This particular morning, there were many bed baths to be done and only two of us to do them, so we assembled all that we would need for the several patients who we were attending at the end of the long ward and loaded up a trolley. On the top shelf of the trolley were two tall, steaming jugs of water.
We were pushing it very carefully down the ward when the front wheels caught in an uneven board in the floor, stopping its progress with a jerk. Both jugs fell forwards, spewing hot water all over the polished floor for about eight or nine feet, the spillage spreading as it went. We were rooted in horror and trepidation—not of Sister but of the domestics. Those two worthies stood by, huffing and puffing and not offering to help, as we spent some thirty minutes mopping up. We apologised and pointed out the uneven board, but they seemed to think that somehow we should have known about it. We said it had not been noticed before, how were we to know?
Luckily, Sister had seen what had happened and told the two grumblers, in no uncertain terms, to be quiet and find something else to do whilst they waited for us to finish. They went off muttering about having to polish it all over again and how ‘these young nurses’ didn’t appreciate how hard they worked and so on.
That was when I remembered the syringes!
I don’t imagine that we ever caught up with our schedule that day.
The Ball
The medical students held dances at the university from time to time, and I went to quite a few, usually by managing to change my off-duty times with accommodating friends. I could not understand why some of my colleagues did not want to go to these balls, as they were grandly called: Natalie was scathing, while Anna found them too noisy. I think, on reflection, that my dancing lessons were the reason I enjoyed such evenings. It meant that I was confident when students asked me to dance—I knew the steps and seemed to have a natural ability. Many of the students were not good dancers, but now and then a real dancer, with an appreciation of rhythm and a knowledge of the steps, came along. Then, when he discovered that I too could really dance, we might spend the rest of the evening together. Sometimes this would lead to being asked out, maybe to the pictures or some other dance-related event.
Contrary to a commonly held myth, young nurses and doctors very rarely went out together. To become a doctor took about six years, so most were in their mid- or late twenties, while we were still in our late teens. It was only the Staff Nurses and sometimes young Sisters who became romantically involved with doctors.
There was one notable exception, however.
Pearl was one of my first-year colleagues. She went to see the young doctor who was assigned to the nurses’ sick bay that day because of a persistent cough. She sat in front of his desk, explained her problem, received a prescription and was just about to leave the room when he rose, strode to the door and held it open but in such a way that he barred her exit.
‘Nurse Winter,’ he said, ‘will you have dinner with me?’
She was so taken aback that she could not speak for a moment.
‘Tomorrow evening? I will pick you up at seven.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll be ready.’
As a result of this, they went out a couple of times and eventually got engaged. Pearl did not even finish her training, as they married a few months later. Such a speedy and apparently seamless romance, however, was rare. Most students were on grants so, like the nurses, had no money for ‘dinners’. A cup of coffee was about as romantic as it got for most of us.
A group of nurses of all stages in training were going to the university ball, and we all had late passes. The evening went well, and I got to know a bearded medical student because he was a fairly good and confident dancer. He talked almost non-stop about all manner of things. I was always glad if my partner talked a lot because I found myself very short of chit-chat.
I realised that I had little knowledge of anything outside the hospital, compared with many of the students; I still had not formed the habit of listening to the news or reading the newspapers, so I couldn’t talk much about current events. Was this a hangover from my childhood years, when it was deemed wrong for me to do either? Or was it laziness on my part? In any case, we were rarely off duty at the right time to listen to the news on the one and only radio in the nurses’ home. There was no television, of course—that came into general use several years later. Perhaps these are only excuses and I should have been more aware of the world around me.
I found that I was very innocent, too, in ways that perhaps a nurse should not be. I did not understand many of the jokes or stories that the patients and some of the nurses told, although they were not necessarily grubby, but just ‘grown-up’. My father had always been against any suggestion of ‘smuttiness’, as he called it, and never told or tolerated doubtful jokes.
Martin, as the student was called, took me in to supper. We danced and talked, so I relaxed and we found a few things in common. At the end of the evening, he asked to take me home. It was a fine night, and I fondly thought we would walk through the quiet streets in the moonlight. I was even prepared to kiss him ‘goodnight’ in spite of the beard!
At the door, he said, ‘I’ll just go and get—’ I did not hear the rest. A car, I thought, with respect. Very few students or nurses had cars.
But round the corner came a large, shiny motorbike. I was wearing a white evening dress (which I had bought from my friend and altered). I was going to have to ride pillion in a white evening dress! But I liked Martin and was not going to allow a little thing like my first-ever ride on a motorbike—even one in a white evening dress—to spoil a budding relationship.
So I bundled the folds of the skirt up around me and straddled the pillion, hanging on to Martin as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be whisked around at midnight in Bristol in an evening dress on a bike.
We went out together for some weeks and I had many rides on that bike, but I didn’t tell Mum and Dad.
Night Duty
About halfway through my first year’s training, my first spell of night duty loomed. I dreaded it. I had two days off and then would have to move to the night nurses’ home. Here we had separate rooms in a big Victorian or Georgian house. Mine was on the first floor overlooking some neighbours’ gardens. This was to prove a blessing a few weeks later.
My first night duty was on another forty-bedded surgical ward, this time housing women who were in for abdominal surgery, such as gastric and duodenal ulcers, appendectomies and the removal of the gallbladder, so it was a very busy ward for two nurses to run with only the help of an orderly.
The workload was heavy from the moment we entered. Last drinks to take round, last bedpans to do, the Senior Nurse had temperatures and blood pressures to take, and then the drug round. In spite of all this, we were expected to learn details about each patient from their names, ages and illnesses to the number of days after surgery, what drugs they required and at what intervals, whether they were allowed out of bed, if they were allowed food (and the same about drink in case of an operation the next day), any dressings, any special diet and sadly who, among the very ill, was likely to die. So often death came at night, when life is at its lowest ebb.
This sounds impossible, but I was lucky: I had the strange ability to rattle off all this information about all forty patients within the first hour or so. I have often wished that this odd ability extended into other parts of life—people’s birthdays, shopping lists, recipes—but that flash of brilliance only worked on the wards.
I had a very pleasant and understanding Senior Nurse, so I learnt the routine quickly, and I soon realised why some nurses preferred night duty. You were almost your own mistress when in charge, because there were only two Night Sisters on duty and their visits to each ward were infrequent, except in the case of an emergency or some real difficulty. The Senior Nurse could apportion work and keep her own records, and so long as the jobs were done and her report to the Day Sister was complete, she could feel that she was ‘boss’. If the nurse
concerned was at all disorganised or even a bit sadistic, the junior could have a very poor time, so I was lucky.
Perhaps I might have liked night duty better had I been able to sleep in the daytime. Two or three hours’ sleep seemed to be my limit, however, so I was always tired.
My new-found motorbiking friend, Martin, faded away as evening after evening he rang and I was not available to accompany him wherever his slightly mad ideas took him.
‘The Window Incident’
I had returned from my days off at four p.m., as required, ready to have a couple of hours’ sleep, if actually I managed to doze off. It was a bright, sunny day and my room was hot, having been closed up during my absence, so I decided to open the window. This had never been easy, as the windows were huge, almost floor-to-ceiling. They were double-width sash windows (the sort that have a rope running up a groove at the sides), with heavy wooden frames. I had to push the bottom window up as far as it would go in order to reach outside to grasp the bottom of the top window.
On this occasion, the window seemed to be stuck, and I had to get a better grip on it to pull harder. To do this, I put my hands between the two windows and pulled. There was a snapping sound, and the top window came hurtling down onto all my fingers, trapping them very painfully between the two heavy windows at about head height. In great pain and unable to move my hands or the window, I stood for a moment. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but I did not want the indignity of having to yell for help.
Then of course, I had to.
I shouted many times over my shoulder, willing another nurse or the manager of the home to hear. But it was four in the afternoon: nurses would be asleep, and the manager’s office was on the floor below. In desperation, I turned towards the open window. I could see some people in their gardens, so I shouted again and again.
Finally, I saw two men jump over their fence, rush across a garden and then there was a furious ringing at the nurses’ home doorbell. A moment later, the manager, three men and a woman came into the room and began to heave at the window. There was a babble of voices while the men tried to push the window up to release my hands. They must have known that this would hurt me even more, but it was the only thing to be done. But the window defied them. One of them went off to get something, and two or three nurses arrived. Someone tried to take some of my weight because I had entered a state of shock and was almost hanging from my trapped hands, as my knees gave way.
At that stage, I think I moaned because I could hear someone moaning, but things were getting a bit hazy. Then I heard somebody say, ‘It would be better if she did pass out!’
The efforts of these kind men were eventually rewarded, as they managed to push the window up enough to release me. Then I think they let go, and the window crashed to the floor. The nurses laid me on the bed, and I managed a rather weak ‘thank you’ to the men. The manager took me to the casualty department, and I received very prompt treatment. A young doctor had to drill into all my fingernails to release the blood which was gathering beneath them. Had he not done so, I would have gradually lost all my nails and been incapacitated for a long time. This was a very quick and simple procedure, but I smiled when this young doctor padded and dressed the finger ends and said, ‘Keep the hands out of water.’ I was a young probationer—did he not know that my hands were always in water?
I was allowed the night off, sleeping in the nurses’ sick bay while they moved my possessions to another room until the window should be mended. In the next few weeks, I spent much time trying to work out the location of the houses viewed from that infamous window in order to leave a note of gratitude. I left several in possible doors—and at least one must have been right because, in addition to the telephone enquiries that the manager had received, one man added that it was ‘not necessary’ for me to thank him. ‘We were put on this earth to help people,’ he said. They were all such nice people.
The story grew in the telling, I think, because a local newspaper reporter came to the building and was promptly sent off by the manager, with the proverbial flea in his ear.
My fingernails were fine, in spite of constant immersion in water!
The young doctor would have been horrified.
Duck and Shout
I had been transferred to a men’s ward part of the way through my night duty. This was unusual, and I do not remember why it happened, but this night there I sat at the desk, with the light on, preparing the treatment book for the following day. My senior colleague was at ‘lunch’ (midnight) and we had no orderly, so I was alone in a for-once quiet ward.
Among our patients, we had two men from the nearby psychiatric hospital. One was in for an appendectomy, the other for some urinary problem. As they needed close supervision, they were both located near the desk; they were inclined to shout a lot but had been sedated for the night. So peace reigned.
Suddenly, one of them roared for a bedpan (although he did not put it quite like that). I took one to him and slid it under his bottom. At that moment another patient called from the opposite end of the ward. Knowing that this long-stay patient would only call if it was important, I went to him immediately, leaving our friend on his bedpan. When I went back to retrieve it, however, the patient appeared to be asleep. Although I always think it must be most uncomfortable, patients frequently fell asleep with bedpans beneath them, especially if they had been sedated. Knowing his rather volatile temper, I left him and would remove that receptacle as soon as he stirred.
I returned to the desk to resume my task. It must have been a slight sound from his direction that made me look up—just in time to see a shiny metal object hurtling towards my head. I ducked! Indeed I ducked! I had no wish to be brained by a bedpan that might even be full. The pan travelled over the desk and landed with a terrible crash on the floor, spilling its contents: yes, it had been full.
I calmed the patient, who seemed to think that I had forgotten him and so had devised this somewhat extreme way of attracting my attention. Then I cleaned up the mess. The noise had woken half the ward, which, to a man, needed bottles or bedpans.
When my senior had departed for her meal, she had left a sleeping, peaceful ward. She returned to mayhem. It took us some time to settle everyone again.
But the ‘fun’ was not over yet.
The other patient from the psychiatric hospital had bed sides around him. These were rather like stalwart metal fencing attached to the bed frame so that the man could not climb out. He had a habit of removing every stitch of clothing, and, before he was constrained, he would make his way to the front entrance of the hospital, intent on escape. This had happened at visiting time, and legend had it that several elderly ladies had to be treated for shock. Whether this was true or not, we were taking no risks.
This man required four-hourly injections, which had to be done through the bars of the ‘cot sides’, as they were called. I happened to be longer in the arm than my more senior colleague, so, after she had drawn up the six am drug, I was going to do the injection. I talked to the man (we did not know if he understood us, but it was the practice to tell the patient what we were about to do) and reached inside the bars with my right hand, which held the syringe, and my left, to hold the man’s leg steady. As I inserted the needle, the patient suddenly sat up and grabbed my arm.
The syringe went I know not where, as the man pushed my arm backwards against the bars, obviously intent on breaking it. I screamed for help. There were several healthy young men at the far end of the ward who were awaiting operations for such conditions as hernias, and three of these lanky fellows charged up the ward. Two of them held the patient—not too gently—while the third prised his hands from my arm. They looked thunderous: it was fairly unusual for a patient to attack a nurse, and they were furious that anyone should do so. I was bruised and sore but unharmed, and once more the centre of attention and concern.
Night Sister was called, but I convinced her that I was fine and told her how the young men, who were still stan
ding by, as though to protect me from any further danger, had rushed to my aid. She smiled at them, thanking them but urging them back to bed, as they were in for operation that day. I was very grateful, too! They delighted in telling anyone who would listen how they had saved a nurse from injury. At least we did not have a reporter knocking on the door this time.
I cannot help but compare the way in which the incident was resolved with the fuss that there would be if a similar thing happened today. I am sure there would be meetings and forms and reports and investigations into procedure, staff safety would be scrutinised and maybe there would be pressure to make complaints and to sue someone—anyone who could be held responsible. We did make the psychiatric hospital aware of the incident so that extra vigilance could be maintained on his return. But that is all.
So my first spell of night duty drew to a close. It had not been short of excitement!
A Disappointment
I had a week’s holiday straight after night duty. Mum and Dad had been thinking of taking a break themselves, and Dad was talking about going to see Auntie Jinny. Mum was not keen but seemed resigned.
When I arrived home on the first day of my holiday, I asked, ‘When are we going to see Auntie Jinny?’
‘What? Oh, we aren’t,’ said Mum. ‘At least not for a while.’
I was deeply disappointed. ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said. ‘Is it that Dad can’t leave the Works or something?’
‘Oh no. I just don’t feel up to it. I get headaches in the car.’ Mum had never had headaches in the car before.
‘What does the doctor say?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I haven’t bothered with the doctor.’
There was something else here, I thought, and wisely left the subject. But it meant that I spent the whole week at home, dusting, polishing, scrubbing. We visited Mum’s parents in Bath—her mother was getting rather frail—and I wangled a visit to Grandma and Grandpa and Auntie Lizzy by myself but on my return was asked many questions about what they said and what I said and had they said anything about Mum and so on. There was definitely something odd going on, I thought.
The Country Nurse Remembers Page 24
