Yes Sister, No Sister Page 15

  ‘Oh yes I am!’ I am indignant. ‘But I still think losing a finger is more than a trifle.’

  ‘Why, is it a baked custard?’

  I throw a towel at him and carry on.

  BB is forthright and down-to-earth with the patients and I learn a lot from his approach. A young boy of about ten comes in one day with a thin layer of skin hanging from his calf. He is screaming like a banshee and refusing to be touched when BB comes to see what all the fuss is about.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he quietly asks the child.

  ‘Mike,’ comes the answer.

  ‘Well Mike, it’s like this. You have cut your leg badly. All this needs to be sewn back into place.’ He points to the flap of skin. ‘Now you can either have that done and go home with a mended leg or you can refuse and go home with it like this. It’s entirely up to you; you have to decide. Which is it to be?’

  ‘Sew me up then,’ mutters Mike.

  ‘Well now Mike, I will sew you up as you request but I will not do it if you scream and yell. It will hurt a bit but no more than you’re used to. I expect you to act like you usually do when you’re hurt. You don’t usually yell do you?’

  I am amazed how Mike suddenly becomes mature. He and BB chat about cricket, discuss who is going to win the Test match, and argue over who is the best bowler, as BB sews up the flap. They shake hands and Mike promises to return the next day for his leg to be checked.

  We all learn to suture wounds. The first one I get is a deep gash in a thigh from an accident with a saw. I take the man into one of the operating rooms and expect BB or the doctor to come and sew him up, but after ten minutes neither has appeared so I go to find out what they are doing.

  ‘I thought you would do it,’ BB says.

  ‘I’ve never done it before and I don’t think I can,’ I say.

  ‘Can you sew?’ BB asks.

  ‘Well yes, but material, not skin.’

  ‘No difference. Here, I’ll come and show you. First you inject some local anaesthetic and when that’s had a chance to work, you just sew the edges together like you would a skirt.’

  I am quite proud of my neat stitching as I dress the wound. I say as I help the man off the table, ‘Come back in five days to have it checked. Or sooner if it bothers you or if you get a temperature or anything like that, but it is a nice clean wound and should heal easily.’

  That night we are all home for a change. Sandy tells us about a nurse in theatre who sat on a shelf and got a circular needle stuck in her bum.

  ‘Both ends of the needle went in and one of the surgeons had to extract it. Boy, was she embarrassed. Can you imagine? And she’s only been in theatre a week. Now she has to live that down!’

  ‘How are you getting on with the Dragon?’ I ask Jess.

  ‘She took one look at me and thaw how thweet and charming I am so I’ve had no trouble.’ Wee Jess says as she lays her bent head on her folded hands and flutters her eyelashes at me. ‘She’s horrible to Cartwright though – behind her all the time.’

  ‘That was me,’ I say, ‘and Milbury was the blue-eyed girl.’

  ‘How’s Casualty?’

  ‘Great fun! BB is such a treat after some of the sisters I’ve worked with. No nonsense. He expects us to make decisions. I love it.’

  My upbringing and education were vague about male reproductive organs and so far nurse training hasn’t helped me overcome my shyness.

  When we bathe male patients and get to the ‘private parts’, we hand the patient a flannel for him to wash himself ‘down there’. It is only when laying out dead men that I have actually handled these parts and I am embarrassed to even refer to them. So when we get the vicar of the church next to the hospital into Casualty, clutching himself where he has been hit by a cricket ball, and BB tells me to put heparin compresses on his genitals every five minutes, I become immobilised.

  BB sees my hesitation and says, ‘What’s the matter with you, woman? Don’t you know how to make a heparin compress?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I say, ‘It’s…’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re being maidenish about a man’s groin! Oh, for heaven’s sake Jenny, he’s more embarrassed than you are. Pretend it’s his foot you’re putting compresses on and have some sympathy for the pain he’s in.’

  I make up the compresses and go into the cubicle where the vicar is lying. His dog collar and shirt on the top half look incongruous with the sheet covering his legs and his exposed swollen genitals. I wring out the first compress. Without looking at his face, I place it gently over the affected area as I pretend it’s his foot.

  ‘This should help the pain,’ I say, and it seems to as he relaxes with a sigh. ‘I’ll be putting fresh compresses on every five minutes so I’ll be back in a jiff.’

  The next time I go in, I look at his face. He is quite young and has a sandy-coloured moustache. He looks at the ceiling as I replace the compress and doesn’t speak. After the third compress, I ask how he’s feeling.

  ‘A bit better, thank you nurse. At least the pain is better but this will go down as my most embarrassing moment!’

  ‘Just pretend it’s your foot that’s sticking out,’ I say. ‘That should help.’

  Our eyes meet, we laugh, and he reaches for my hand to give it a squeeze.

  One morning I come on duty and poke my head into a cubicle to see BB and the houseman attending a man with a hugely swollen penis. It has a ring on it so that it looks like a long inflated balloon that has been twisted in the middle. I stare in wonder until BB tells me to go away. Later, I ask him how the man got a ring on his penis. He is strangely reticent despite the incident with the vicar. ‘You’re too young to understand.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, tell me,’ I insist. After much nagging he tells me a prostitute has put it on because he wouldn’t pay. I don’t believe him and it is not until I consult Sheila that I learn the truth.

  ‘Sheila, you seem to know all about penises! We got a man into Casualty who had a ring on his. How do you think it got there?’

  ‘I expect he was masturbating with it,’ Sheila says. I am not quite sure what the word means but don’t like to admit it. I will look it up later.

  ‘While we’re on the subject, a man can’t die with an erection, can he? You were kidding us.’

  ‘Of course I was kidding! An erection is a sign of life if there ever is one.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘WHAT HO, GIRLS.’ A voice, an octave above the average and with an amplitude that could be heard across a gymkhana ground, greets us as Judith and I enter the Chestnut Stable. ‘Jolly good that you want some fresh air and exercise to blow away the cobwebs, what? Nurses, eh? Can’t say that job would suit me – I’d keel over at the first sight of blood. Good job someone can do it, what? But you must be really hard.’

  I grit my teeth. It infuriates me when people say we must be ‘hard’ to do the job they couldn’t do. We do it because we care enough, not because we are so indifferent that we are hardened to suffering.

  Chestnut Stable is run by Olivia Alcock-Brown, an aristocratic young woman who, I was informed by a mutual acquaintance, is too dense to go to college or train for a career, so was set up by her wealthy parents with a riding stable. It was a fortunate choice as both she and the stable flourish.

  ‘Now which of you is Judith and which Jennifer? You’ve ridden before, Judith? Good show. I’ll put you on Thunder and you, Jennifer, on Sable. Call me Livvy, by the way. But not Olive – that name goes right up me nose as the Australians say.’

  She helps us onto our horses and then mounts her own, a frisky white mare. ‘Steady on, Snowy, steady there.’ She reaches over to pat her mount’s neck, which, as she is nearly six feet tall, is not difficult.

  ‘I’ll take you into Harefield House estate today. I have permission from the Earl, you know. Went to school with his daughter. Dear old Flip just got herself harnessed – to a banker, don’t you know. Nice fella but a bit wet. Jennifer, hold your reins like this. He
can’t tell a mare from a stallion. No seat whatsoever. Only interested in figures. The arithmetical kind I mean. Don’t think he’d know what to do with the others. Got his libido stomped out of him at Harrow. All those cold showers and running up and down hills. Glad we didn’t do that at Cheltenham.’

  Livvy keeps up a running commentary on her life and the people in it and occasionally throws out directions about how to sit, steer and stop.

  ‘Jolly good show,’ she says when we return after an hour and a half. ‘Hope you’re not too stiff. Try some Sloan’s liniment on the old rear if you are. Works wonders.’

  We pay her ten shillings each and leave. Unfortunately we can’t talk on the scooter so I don’t hear Judith’s impressions until we’re going to bed.

  ‘Fraightfully jolly, what?’ Judith says and this expression becomes part of our vocabulary. ‘She’s a good rider though and her horses are in perfect condition. I think she’s a hoot. I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘It’s nice to ride in Harefield House grounds isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I’ve always imagined myself cantering over those acres of green that all stately homes seem to have.’

  It is Wednesday and I am looking forward to our ride this afternoon. The queue of patients has been quite short and we are clearing up after it when BB calls us.

  ‘Action stations! There’s been a bomb explosion in the centre of Leeds. We are to expect dozens of casualties. I’ve alerted Matron’s office and they’re sending more staff and Dr John has mobilised the medical staff.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘The police think it’s an IRA attack. Here they come.’ We hear ambulance sirens sounding like approaching cats in distress. ‘Dr John and I will triage. Jenny, you take cubicle one, Jean, two, Heather, in three. As soon as more staff come, I will assign them to you and you supervise them.’

  The swing doors to outside are flung open. Trolleys are rushed in. Father John and BB quickly examine each patient and send him or her in different directions.

  ‘Jenny,’ BB calls, ‘before you do anything else, phone Jim and ask for every trolley in the hospital to he brought here. Then here’s your first patient.’

  I phone Jim and wheel my trolley into my cubicle. On it is a girl, about nine years old. Her face is black, her head is bleeding and she is unconscious. Her school uniform is in tatters. Blood is seeping through a wound in one arm. I panic. What am I to do?

  ‘Keep calm,’ I say to myself. ‘First, see to her airway, then examine her.’ I wipe some of the black soot off the girl’s face so I can see her colour. Her lips are blue and mottled. Her respirations are shallow and irregular. Her pulse is extremely rapid. The head wound, after I have cleaned it a little, seems to be superficial but it is bleeding profusely. Help me, someone, I don’t know what to do. Should I intubate? An anaesthetist showed me how not long ago. She is certainly not breathing well nor getting enough oxygen. Do it lass. Can’t do her any harm and may save her life. I grab the laryngoscope, tilt her head back and insert an airway that I then attach to breathing apparatus with oxygen. I start to squeeze the oxygen bag rhythmically and watch her chest rise and fall. Her lips change from blue to pink. So far so good.

  Still squeezing the bag, I try to expose the arm that is bleeding. At that moment the curtains are pulled aside and a student nurse comes in.

  ‘Mr Barnes told me to come and help you. What can I do?’

  ‘Could you squeeze this oxygen bag while I have a look at her arm?’ I cut off the sleeve of the blood-soaked blazer and blouse. It is as if I have released a tap. Blood squirts everywhere. I grab a piece of rubber tubing and tie it around the upper arm. The blood flow stops a little allowing me to see torn flesh and exposed muscle. I can’t do this. I don’t how to stop this. I want to cry.

  ‘Father John,’ I yell forgetting to use his correct title. He comes in. ‘She’s bleeding badly from this arm and I don’t know how to stop it.’

  ‘You’ve put on a tourniquet and you’ve got her intubated. That’s good,’ Dr. John says calmly. ‘Now let’s see if we can clamp the artery that’s bleeding. Got a clamp?’

  I hand him one and he pokes around in the wound.

  ‘No good,’ he says. ‘She’ll have to go to theatre. Who is she?’

  I look at the child’s satchel that I have taken off her shoulder. Inside the flap is written ‘Christine Stacey, 153 Bellevue Road, Leeds, Yorkshire, England, Great Britain, World, Universe’.

  ‘Her name’s Christine Stacey.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t time for consent. We need to stop her bleeding straight away. She’ll have to go to theatre as quickly as possible.’

  As we wheel the trolley out into the corridor, Daisy appears from nowhere. ‘This patient has a severed artery in one arm and needs urgent surgery, ‘ I tell her.

  ‘Right, I’ll help this nurse take her. Will you tell BB that the lists are stopped and we’re freeing all theatres as soon as the current patients are done. The surgeons and anaesthetists are standing by so just wheel them in.’

  Daisy and the nurse, whose name I still haven’t found out, run down the corridor with the trolley. I look for BB. Casualty is bedlam. Trolleys holding battered, bleeding forms are everywhere and more are coming in through the door. There is the sound of children crying and ambulance sirens in the distance. I see a man with half his face blown away, one eye dangling from its socket. Another man has bleeding stumps sticking out of his trousers and I am reminded of Bill Stokes. Everyone is black. Clothing is in rags. I am nauseated by a terrible smell of burned flesh and clothing.

  I give BB Daisy’s message. ‘Try and find out their names and write them here,’ he says indicating a clipboard. ‘The relatives will be here soon and will want to know. Also put where they are. If you’ve got someone that can go home, wheel them into physio.’

  I write, ‘Christine Stacey – theatre,’ on the list and wheel the next trolley from the line into my cubicle. It’s another little girl. She is also unconscious. I check her pulse and respirations. There are none. She is dead.

  I go to find BB. ‘That child I just got is dead. Did she die here?’ I say waving my arm around. I can hear the hysteria in my voice. ‘Or have I just killed her, or what?’

  ‘Sorry, Jenny. She was dead on arrival. She was put in the wrong place. I am sorry, but it’s chaotic out here. Wheel her into the store room, will you?’

  I cover the child with a sheet and wheel the trolley to the storeroom. It is so full of other trolleys with sheets covering small humps that I can’t get mine in. Where else can she go? There’s a visitor’s waiting room. I wheel her in there and hurry back. Life is unreal. Am I in a film? A dream? Can this horror be really happening?

  ‘BB, the store room is full so I’ve put her in the visitor’s waiting room.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to move them all and clean them up for identification. We’re going to need the visitor’s room, as the relatives will be showing up soon. The worst cases are in so they won’t be as bad from now on, I hope. We’re trying to give nurses ones they can handle alone as all the docs are tied up. So you’ll have to make the best decisions you can.’ He gives my arm a squeeze. ‘If you think they need surgery, take them to theatre. If you think they need admitting, admit them. If they need stitching, stitch them. We’ll sort it all out eventually.’ BB’s usually placid face is strained but his voice is even. ‘Go to it, kid. You’re one of the best I’ve got. And if you make the wrong decision, which you won’t, I’ll back you all the way.’

  I suddenly feel I am up to this, I can cope after all. I find my next patient.

  The nurse who is helping me comes back from theatre and I find out that her name is Markham. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she says.

  ‘Oh no you’re not! If anyone’s going to be sick, it’s me,’ I say. ‘Besides, we haven’t got time.’

  We wheel our trolley into our cubicle. Another little girl. Huge eyes stare at me from a blackened face.

  ‘What’s your n
ame?’ I ask her.

  ‘Margaret Jones.’

  ‘Do you hurt anywhere, Margaret?’ I ask as I begin to wash her face. Her skin is pink. I examine her head. No signs of bruises or cuts.

  ‘My back hurts here,’ the child says as she tries to turn over.

  ‘Don’t move just yet.’ I examine her legs and test her reflexes. After Markham and I undress her, I press her abdomen in different places to see if she reacts.

  ‘I have to stand up,’ Margaret says suddenly. ‘My back hurts lying on it.’

  I raise the head of the trolley and help her bend forward. The right side of her back from her shoulder to her waist looks as if someone has scraped it with sandpaper. I touch it. ‘Ouch,’ she says.

  ‘It’s all scraped. We’ll clean it, which will sting a lot, but then you’ll be OK. Can you remember what happened?’

  ‘We were all waiting at a bus stop. Our class was going back to school from a trip to the art gallery. I heard this great big bang and then I was lying on the pavement. There was lots of shouting and a man came to see if I was all right. He told me to lie still and an ambulance would come, and it did.’ She starts to cry. ‘I want my mummy.’

  ‘She’ll be here very soon and then you can go home. But first I have to put a dressing on your back.’ I gently clean the wound but it still hurts her. She cries silently until I have finished. Then she stops and smiles at me.

  ‘That feels better, thank you,’ she says. I want to hug her. She is so remarkably composed for her age that her stoicism helps me control my own anxiety. We help her up and walk her to the physiotherapy department. As we approach, I can hear singing and when we enter the main hall of the department we find all those waiting to go home are sitting wrapped in blankets singing ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag’. Kitchen has produced a trolley with an urn of tea and trays of sandwiches covered with damp cloths. I give Margaret a cup of milky sweet tea and a sandwich and tell her that I want to speak to her mother before she goes home. Then I hand her over to one of the nurses who are looking after these patients.