oh dear, look at that, guv; who’s done that?” laughed Macko.

  Laughing, I walked away with a ‘See yas later’ making my way back to base when my phone bleeped, informing me that there was a deceased patient. I accepted the job. When someone wants a job doing they put it in on a computer system, it then comes through to our devices and if you are free you accept the job. For example, it will say patient on a bed, chair or whatever, their name, what ward or wherever they are and where they are going to. Plus any other info like if they need oxygen etc. This particular job said: deceased patient then said location — Cherry Ward, name of patient — Seth Doodle, going to mortuary.

  Now, God knows how many deceased patients I have taken down to the mortuary since I have been doing this job; hundreds I would guess. And people always ask whether it bothers me to which I say, “It’s like owt else; you get used to it.” A couple of my work chums, however, still don’t like it when they can see a body part showing.

  I can remember doing my first one when I was training. They say death is a part of life and here I was in a position where death was definitely a part of my life. I was on my way to do my first deceased patient, or Mickey Griff as the lads say. It didn’t really bother me having to take a deceased patient as I knew it was a part of my job description and I would have to do it at some point. I did panic a bit though when I thought, I hope he really is dead and the doc hasn’t made a mistake. I didn’t want to be pushing him in the fridge and have him jump up and try to get out. Now something like that would make you want to drink a bottle of whiskey — and I can’t stand the stuff.

  Anyway, I wasn’t scared, I was quite intrigued and just hoped I did it right and with dignity. I was with Andy Buckland, Bucko we call him, and he took me to, well, the best way to describe it would be an old closet (where the cleaners had certainly never ventured). It was from here that we picked up the trolley; the deceased’s limousine.

  I watched the looks on people’s faces as we made our way onto the Apple Ward; one woman couldn’t look. People generally know what’s in this type of trolley or, in this case, what will soon be in it. On the ward, after asking the nurses where the deceased patient was, who w
as named Bert, we drew the curtains so that the public and other patients couldn’t see.

  I was excited and nervous at the same time as I looked at my first dead patient. He was wrapped up like a mummy in bed sheets. We removed the cover on the trolley and dropped its sides. Bucko took some papers off Bert’s chest which had his details for the mortuary printed on them; he was ninety to which we both commented that he had had a good innings and that we would both be happy with that. I got a hold of the sheet at his head end and accidentally touched his arm; it just felt like he was asleep. On the count of three we slid Bert onto our trolley, draped the cover over and left the ward.

  I felt the whole world was watching me as I pushed the trolley, my attention only temporarily diverted from the task in hand by Macko pushing a bin into a couple of unsuspecting visitors.

  Bucko opened the mortuary door with the key and we turned on the lights. Bucko told me to lock the door behind me. The room was just full of old, white numbered doors. I had wondered if the room was going to be cold but it just felt normal really. Bucko had shown me how to fill the form in; you put the number fridge you’ve used on top of the form then at the bottom you simply put your initials and sign it. On each door there was a top tray, a middle one and a bottom one in which to place the patients. In our case, 12 was the top tray, 13 the middle and Bert was going to go into number 14, the bottom tray, which was empty.

  Bucko got the motorized trolley while I put the ‘in use’ label on number 14 and then opened the door. There were bodies stacked up; some of them had their feet and the top of their heads showing, which didn’t bother me. What did bother me though was the fact that they reminded me of a lot of unused sausages in a fridge. I remember thinking, so that’s how we all end up; no matter what we have achieved.