Yes Sister, No Sister Read online

  ‘Nothing will happen,’ he says when he sees my eyes widen. ‘Just sit here and make sure this bag goes in and out.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t?’ I ask.

  ‘It will. But if anything goes wrong, go out of the door and yell “Andrew” at the top of your voice. Watch this drip as well. I’ve just changed the bottle so it won’t run dry. Thanks.’

  I sit at the patient’s head not daring to take my eyes off the black rubber bag that expands and contracts as the patient breathes. Andrew returns after ten minutes, just as I am beginning to relax.

  ‘There, now you know that there’s nothing to being an anaesthetist. We just sit here playing with our knobs!’

  Bob prepares a fresh anaesthetic machine for each case and today I help. We wipe each with carbolic, check the tanks, replace them if necessary and put out clean, sterilised syringes. Just before dinner, I go into a theatre where the list has finished, to claim the used anaesthetic machine. The anaesthetist is still there. He is sitting giving himself an injection into his arm.

  ‘I’m a diabetic,’ he says, ‘and this is my a.c. [before meals] insulin.’ He smiles at me.

  I think nothing of the incident but a couple of days later I am running for Daisy and the same anaesthetist is working. As we clean up afterwards, I ask Daisy, ‘How difficult is it for a doctor to work if he has diabetes? Will it affect him much?’

  ‘Why? Who has diabetes?’

  ‘The anaesthetist who’s just done this case.’

  ‘He hasn’t got diabetes. What makes you think he has?’ She stops what she’s doing to stare at me.

  ‘I found him on Monday giving himself his insulin,’ I say, feeling confused.

  ‘What!’ Daisy startles me with the explosive way she says the word. ‘Come into my office.’

  Thoroughly alarmed and wondering what I’ve done, I follow Daisy to her office.

  ‘Sit down,’ she says as she reaches for paper and a pen. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Daisy writes as I relate what I saw. When I have finished she says, ‘Don’t say anything about this to anyone, Nurse Ross, but you may be required to tell this story again.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Sister. If he isn’t a diabetic, what was he injecting?’

  ‘Pethidine probably.’

  ‘But all his DDAs were accounted for.’

  ‘He could say he’d given a patient some and hadn’t or, more likely, he gave only part of each ampoule to several patients and used the rest. However he did it, this is very serious.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’ I really like the anaesthetist. He had helped me fill out the DDA book with the patient’s names and seemed particularly conscientious about his records.

  ‘I shall have to tell the chief anaesthetist and he’ll deal with it. Don’t look so alarmed – he’ll be helped to get off drugs and when he does, he’ll be able to work again under supervision. It’s an occupational hazard.’

  I am dying to discuss this incident with Judith but Daisy has asked me to keep quiet. When we are at home one evening a few days later, I decide to broach the subject in a general way.

  ‘Do you know much about drug addiction in nurses and doctors?’ I ask Judith as we sit down to a supper of mushrooms on toast.

  ‘There’s an article about it in the last Nursing Times,’ Judith says. ‘It seems to be more prevalent than we think.’

  ‘I can’t understand how anyone would begin to take drugs, especially the DDAs, when they know they’re addictive.’

  ‘Oh, it’s easy. You have a pain, a toothache for example and you’re on duty, so you give yourself something so you can keep working. Then you have another shot, then another, and Bob’s your uncle, you’re hooked. Look at you, you’ve taken the odd Seconal when you can’t sleep, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not addictive,’ I say feeling guilty.

  ‘They are habit-forming. Don’t start in on the heavy stuff though – you’ll lose your license before you’ve even got it!’ Judith gets up from the table. ‘Come on, you promised me a ride into the country and it’s a lovely evening.’

  As we ride out into the glorious Yorkshire countryside and I feel the wind on my face and see the bright green of the fields, I am glad I am healthy. I see so many ill people that I forget that most of the world is not sick.

  We park the scooter and walk along a public footpath through fields to a small village. Unlike Sandy, Judith does not need to talk the whole time, so in companionable silence we enjoy only the occasional baa of sheep and the call of wood pigeons.

  ‘Want a cider?’ Judith asks when we reach the village with its centuries-old inn.

  We order a pint of draught cider and packages of Smith’s crisps each before finding a seat in one corner of the beamed room.

  ‘We should do this more often,’ Judith says. ‘When I think about our lives and see that all we do is work and sleep, I wonder why I’m doing this. I had an old school friend ask me what I do for fun and I couldn’t answer.’

  ‘We go to the theatre and the cinema frequently,’ I say, ‘but it’s difficult to have a boyfriend unless he’s a medical student because they simply don’t understand how hard we work. If they’re medical students they’re exhausted all the time as well.’ I take a long drink of cool, refreshing cider. ‘Nick and I only went out together for a few months. I think he got tired of listening to my excuses about why I couldn’t go out when I come off duty at nine.’

  ‘This is very pleasant,’ Judith says as she licks salt from the crisps off her fingers. ‘We must make ourselves go out more and see how the rest of the world lives.’

  ‘It’s a bargain,’ I say. We down our ciders and walk back to the scooter in the evening mist.

  Chapter 17

  WHEN WE ARE all home one evening, Judith calls for everyone to sit down as she wants to discuss something.

  ‘But I want to do thome washing,’ Wee Jess says.

  ‘You can do it later. I want to discuss the dullness of our lives.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Sandy says. ‘My life is hectic.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s hectic in the wrong ways. Look at us – worn out all the time. All we do in our off duty is sleep. If we do go out, we want to be in bed by 11. Anyone would think we’re in our seventies, not our twenties.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Jen and I were out on her scooter on Tuesday evening and we had a lovely walk and ended up in a pub. We should get out more.’

  Sandy brings in the ironing board and plugs in the iron. ‘If we’re just talking, I can iron as well, can’t I?’ she says when she sees Judith’s exasperated look. ‘Anyway, there isn’t room for four on the scooter.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting we always go on the scooter. I’m thinking we should make an effort to just go out more.’

  Sandy starts to iron one of her numerous starched petticoats that she wears under full skirts. ‘We all go to the theatre regularly even if we don’t all go together, and we’re not often off together.’

  ‘And I usually go home on my day off and so do you,’ Wee Jess says.

  ‘Oh, what’s the use!’ Judith swings her legs over the arm of her easy chair. ‘I just think we are wasting our youth – giving it to dear old Leeds General Infirmary.’

  ‘What would you like to do?’ I ask.

  ‘I would like to take some evening classes, join a club, go riding, play tennis – lots of things. But meet people who aren’t old, sick, or treating the sick.’

  ‘But we do get four weeks holiday a year to make up for it,’ Sandy says. ‘You and Jenny went skiing in February and pony-trekking last autumn. We could all do something together next holiday.’

  ‘I’m not wanting your company, I want to meet different people who are more interesting than you lot.’

  ‘She’s saying we’re not interesting, that we’re not fun, that we add no colour to her life,’ I say. I hold both arms out horizontally and sing, ‘I can-can like you can-can,
we all can-can…’ Sandy and Jess join me and we prance round the room. Judith holds a cushion over her head and groans.

  When we’re in bed, Judith and I talk more about adding variety to our lives. ‘I agree with you,’ I say, ‘My life is dull. It is too easy to sit down and collapse when we come home but I felt so much better after we’d been out on Tuesday. I would like to learn to ride and there’s no reason we can’t do that in a two-five. There’s a stable in Bramhope. I’ll find out more about it, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll get the Aston Adult Education programme. We can see what they offer in the afternoon. It’s easier to get a two-five than a five-to, but then we’ll be going on nights and that will ruin it.’

  ‘We don’t go on nights for another three months. There’s time to take one course.’

  ‘I’ll find out anyway. I feel better just thinking about it,’ Judith says. She turns on her side. ‘Good night.’

  ‘We could learn to play a musical instrument. A trumpet perhaps?’ But Judith is asleep.

  The ward allocation lists go up and our days in theatre are numbered. I am to go to Casualty, Judith to the hospital for women and Sandy into theatre. I feel sorry for Jess – she is down for the Dragon’s ward.

  A back door of the hospital leads from a parking area for ambulances straight into the Casualty department. The sister is a male nurse, Joe Barnes, so of course we call him Brother Barnes, or BB for short. He is middle-aged with a shiny, bald pate. Dark-brown eyes sparkle behind his glasses and his mouth and expression are of one ready to smile. He wears a white coat with a name-pin stating simply, ‘Joe Barnes, SRN.’

  BB was a nurse in Singapore during the war. When it fell to the Japanese, he spent three years in Changi. During the ‘check-up’ we do prior to every change of ward, I find out that he was once punished by the Japanese by being shut in a metal box and left out in the sun all day.

  My informant also tells me that BB is constantly at war with Matron’s office and that he is usually the victor. He can’t stand red tape or formalities, such as sisters putting on cuffs when Assistant Matrons enter the ward. When they visit Casualty, he goes out of his way to be sitting so that he can remain seated. He addresses student nurses by their first names and refers to them as such to the Assistant Matrons.

  When I first meet him, he asks if I am called Jennifer or Jenny. ‘Jenny,’ I say. ‘Jennifer reminds me of school, especially when the emphasis is on the first syllable.’

  ‘Right Jenny, if you think Casualty is one long saga of saving lives and performing extraordinary feats with tubes, you’re in for a big disappointment. Most of the time we see kids who’ve stuck pencils up their noses or stones up their bums, and adults who’ve done something daft and cut themselves. Then we have our share of drama queens who overdose on aspirin to ‘show’ their lovers, Saturday night drunks and people with warts who think they need attention at two o’clock in the morning. Sordid – yes, exciting – no, but we keep cheerful anyhow.’

  He shows me round. There’s a room with several curtained cubicles, two walled rooms with examining tables, two small theatres and a plaster room.

  ‘I want you to take this cubicle,’ BB says, pointing to one. ‘The triage nurse will send you dressings to change or stitches to come out.’

  ‘What’s a triage nurse?’

  ‘The nurse who assesses each person in the big queue that’s forming and sends each to the appropriate nurse or doc. Patients who are waiting to see you will sit here,’ he says, indicating a row of chairs. ‘The sterilising room and dressing trolleys are over there. I will help you at first as you have to be able to judge whether a patient should come back or not, or if further treatment, such as physio, is needed. Some of them need to see a Lady Almoner as well.’

  I am busy all morning dressing burns and other wounds, putting drops in eyes and removing stitches. BB keeps a careful watch on what I am doing. I soon learn which patients need to return and to whom I can say, ‘No need to come back.’ I am so occupied in my little space that I don’t know what is happening in the rest of Casualty.

  At coffee break, which, like theatre, is taken in the staff sitting room, I am introduced to the physician-in-charge, Alexander John. As BB is known as Brother, Dr John is privately called Father John. He is a quiet man with an enormous black moustache and large baby-blue eyes. He is renowned for being able to suture wounds that leave no scar so all facial injuries are referred to him. There is the same lack of formality here as in theatre. The difference is that here everyone seems relatively sane.

  I am a two-five and on in the evening with BB. A woman who has overdosed herself on some unknown substance is brought in unconscious. BB shows me how to pass a thick rubber tube into her stomach and how to wash it out. I sit with her, administering oxygen, as the doctor starts an intravenous drip. Her sister, who found her, is in the waiting room. When the drip is up, I fetch her to come and visit.

  ‘This is typical of our Ivy,’ she says. ‘She’s lucky I happened to drop in or she’d have been a goner this time.’

  ‘Has she done this before?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes. I think this must be the sixth, or is it the seventh time? Row with her boyfriend, I expect. What she doesn’t realise is that instead of making them feel sorry for her, she makes them run a mile.’

  After about an hour, Ivy starts to regain consciousness and is admitted to a ward. No sooner has she gone than four people who have been in a car accident are wheeled in. One of them has a serious head injury and is attended to by BB and the doctor while the other nurse and I see to the rest. They have minor cuts and bruises but are in shock so need warmth and oxygen before we dress the wounds. As they lie recovering, a policeman brings in an unconscious man who reeks of alcohol.

  ‘Not sure about this one, nurse,’ the bobby says. The police take upright drunks to the cells but they bring unconscious people to us, as alcohol can mask serious conditions. I take the man’s temperature, pulse and respirations, check his blood pressure and neurological signs and lie him on his side so that if he vomits, he won’t choke on it. When the doctor and BB have finished attending to the car accident patient, they come to examine the alcohol man.

  Another policeman is here to take details of the car accident and as there is a lull, everyone, including the police, sits down for a cup of tea. Not for long. There is the sound of a child crying and I go out to find an eight-year-old boy with his wrist looking like a dinner fork, accompanied by yet another bobby.

  ‘He won’t say who he is,’ the policeman says, ‘so I’ve brought him here. Then I’ll go and track his parents.’

  BB appears. ‘What’s your name, son?’ he whispers to the boy. ‘Tell me. I won’t give you up to the police!’ He bends his head down to the boy can whisper in his ear. ‘OK, son. It looks as if you’ve lost your stuffing and you’re going to need a cast on that arm. Come with me.

  BB leads the boy into the plaster room. In a couple of minutes he reappears to say to the policeman, ‘He’s Tom Bates of 9 Springfield Crescent.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says the bobby. ‘I’ll go and get his parents.’

  ‘Now’s your chance to put on a cast, Jenny,’ BB says to me. ‘It’s a simple Colles. I’ll show you how.’

  In the plaster room I learn how to wet a roll of plaster of Paris bandage and wind it over the stockinette sleeve I first put on Tom’s arm. Then I smooth out the plaster and bring over the edges of the stockinette to make a soft cuff. I check the cast is not too tight and that Tom can move his fingers before I take him to a cubicle where he can wait for his parents.

  ‘Would you like an ice-cream?’ I ask him.

  ‘Ooh, yes please.’ Tom’s eyes light up and he stops whimpering. I tell BB where I’m going and then walk to the main kitchen where there is always Walls ice cream in the freezer. It is time to go off duty when I return as the night staff has come on.

  ‘That was a pretty normal evening,’ BB says when I ask him if I may go. ‘See you in the morning.�
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  Several days pass before I have a chance to ask Sandy how she likes theatre. ‘They’re all nuttier than fruit cakes, aren’t they?’ Sandy is ironing her petticoats again. ‘The funniest thing happened on Sunday. Two housemen put Sister Hale in one of those big laundry bags on wheels and took her for a ride down the main corridor. Then they saw Matron coming and they shot into the nearest ward, leaving Hale sitting in the bag. She didn’t know why they had stopped so she stood up to see what was happening and found Matron looking at her. And you know what Matron said?’

  ‘What? Go on.’

  ‘She said, “Really, Sister, if you must behave like this, at least the housemen could be gentlemen enough to help you out,” and walked on.’

  ‘She’s quite a lass, isn’t she?’ I say. I like our present Matron. She had recently been on a trip to the United States. When she found out that a Matron there is a lavatory attendant, we heard that she introduced herself as someone who is in charge of toilets but that these are included in a thousand-bed hospital.

  I am the triage nurse one day when a woman, typically dressed in a headscarf and shapeless coat, patiently waits her turn.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. She hands me a folded handkerchief. I open it to find a finger. It is all I can do not to shriek and hurl it from me but instead I ask to see her hand. She has it wrapped in a bloodstained towel concealed beneath a blanket. I take her to an empty cubicle and have her lie down.

  ‘You needn’t have waited in the queue, luv,’ I say, ‘something like this needs immediate attention.’

  ‘Nay, lass,’ she says, ‘there’s folk much worse than me.’

  I get BB to come and take care of her and go back to the queue. Later I ask him what happened to her and he tells me she has been admitted, as she needs surgery to clean up the stump. I say, ‘can you imagine someone who has just chopped off their finger, standing in a queue? I think I would have sent for an ambulance.’

  ‘You’re not a stoical Yorkshire woman,’ BB says.