That said, sometimes it’s different outside of the hospital. I was at a bar one Friday night when a woman came up to me and with no warning, kissed me on the lips. She was very attractive and I naturally responded.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she finally said when our lips parted.
I was racking my brain, desperately trying to recall who she was. My future sex life might depend on me remembering where I’d met this woman before.
She just smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve changed a lot. You looked after me when I had my surgery. I just wanted to say thank you for being such a great nurse.’
I suddenly remembered who she was. Not her name, damn it, but at least the circumstances. She had had Crohn’s disease (inflammation of the bowel) and had needed an operation. She was obviously doing well as she’d put on some healthy weight, and looked positively gorgeous… My hopes remained high. Until: ‘I have to go, my boyfriend will be here soon, but I just had to say thank you.’ She gave me another kiss on the lips, then disappeared into the night.
That’s about as close as I ever came.
No chance
About a year into my time in the emergency room, I began to feel competent – if competent meant knowing when and where to get help. Every day was a learning curve, and if it wasn’t a new disease or a bizarre accident that kept me on my toes, then it was something psychological or emotional.
The hospital environment is a place where we meet the good, the bad and the just plain messed up. On any given day you will see the wealthy sick, the poor sick, the rude sick and the bad sick. And then there are the children. Infants are my one true weakness, I turn into a bumbling, useless idiot; they are so small, so fragile, so completely dependent on you.
It was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon the day I met baby Alice. Things were just starting to get busy; it was only a matter of time before the usual Friday night alcohol-related injuries began trickling in: assaults, car accidents, comatose intoxicated.
Beeeeeeeeep!
I still always jumped when the blue phone rang. It was so loud, the whole department could hear it. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one day it gave a patient a heart attack. The blue phone is the phone used by paramedics to give us advance warning of a particularly sick patient that’s coming in. So, as ever, I picked it up expecting the worst.
‘Ambulance 13 to hospital; do you read me? Over.’
‘Hospital receiving; go ahead, ambulance 13,’ I replied.
‘We have on board a 27-year-old woman and a three-month-old infant. Please have security waiting when we arrive.’
I was a bit surprised; they would usually say what was actually wrong with the patients; they didn’t even say which, or both, needed to be seen. That got the alarm bells ringing. Why didn’t they tell us anything? It probably meant that the mother was causing trouble.
I went to stand in the ambulance bay beside the hospital security guard, Jamie, the world’s smallest security guard. It’s a strange phenomenon, but most hospital security guards I’ve met tend to be either a bit undersized or look near retirement age.
‘Give me back my baby, you bastard.’
The woman wasn’t even in through the hospital doors yet, but she could be heard by everyone.
‘She’s my baby, fuck you. Fuck you all! Give her fucking back.’
The woman made a grab for her child, but tripped over her own feet, landing on the ground with an audible thump.
I’m not picking her up, was the first thought that went through my head. I didn’t move from my spot but glanced down at Jamie.
‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full there, Jamie. Don’t take any crap from her,’ I said.
Jamie, a veteran, had dealt with situations like this before and prudently made a call to the police.
I then saw Alice, she was cradled in the arms of Tim, our gentle-giant of a paramedic. Alice was beyond tiny; she was the littlest human being that I can remember seeing. She was gorgeous, even while crying at the top of her lungs.
‘She hasn’t stopped howling since I’ve had her,’ said Tim, as he handed baby Alice to me.
Even howling didn’t feel like a good enough word. This was a scream, a high-pitched wailing noise that sent shivers down my spine.
Tim must have read my mind. ‘I’ve never heard a scream like it. It gives me goosebumps.’
As I carried Alice through to the treatment room, I briefly ran my eyes over her. I could see no sign of obvious injury. There were no deformed limbs, no bruises, lacerations, not even any bleeding. But that scream was triggering a memory deep down inside of me. I couldn’t quite place my finger on it yet, but I knew it was something important.
‘We were called to the supermarket at 1400 hours by the manager of the store,’ Tim explained. ‘Mrs Lawrence was on the escalator. Witnesses say she tripped and landed on top of her baby.’
The more Tim said, the more rapidly the memory found its way up from the depths.
‘Mrs Lawrence claims she has only had a few drinks but as you can see she is very intoxicated. She was refusing to come to hospital to get Alice checked out but soon changed her mind when I threatened to call the police.’
At that moment the memory surfaced and I knew, without a doubt, what was wrong with Alice.
I glanced back out into the ambulance bay, to see Jamie picking Mrs Lawrence up off the concrete.
‘Get your fucking hands off me, you bastard.’
Mrs Lawrence wasn’t letting up with her verbal assault.
She was heading towards Tim and me, all the time continuing with a non-stop barrage of abuse that would make the most weather-beaten sailor blanch. By this time, Jamie had the help of two of my colleagues and, between the three of them, they herded Mrs Lawrence into a side room.
‘I swear if she comes near me I’ll lose it,’ I told Tim.
I gently laid Alice down on the bed. That was a mistake. Just when I thought I had heard the worst that baby Alice’s lungs had to offer, her screams jumped up several octaves, so I quickly picked her back up and with Alice held close I carefully made my way next door to find the consultant on duty.
Dr Nelson wasn’t exactly a consultant; he never got around to sitting his final exams, but he was the backbone of our department. After 20 years of service, he had seen it all.
‘I think you’ve got a sick one there,’ he remarked calmly to me. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we.’
I wished I was as calm as Dr Nelson, instead I blurted out the obvious, ‘The screaming is really bad, doc; it gets even worse when I lie her down.’
I didn’t want to appear like a drama queen, and I didn’t want to sound stupid if my diagnosis was wrong, but I had to speak my mind. One of my nursing tutors had told me about a special type of cry a baby makes, a cry that sets your teeth on edge. She had no other words to describe it, but she’d said we’d know it when we heard it.
‘I’m worried she has a fractured skull.’
Dr Nelson calmly began to examine the baby.
‘I think you’re right, well done for bringing her to me straight away.’
The plan of action was to arrange a head CT as soon as possible. This is a pretty serious test to carry out on an infant, not only does it expose the baby’s brain to potentially damaging X-rays, but you can’t ask a baby to keep still, so they need to be put to sleep, and putting an infant to sleep with a head injury is really a big deal.
As we made arrangements with the anaesthetic consultant and his registrar, we heard a male voice bellow from reception: ‘Where’s my fucking baby? I want to see my baby now.’
Judging from the language being used I guessed this must be Dad. The poor receptionist didn’t get a chance to respond as Dad came charging into the department. I really shouldn’t judge people by appearances, but I’ve found in the emergency room that often first impressions are worth something. Dad was skinny, pale, goateed, tattooed and shaven-headed. He was also drunk. He reeked of heavy spirits and was at leas
t as intoxicated as his wife.
‘I’m sorry, Jay. I’m so fucking sorry, so sorry,’ sobbed Mrs Lawrence, as she ran in, trailed by Jamie. ‘They won’t let me see her. The fucking arseholes won’t let me near her.’
‘Get them out of here now,’ Dr Nelson said in the kind of tone that makes people bolt into action.
Jamie took hold of Mrs Lawrence.
‘Get your hands off my fucking wife, you little bastard,’ yelled Jay.
Thankfully, Tim the paramedic was still there, and moved to physically remove Jay from the department.
‘I’ll fucking sue the lot of you,’ Jay said as he was led away. But he wasn’t resisting; he was sensible enough not to push his luck any further. He tried a new tactic; one which I have seen many times.
‘Look, I’m really sorry, guys. I’m just worried about my baby. Please, I’m really sorry.’ He knew he had gone too far, realised he could end up being led away in handcuffs, and now he was trying the oh-so-caring-dad routine. ‘Please, just tell me what is going on.’
‘Your daughter is seriously unwell, Mr Lawrence. It looks like she has a fractured skull. She will be put to sleep and a scan will be done of her head,’ Dr Nelson said. ‘Depending on the scan, there is a possibility she will be transferred to another hospital in another city, where they have a specialist intensive care unit for infants.’
When Dr Nelson talked everyone listened, it was those years of experience and the accumulation of knowledge filtering through every word he said. I actually thought he was getting through to Mr Lawrence.
‘What did my wife do?’
Dr Nelson told him the full story – and Mr Lawrence turned his rage on to his wife.
She was standing in the doorway of her cubicle with the door half closed, ready to slam it shut if her husband made a sudden move towards her.
‘Not your fucking fault!’ Mr Lawrence said incredulously as Mrs Lawrence attempted to defend herself. ‘You got pissed and fell on my baby. How the fuck isn’t it your fault?’
‘If you spent any time at home, you’d know just how it’s your fault. Instead you’re always at the pub, pissed.’
Mrs Lawrence looked directly at me.
‘Do you know he can’t get a job? We have no money and he pisses it all away. I married a fucking loser.’
Before we had time to react, Mr Lawrence charged towards his wife. She tried to slam the door shut, but he easily forced it open. In the seconds it took us to catch him, Mr Lawrence managed to deliver two hard fists to his wife’s face. After making sure she was going to be okay, Mrs Lawrence went home with a social worker and Mr Lawrence went away in handcuffs after all.
Baby Alice did have a skull fracture but that was the last I saw of her; she was wheeled into the intensive care unit, to await transport to another hospital, in another city.
It wasn’t until three months later that I eventually heard that she had made a full recovery. I also discovered she was back with her parents. This is sometimes the most frustrating part of the job, knowing that you can only fix a small (sometimes temporary) part of an often greater problem. All I can do is have faith that the powers that make this sort of decision are making the best choice for the child.
Saturday night shift
I worked for two years in the emergency room before I was considered one of the experienced staff members. No one ever said ‘Hey, you’re now an experienced staff member’, but certain things began to happen. The most obvious change being that I found myself working more night shifts. The weekend night shift is always the most interesting…
There was a commotion at the security doors. The guard rushed over and asked for help. Several of us raced to the door to find a young man being carried by a group of very angry looking people.
The young man couldn’t have been more drenched in blood if he had taken a bath in it. I have seen a fair amount of bleeding in my time, but rarely so much from one person – and never from one who was still alive.
I knew immediately who this must be. We’d had a call about ten minutes earlier from the paramedics asking if we’d had any stab victims. They’d been called to a party that was the scene of an alleged assault, but there was no victim, or witnesses. There was, however, a lot of blood, so much that they were worried somebody was seriously injured.
The young man on the other side of the security doors urgently needed our help, but there was one slight problem. We had to somehow get the victim inside to be treated, but keep the horde out, because there was no way we wanted them in the building. There must have been 20 people clamouring at the front door, yelling, angry, and probably drunk; far too many to control. With so few of us, they could easily have run riot and we would have been powerless to stop them.
This was not just about their numbers or aggression, our emergency department had a policy of no more than one family member in the resuscitation room, and they had introduced this policy for good reason. In my two years in the emergency room I’d seen and heard of plenty of incidences of violence and verbal abuse to treating staff.
In this particular case, the reasoning was even simpler; the paramedics had phoned from the scene of a party. Parties mean alcohol, and alcohol can bring out the worst in people.
As I’ve mentioned, Jamie, our security guard, wasn’t exactly intimidating. There was no way he would be able to stop the crowd from coming inside. He’d just put himself at risk trying.
‘Just stay out of their way,’ I told Jamie. ‘Stay in the background. The uniform might make you a target. You don’t want to be mistaken for a cop.’
When people are angry, police officers can often find themselves targets. Jamie was more than happy to oblige.
We eventually opened the doors and I was almost knocked over by the inrush of bodies.
‘Fuck, do something! Fuck, you’re a fucking doctor, do something.’
Everyone was shouting and screaming at once; the only words I could hear clearly were curses. It was chaos.
I returned my attention to the victim. So far he had not shown any sign of life.
I acted on instinct alone, and grabbed on to the body. It gave me a purpose and it gave me something to focus on. The other two nurses took hold of him as well, battling with two people, who turned out to be the boy’s parents, who were not going to let go of their son.
Between the parents, me, and the two other nurses on duty that night, we managed to drag the patient past a stunned looking elderly man and on to the next resuscitation bed. The crowd of people followed us through.
I tried to explain that only two relatives could be here, but I was ignored, and decided it best not to argue.
The victim was a teenage boy. He was cold to touch and very pale. He looked as if he had been drained of all blood. There was certainly enough blood on his clothes and those around him, plus there was a trail leading out past reception to the front door. At that moment I began to worry about my own safety. I looked at my colleagues and I could tell they were thinking the same thing as me. The only help this boy could get was from a power greater than any we had to offer; he was dead.
But try telling the family there was nothing we could do. It was not an option, we had to at least make an effort, be seen to do something.
At my hospital, there was generally only one doctor on duty during the night. This was very often a junior doctor, but thankfully that evening we had Keith, an experienced practitioner with a full year of emergency room service behind him.
He jumped in with his first instructions: ‘Start compressions. I’ll try to get a line.’
It’s a bit hard to find a vein on a corpse, so Keith stuck the needle in a vein in the side of the boy’s neck. I began compressions, all the time trying to keep my fingers out of the chest wound. The stab wound was to the left side of the chest, directly into the right ventricle of the boy’s heart, which explained the extent of the bleeding. With every beat of this boy’s heart, his life had drained out of him. I tried to tune out slurping sounds comin
g from the wound every time I pressed down.
We continued resuscitation, knowing it was going to do no good. We poured in fluids, we poured in blood, and pumped him full of adrenaline, but it was to no avail. By this time three more nurses had come from other wards to help out. They had to fight their way through the crowd of onlookers just to get to the bedside.
‘He’s not moving. Fucking do something,’ screamed a giant of a man who had nearly bowled me over earlier. When Keith suggested that resuscitation should be stopped, the boy’s father responded immediately: ‘You do and you fucking die!’ He backed up his threat by pulling out a knife and brandishing it at Keith, and then me.
Keith signalled us to keep on going, even though it was well past the point of no return.
Meanwhile, out at reception, another relative of the boy was standing in front of Joanne our receptionist, painting his face. Joanne didn’t say a word as the man stuck his finger in a pool of blood and smeared it over his face. He was of Maori descent, and probably painting traditional war patterns on his face, getting ready for battle.
The receptionist didn’t have the courage to tell the man that the blood was not from the stabbing victim, but from another patient.
Thankfully, all emergency rooms I’ve ever worked in have silent alarms that can be discreetly pressed. Joanne had pressed our emergency alarm the moment the family had arrived.
It felt like hours before the police came; in reality it was only 20 minutes. When you’re in a crisis situation time changes; five minutes can seem like an eternity, or an hour can fly by and only feel like five minutes.
Half a dozen cars crammed full of officers pulled into the car park; it looked like the whole of the town’s force was here. Usually the more junior police officers ended up dealing with hospital problems, but when they came into the resuscitation room there were older, obviously senior police officers that I had never seen before.
Confessions of a Male Nurse Page 18
