Nurses: Claire and Jan

by Bette Paul

  “Parcel, Claire – food mayhaps?” he said hopefully.

  Claire groaned. “Da’s revenge,” she said grimly.

  “What is this revenge?”

  “Well, he wanted me to go home for the weekend.” She stopped, realizing how tactless that sounded to someone who had no home, no family to go to.

  “And you wanted to stay here?” he smiled.

  Claire nodded. “But it might have been better all round if I’d gone and left you lot to do something else,” she said gloomily. “I seem to have led you into a load of trouble.”

  “No, Claire.” Jan put down the parcel and took both her hands in his. “You must not blame yourself. I might have went – er, gone – to the club even alone that night. Mayhaps I get hurt more.”

  “Maybe,” Claire absently corrected him. “But you did get hurt,” she added, holding on to his hands and stepping back to exam­ine his face.

  “No! Katie and Nick, they were hurt.”

  “But you were upset.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t injured but something upset you – in your mind, maybe?”

  Jan looked down at her, soberly, tenderly. “Memories,” he said. “Now they are gone.”

  They stood for a moment, looking at each other. Then Claire took a tentative step towards Jan and suddenly they were together, clinging tight, unmoving, unspeaking. She could feel his heartbeat through his sweat-shirt, smell the soap as his hands touched her hair. She lifted up her face, waiting for his kiss.

  The door opened and Barbara swept in. “Street battles on your weekend off? You’re not fit to be let out!” If she’d noticed the embracing couple, she made no comment.

  “Welcome, Barbara!” said Jan, gravely, dropping his arms from around Claire and stepping away. “Claire has a parcel, and I see you too have a plastic bag. Maybe we have a festival?”

  “Feast, Jan; that’s the word you want.” Katie came in now, dragging Nikki Browne behind her. “Now, you and Claire can make the coffee while I tell Barbara and Nikki all about the Adventure.”

  Katie was none the worse for her adven­ture; indeed she was still full of it. While she regaled Barbara and Nikki with her (slightly exaggerated) version of Saturday night’s events, Jan and Claire opened par­cels, made fresh coffee and set out sand­wiches and Grandma Robinson’s cookies on the kitchen table.

  Jan had retreated once more into silence, but this time Claire didn’t mind. She could still feel the pressure of his arms around her, his breath on her cheek. Maybe this time his silence was like hers, she thought; a way of holding on to that last embrace.

  She listened vaguely to Barbara and Katie swapping inner-city horror stories over the head of wide-eyed Nikki, and watched Jan eating his way through an amazing number of sandwiches and cookies, smiling happily. She’d been right not to go home, she thought. This was where she wanted to be.

  The euphoria soon faded, of course, but sitting in her room, faced with a heavy pile of revision, Claire suddenly experienced a strong, inward calm she’d never felt before. No matter how hard she was having to struggle, she knew that nursing was right for her. The only problem she had to face now was to make herself right for nursing.

  Chapter 8

  Sister Thomas was right: Gynaecology was quite a change from A & E. Claire found it almost restful. “What our ladies need is rest, peace and comfort,” Sister Lawrence explained. “No loud voices, no rushing around, no bossing about. It’s a waiting ward, you see, and whether they’re waiting to recover from surgery or waiting for the arrival of baby, each and every one of my ladies must be kept quiet, calm – and happy, of course.”

  She beamed at Claire over her huge glasses. Sister Lawrence had a soft, che­rubic face which contrasted oddly with her severely cropped grey hair; her gentle voice and sweet smile masked, Claire sus­pected, a woman of strong convictions and loyalties.

  She discovered this for herself as the week wore on. Even then she’d come to enjoy Gynaecology more than anything she’d yet encountered in St Ag’s. For one thing, she was learning a lot more than she had done in A & E, where everyone was too busy to do more than throw terse instructions at her. For another, the quiet, gentle atmosphere suited her better.

  Here she was allowed to accompany Staff Nurse on the drugs round, meticulously ticking off times and dosages as if she were in charge of treatments. She stood at the side of the bed during checkup sessions, even watching the ultrasound or listening to a baby’s heart through the sonicaid, amazed by the wonder of it all. She sometimes sat with a recovering patient, rubbing her hands and feet for comfort, and discovered she had a real knack for back massage.

  And though she realized that her work was checked and double-checked, she never resented it. Her lesson in A & E stayed with her: she did exactly as she was told, carefully and promptly, and always asked for clarification if she was in any doubt.

  Soon she was promoted to taking temperatures and checking drips. Claire enjoyed these afternoon tasks, chatting quietly to those patients who were awake, skirting silently round the sleepers, checking the valves on their IV lines.

  It was during such a round that she came across a young and beautiful girl, all on her own in a side ward. Usually these were kept for pre-op patients wait­ing to go down to theatre, but this patient was tucked tightly under the white cover, straight and flat, showing no signs of late pregnancy. As she appeared to be sleeping, Claire walked quietly up to her side and examined the line up to the bag hanging on the frame; not dextrose this time, she noted – something new. She’d have to ask about that. She checked the valve, counted the drips for a full minute, and assured herself that everything was in order.

  She looked again at the sleeping figure in the bed. The girl’s dark hair was pulled back tight, revealing white skin, smooth, unlined, and a sharp, narrow nose. The eyes were closed, but they looked large under thin bluish lids and straight black brows. Claire thought how beautiful she was, even in her sleep. As she watched, the figure shook and shuddered, as if with the final sob after a long fit of weeping, then slept on. Claire checked the drip to make sure the movement hadn’t disturbed it, then left the room.

  “Ah, Student Nurse Donovan! Can you spare a minute?” It was typical of Sister Lawrence that she phrased the order as a request. “My office, if you would.” She led the way along the corridor to the tiny room.

  Claire felt a sudden spurt of fear. The last time she’d been in a Sister’s office she’d been in big trouble. What could she have done now? She felt it had something to do with that white, tense figure in the side ward, but she was sure she’d done the right thing there – checked the apparatus, the drug supply, without disturbing the patient.

  “Would you like to sit down there?” Sister Lawrence asked, as if there were alterna­tives to the grey plastic chair across from her desk.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Claire patted her cap nervously, checked it was still in position, and sat back, almost resigned to being in the wrong over something.

  “You’re Irish, of course,” observed the Sister.

  Claire nodded, puzzled. What had her nationality to do with anything?

  “Catholic?” Sister Lawrence glanced at a file which obviously contained Claire’s notes.

  Claire nodded, cautiously this time. The Donovans were nominally Catholic and she’d been a boarder at a convent school, as were most girls of her class in Donegal, but it was all a matter of tradition rather than conviction. She felt a sudden spasm of panic; perhaps Sister Lawrence was Catholic too, and was going to ask embarrassing questions like when had Claire last been to Mass. When? Well, she’d been once last summer when Aunt Maeve was staying and there was no one free to drive her there, and no doubt she’d be at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. . .

  “I wonder if you realize that the patient in Side Ward D is having a termination.” Sister Lawrence spoke in her usual quiet tone.

  For a moment Claire couldn’t think what the word meant. Her mind raced
through the index of her text book: term . . . termi­nate . . . termination – ah! That was it. That was why she was sitting here being asked about her religion. Termination = abortion = Catholic disapproval.

  “Does that worry you at all?” Sister Lawrence asked.

  Claire shook her head. “I’ve just checked the IV and everything seems all right,” she said.

  “Good, then I’m sure it is all right. You’re a very thorough young lady, Claire, and I think you have a real instinct for this work.”

  “Thank you, Sister.” Claire beamed. Not only had Sister used her first name, but she’d commended her too!

  “However, I should have warned you in advance about our new patient, in view of your religion.”

  Claire blushed. “Well, we’re not exactly a devout family,” she admitted.

  “You are allowed to opt out of termina­tions, you know. Anyone can, for any reason. Some nurses opt out just because they find the whole process too upsetting.”

  Claire frowned thoughtfully. She remembered the twitching, half-sobbing figure in the side ward.

  “Why is she having a termination?” she asked.

  “That’s not our concern.” Sister Lawrence suddenly lost her soft, cherubic look and became stern. “Whether the termination is for medical or personal reasons, the patient needs nursing. All you need to ask yourself is whether you’re willing to nurse any patient through a termination. No one thinks the less of you if you don’t feel able to do that.”

  There was a pause. Claire was thinking of the last time someone had offered an “out”, after she’d let Lisa Hickling escape with her baby from A & E. Well, she’d soldiered on after that and she was really glad she’d done so. She knew she wanted to experience all aspects of nursing, not just those she felt she could bear with.

  “I’ll stay with it,” she assured the Sister.

  “You’re quite certain?” Sister Lawrence’s neutral expression never wavered.

  “I want to be a nurse, not a nun,” said Claire.

  The Sister nodded, though whether it was in approval or not, Claire couldn’t tell.

  “Right, you can continue your checks, including the patient’s pulse, temperature and respiration when she wakes up.”

  SURNAME – Watts

  FORENAMES – Ruth B.

  TITLE – Mr Mrs Ms Miss Other

  AGE – 24

  ADDRESS – 15 Govan Road Brassington (temporary) – 28 Perrin Road London SE6 0CL

  OCCUPATION – Actor

  Claire read the sparse notes: fourteen weeks pregnant, intermittent bleeding, frequent vomiting. Sent to Royal Free Hospital, discharged herself, moved north with theatre company tour. Referred by Dr Jeavons, medical officer to Brassington Theatre Royal.

  Poor woman, Claire thought; no wonder she was twitchy. A couple of months with those symptoms and a tough job as well! Or no job at all; even she knew how competi­tive the theatre was. She picked up the girl’s wrist and felt her pulse. Well, at least that was steady.

  The girl stirred.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a low, husky voice, her large grey-green eyes staring cat-like up at Claire.

  “Don’t worry yourself, Ruth; I’m just checking you’re all right.”

  Ruth Watts frowned. “Is it still going on?” she asked irritably.

  “You’ll be staying with us overnight at least,” Claire told her. “Will I just check your temperature while you’re awake?” She took the thermometer out of the box at the head of the bed, shook it vigorously, and popped it into Ruth’s mouth. Ruth merely frowned and let her eyelids droop over her grey-green eyes. Claire picked up her wrist and, checking her watch, took a pulse-count again.

  Pulse – 80 bpm

  Temp. – 32.7

  B.P. – 125/80

  She filled in the figures carefully on the chart and looked at the girl, who seemed to be sleeping again.

  But at that moment she stirred. “Get me something for this damned pain, will you?”

  Claire shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she said. “I’ll send a nurse to see you.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you a nurse, then?”

  “Student.”

  “Student? My God – you mean I’m going through a major crisis in the hands of a student?”

  Claire blushed. She was glad the girl was in a side ward, and it was tea-time so everyone was chatting happily in the Day Room.

  “You’re in the care of several highly experienced doctors and nurses,” she reproved her patient. “And they all had to train as I’m doing.”

  “Not on me, they didn’t. For God’s sake get me somebody who’s qualified, and who can do something about this damned pain!”

  She sank back, looking suddenly so frail that Claire scuttled off into the main ward to find Nurse Doughty.

  “Don’t let her upset you,” Nurse Doughty told her. “They sometimes make a right fuss, do terminations; I think perhaps they’re feeling guilty, you know? Never mind, love; I’ll go see to her.”

  And she waddled off down the ward to “see to” Ruth Watts, leaving Claire feeling rather superfluous and, for some reason, near to tears.

  She turned into the Day Room, where tea was being passed round. Several women were laughing and joking with the auxiliary and sharing their private supplies of biscuits with her. Claire looked at these ever-hopeful women, some of them undergoing painful and unpleasant treatment in order to get pregnant, others facing real danger when their labour started, holding on to their babies in the face of huge odds.

  And yet Ruth Watts was obviously all too ready to lose hers. Claire tried to work out how she felt about that.

  “It’s not our decision,” Sister Lawrence had said. “Our job is to nurse her through a traumatic experience.”

  Claire sighed. Well, that’s what she’d been trying to do until Ruth Watts had lashed out at her. She looked again at the happy, joking ladies in the Day Room. They didn’t need her either.

  Suddenly decisive, Claire turned and made for the side ward. Ruth Watts lay staring at the ceiling, tears wetting her cheeks and rolling down her neck, on to the pillow.

  “Are you still in pain?” Claire asked gently.

  Ruth nodded. “The nurse gave me a pill, though; it’ll ease off in a few minutes,” she said. And she tried to move her hand to her face to smooth away the tears.

  “No, let me!” Claire took a tissue from the bedside box and wiped Ruth’s face and neck. “Better?” she asked.

  Ruth nodded and tried to smile. Claire moved away.

  “Don’t – please don’t leave me!” Ruth whispered.

  “I was just going to get a clean cloth and towel to freshen you up,” said Claire.

  “In the locker,” said Ruth.

  Claire found a toilet bag, complete with skin fresheners, in the bedside locker. She opened the packet and wiped Ruth’s forehead, her cheeks, her hands, and then dried them with her towel.

  Ruth sighed. “Thanks,” she said. “You seem to have washed the pain away too.”

  “That’s the painkillers, not me,” said Claire. She folded the towel and hung it back on the rail behind the locker.

  “You’re not going?” asked Ruth. “I can’t bear it here all on my own.”

  “You’re not on your own, you know,” Claire assured her. “Everyone’s keeping an eye on you.” But she saw the panic in Ruth’s eyes. “I’ll stay a while anyway,” she said. “Soon you’ll be off the machine and able to have a warm drink.” She chatted on quietly, holding uth’s hand and stroking it the while. Ruth seemed to doze off.

  But suddenly her eyes opened wide. “I had to do it, you know,” she said. “I’ve only just got a toe-hold on the ladder, my first real job in two years and then. . . I couldn’t cope. . . I’ve been so sick, nearly lost this job because of missing a rehearsal. . . had to do something. . .” The tears started oozing out of those remarkable eyes again.

  “Well, you have done something,” said Claire, reaching for
another tissue. “It’s done now, almost, and you’ll feel better, stronger and be free to go on with your career.”

  And she had a sudden vision of Lisa Hickling and her bruised baby. What sort of life could a poor, homeless schoolgirl offer a baby? Maybe she should have decided in favour of a termination? Claire frowned; it was all so difficult. One thing was certain: she’d be listening hard at the lectures on medical ethics next term.

  She turned to Ruth. “You’ve made your decision,” she told her. “That part’s over. Now rest a while and try to sleep.”

  She held the girl’s hand, smoothing it, mopping her face with the tissue, and eventually Ruth fell asleep.

  Sister Lawrence came in and stood silently beside Claire.

  “It’s half-past five; you were off duty an hour ago.”

  “She seemed to need someone with her.”

  “I know,” Sister nodded. “Her counsellor is calling in at six – she’ll sleep till then. Thank you for staying on, Claire; that’s the kind of good nursing we have so little time for nowadays.” She smiled at Claire. “Off you go now.”

  “See you next week then,” said Claire.

  “Of course. And Claire – you’re doing very well in this department. I’m really pleased with your work.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Claire flew back to Kelham’s on winged feet, oblivious of the rain and rising wind. Ward Sisters were not known for flattery!

  Chapter 9

  Claire was enjoying Gynaecology so much that she almost dreaded her free weekend. Patrick had phoned as prom­ised (threatened?) and she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with him the following Saturday night. Reluctant not only because of Patrick’s insistence, but because she’d not yet told Jan.

  But Jan was probably not even interested, she reflected sadly. He’d made no attempt to follow up their intimate little scene in the kitchen, and Claire wasn’t at all sure where she stood with him. Had their rela­tionship moved on? Or even back? Pondering these questions, she made her way across to the Medics’ Mess for yet another of Katie’s Charity Night meetings.