It Won't Hurt a Bit

by Jane Yeadon

  Sister covered her mouth, then turned, shoulders heaving, to a wall cupboard and took out a biscuit tin and a bottle of brandy. Fishie eyed me with his bulbous stare, then flicked his tail and, untouched by drama, continued his circuit. Well, at least he wasn’t searching for a reviver.

  ‘I’ll get Doctor to check them out, but it sounds as if they’re alright,’ she said as she dabbed away tears, astonishingly of laughter. ‘You certainly know how to spin a yarn, Nurse Macpherson, so I won’t ask too much about the real facts and yes, I did hear a bit of a commotion when you came back, but they’re able to complain and that for them’s Heaven.’

  She caught Fishie’s eye as he completed his umpteenth round. ‘But maybe you need some training in proper wheelchair use. Then you could take out some of the others. We really do get stuck in a rut here. Now what about giving out some of this nice tablet I’ve been making and asking Shona to make you a cup of tea. I expect you’ve had a bit of a fright. I’ll go and see if the boys would like a glass of this.’ She pulled the bottle cork out with a practised flourish, poured two generous measures into a matching pair of medicine glasses, set them on top of the biscuit box and, using it as a tray, left us figuring out our tablet quota and wondering how to tell Shona she’d lost.

  24

  MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

  Along with the other staff members, we concentrated hard on the wheelchair lecture in a wheelchair department big enough to test drive a Daimler. Jo’s biker status was an advantage and the demonstrating technician, impressed by her questions, all but pirouetted, transforming these bulky unlovely barrows into chariots of fire. I hadn’t realised the fascination of spokes, hubs or even punctures, nor the range that a wheelchair could offer in the hands of an expert. Diligently, we took notes and did trial runs practising how to corner, steer, brake and get up kerbs without losing the passenger.

  I missed Douglas. He might have liked my geriatric stories but the university was having its summer break. He must have got my ‘let’s save the world but do it independently’ letter. The last time we met, he’d pointed his nose in the opposite direction and jumped on a number twenty-two bus. He’d be back in Alness, where his political inclinations might be making him plan a protest march on behalf of Labour, peaceniks or the workers. My own politics being sketchy, I thought it was good somebody had the time to do it on our behalf.

  ‘It’ll be Monte Carlo next,’ said Annie. Word of a new tour operation had reached the female ward. She struggled to sit up, the effort making her joints creak and her voice breathless. ‘I’d give anything to get a wee hurl,’ she said, sounding wistful.

  ‘Me too,’ said her neighbour, ‘and we’ve been talking about going along to the Dayroom as well. We could watch racing on telly.’

  Jo arrived with a wheelchair. She parked it beside the bed with the expertise of Ben Hur. ‘Your chariot awaits, Mrs MacGillivray. You too shall go to the Ball. Nurse Macpherson and I are taking you and your pal. Sister says we’re allowed.’

  Annie’s face lit up as she shoved herself forward, her hands paddling the bed clothes in a big effort to shift them. ‘Well! Just look! I think I’m moving better already – all I need is a little help.’ A straight leg stuck out from under the blankets, followed, with much grunting, by the other. Then, with a shout of triumph, Annie launched herself into space, making a perfect landing into a wheelchair whose recently pumped tyres held firm.

  ‘There. I did it!’ Panting but jubilant, she turned to her friend. ‘Hurry up or we’ll miss the sun and the two-twenty at Doncaster. I wonder if those two old devils know we might want to change channels.’

  ‘They’ll be wanting into our chairs next,’ grumbled Jock, sitting hard on the best-placed chair and drawing heavily on his pipe.

  ‘Aye, and making us put these out,’ added Willie, stoking up. ‘Mebbe it’s time we wis hame.’

  Changes were afoot for us too.

  ‘Did you see we’re going to theatre?’ asked Jo. ‘We’re back in the A.R.I. – it’s up on the board. You’re going to the Ward Nine’s and I’m in Ward Eight’s.’

  ‘I hope you don’t meet Sister Gorightly then. Have I ever told you about her?’

  ‘Jane! The whole hospital knows about you and Sister Gorightly, but haven’t you heard? She’s suddenly got a calling and she’s off to do good works in a leper colony.’

  ‘What?! She’s off to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Don’t be daft – Glasgow!’

  ‘Are we talking a missionary position?’

  ‘Ha ha! I’ve heard that one before.’

  We went to tell Sister we had a shift.

  ‘Fishie and I are sorry you’re going,’ she said, whilst Willie and Jock might have celebrated had they not decided they had had enough of hospital life; it was quieter at home especially since the Dayroom had become full of women pondering the racing columns, recalling the joys of the Tea Dance and eyeing up the men bounced out of bed to join them.

  ‘I never thought I’d be sorry to leave this place,’ Jo said, taking off her apron and draping it over her arm.

  ‘Me neither, but I don’t know why you’re being so careful with that, we’re going to be out of uniform for the next few weeks. Still, it’ll be nice to be back in the A.R.I. Woodend’s fine but lacks the action. Let’s go! Don’t you just love flitting!’

  25

  FOR THEATRE READ DRAMA

  Back in Foresterhill, I knew what theatre staff wore was a far cry from the swaddling prescribed by Matron; but then, theirs was a world separated from the real one by swing doors and a red line painted on the floor over which you dare not cross. Across it, gowned, masked and otherwise scantily clad aliens would transfer onto their beds post-operative patients, unconscious, labelled and with a list of instructions as if they had been remodelled.

  I’d learnt this was the first and scariest part of recovery, and I couldn’t cross the Rubicon red until I was allowed. So now, I dithered.

  ‘You must be our new nurse?’ A figure approached, her cotton frock closely hugging her slight figure’s every move. ‘Hello. I’m Kathy.’ Introductions apparently didn’t need a mask – seeing her smile was as encouraging.

  ‘You’ll need to put on overshoes before you come over.’ She pointed to a nearby cabinet stuffed with canvas slippers as big as clowns wear. I chose a pair and put them on, thinking Kathy’s sandshoes looked light while mine promised trench foot.

  ‘Can I come over now?’ I asked, ignoring them.

  ‘Sure. Don’t know where your shoes were last so the overshoes keep down infection. Sister asked me to show you around. I’m actually the auxiliary but they allow me to do everything but operations,’ she grinned. ‘I had to draw the line somewhere. Now, you’ll need to get changed first.’

  She was young, friendly and helpful, and took me to a room just big enough to allow chest expansion. ‘Let’s see.’ Frowning, she picked a frock from a bundle on a shelf. It was similar to her own: flimsy to the point of muslin and perfect for accentuating bullet-proof underwear.

  ‘Fat on display,’ I griped.

  ‘Not at all – it’s nice to see a curvy model. And don’t worry, it gets so hot here, you’ll find even this gets uncomfortable.’ My dresser dimpled and, as I struggled with the change, handed over some safety pins. ‘Sorry about the buttons or lack of them. The only one who seems to notice is Dr Stewart the anaesthetist. You have to watch him, he’s a right lecher.’ A sigh hung behind the laugh.

  ‘I’m overheating,’ I said, aware of my feet’s continued cross messages.

  Kathy picked out a pair of large sandshoes, which would have had me jumping for joy had I not been trying to be invisible. Even the barren changing room reeked of disinfectant, sending enough antiseptic signals to wipe out all forms of life.

  ‘You’ll be alright this morning. We don’t start operating till this afternoon, so I can take you round without anybody bothering us.’ She reflected for a moment, then added without enthusiasm, ‘That is until Staffie co
mes along.’

  ‘Staffie?’

  ‘Yea – Staff Nurse – we just call her that. She says she likes it, says it’s better than the way we pronounce her name. She’s Indian.’

  Kathy continued the tour.

  The theatre had an overall air of clinical gloom. No cheery chit chat here, apart from my advisor, who also fell silent as we took in the bare walls, grey tiled floor, gleaming chromes and some fearsomely complicated-looking machines. I’d have given anything to do a bedpan round in Ward Four instead of gazing at anaesthetic machines and getting a lecture about an operating table worth the attention of a Marquis de Sade.

  ‘It’s important you learn how to work it as sometimes you need a quick response, especially if the patient chokes.’ Kathy demonstrated its versatility with a practised foot and accomplished hand. The bed shot up, down, and tilted back and forth at such a rate, just watching gave me vertigo.

  ‘This is the sucker and it takes away excess blood from the wound site so that the surgeon can see what he’s cutting.’ My instructor waved a relaxed hand in the direction of yards of plastic piping. ‘If you don’t get genned up on this, some of the surgeons will go off their heads.’

  I felt faint.

  In a small adjoining room, there were sterilisers and enough dazzling chrome to bring on a migraine.

  ‘All the instruments have to be done like this.’ There was a tray-load of instruments waiting beside a machine reminiscent of Ma’s Burco boiler. The auxiliary placed them in and with a deft flick of the wrist and scrutiny of monitoring dials, she switched it on. ‘If I do this now they’ll be cooled down and ready for this afternoon.’ She spoke as if they were a batch of scones.

  ‘Operations? Today?’

  The auxiliary nodded and I added panic to my illness list.

  Quick tripping sounds alerted us to a newcomer.

  It was Staffie. I gazed at her with respect, particularly since Kathy alleged she had had her appendix removed under local anaesthetic; maybe she’d lost a few inches of height in the process, for despite the clumpy-heeled white shoes, she was so small I could see right over her head.

  ‘Having a big operation like that without a general anaesthetic’s certainly putting faith in the firm,’ I had marvelled, but Kathy said this miracle had been done in India and was unlikely here where the surgeons preferred their patients unconscious.

  Staffie didn’t seem so brave today. She trembled and fluttered like an exotic butterfly, her dress like gauze, her eyes gleaming and anxious. ‘The operating list has been put forward, the surgeons are going to be here any minute – we’ll need to have the instruments ready. It is just our luck to have a new nurse today and Sister with another day off.’ Shaking her head, she headed for the sterilising room, beckoning her second in command. ‘Come on, we must be quick.’

  ‘The instruments are already on and should be ready any minute now.’ Kathy was calm; her hand described an invisible halo.

  ‘Good! They take ages. We’ll leave Nurse to take them out whilst we look for the surgeons’ gowns.’ Staffie fluttered away, followed by Kathy at a more leisurely pace.

  I didn’t want to add scalding to my sick list so, knowing the instruments would be too hot to handle, and mindful of haste, I filled a sink with cold water and tumbled them in giving them a nice brisk swirl to ensure even cover. ‘What on earth?’ began Kathy, alerted by the metallic clatter; her brown eyes went as round as Maltesers. ‘You must have forgotten me telling you that tap water isn’t sterile. We’ll have to do them all over again. Drat!’ She seized the tray and started flinging the instruments back in. It sounded like a bad orchestral tune-up. Was deafness another hazard?

  Staffie too had come to investigate. ‘You stupid girl – they’ll never be ready now – Mr Milne will go mad,’ she screeched, then lapsed into her own dialect, the drift of which was perfectly plain.

  ‘This place sounds like Bedlam.’ Mr Milne the surgeon had arrived. ‘Where’s Sister?’ He was small with eyes as cold as the North Sea and a manner best suited to someone unconscious.

  ‘She’s a day off and there’s going to be a delay as we’re having a bit of trouble with the sterilisers,’ Kathy lied fluently. ‘We’ll be ready very soon – but you know what equipment can be like.’ She shrugged expressively and widened her eyes. ‘Why don’t you have a cup of coffee with Dr Stewart and we’ll get things going as soon as we can.’

  ‘And you will not forget that we have with us a new nurse,’ Staffie put in, ‘so she’s not up to what you call speed. All of these things make life for me difficult.’

  ‘Just get on with it then.’ Mr Milne, aiming for authority with a magnificent glower, departed.

  ‘Hard to look impressive when you’re that little,’ Kathy observed. ‘Why don’t you go and lower the operating table to fit him whilst we get the other stuff ready.’

  ‘Yes, yes, and do it properly – for me too – this is an emergency.’ Staffie danced about in a lather of excitement.

  The operating table had a pedal that I remembered was like an accelerator capable of performing many tasks. Gently I stepped on it. The table inched up. I tried again. Up it went. Beginning to panic, I gave a quick pump. Another few inches with a column of steel previously invisible emerged whilst the tabletop neared the ceiling.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ sang Kathy, and without waiting for a reply, ‘As soon as you’re finished that, come and give us a hand getting the trolleys ready.’

  Mopping sweat from my brow, I gave another sharp foot jab and shut my eyes. Was nursing really worth this anxiety? Maybe I should just leave before the heart attack.

  Some irate clanging from the sterilising room said things were heating up, so I left the table to its own devices and hurried to the call.

  ‘These are ready now and this is what you do.’ Busier than a chef, Kathy took huge forceps to lift out the instruments onto a sterile-clothed trolley, then pulled over the surplus to complete their cover. ‘Take that through to theatre, but mind how you go. If you bang into anybody, the whole thing’ll be contaminated,’ she frowned in concentration, ‘them too.’

  ‘Kathy,’ I began, but she was in a hurry.

  ‘Sorry, can’t stop now – Staffie’s going mad in the scrubbing up.’

  Most carefully, I wheeled through the trolley and whilst there, gave the table another pump on the off chance it had decided to cooperate. The table rose another foot. Now I couldn’t see its top.

  ‘Nurse Macpherson,’ Staffie’s voice sounded muffled, ‘come and see how you do this.’

  Both she and Mr Milne were waiting, scrubbed, gloved, masked, capped and with their sterile gowns on, which had to be tied at the back. Kathy extended her arms and made nice long distance bows. ‘If I go too near,’ she explained, ‘they might have to re-scrub. Now they’ll need me to open the operating theatre doors for them. I think the patient’s coming through too – we’ll all be in theatre so join us once you put on your mask and cap.’

  ‘Um – about the table,’ I began, but already the cavalcade had started and there was nothing I could do to stop either them or the patient now being wheeled in by the anaesthetist.

  I walked as if on eggs to the changing room, drew my cap down and my mask high, leaving just an eye slit. I could hear raised voices coming from theatre and considered making a run for it.

  ‘Nurse Macpherson. Come in here!’

  Slowly, I walked into theatre. The operating table had grown into a rather grand bus shelter. It even had a queue of irate passengers sheltering under it.

  The words were out before I could stop them.

  ‘The number twenty-three will be along any minute,’ I said, horrified by an escaping giggle.

  26

  A LITTLE REVENGE

  ‘Are you home?’

  ‘Uh-huh, take a pew.’

  Maisie was lying on top of her bed reading a hospital romance and clicking her heels in pleasant idleness. Her room was such a haven of order and calm I should ha
ve felt guilty about disturbing it, but then she hadn’t had any flittings had she?

  So –

  ‘I’ve had the most awful of days.’ Throwing myself into a chair and drumming my feet got her attention. ‘Theatre’s awful! I’ll never last – if it’s not a sterile vacuum one minute, it’s high drama the next – and seeing people under the knife …’ I drew breath, squeezed shut my eyes at the memory, and was about to continue when there was a knock at the door and Jo bounced in.

  ‘Ah, Jane! This is where you are. How did you get on? Hi, Maisie.’

  ‘Come in, why don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jo was breathless. ‘What a great day I’ve had. Theatre is brilliant, miles better than geriatric and I’ve even been helping the surgeon.’ She slid onto the floor, her hands folded in beneficence, her face wreathed in smiles.

  I was dumbstruck and jealous.

  Maisie put down her book and sighed, ‘I don’t know why I’m reading this stuff when I know the reality is us lot tucked away into cupboards, toilets and sluices as soon as anyone medical appears. You must be in a special category, Jo.’ She looked at the book cover with its nurse gazing up at her medical hero. ‘You’d wonder who’s inspired this rubbish.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a well-known fact we cannae speak – nay even proper.’ I was sour, wishing the surgeon’s fury had subsided as quickly as the table under Kathy’s expert foot. It had been humiliating being thrown out of theatre too.

  Jo looked holy. ‘We’ve still got to remember they’re human. You know I’d to tell my surgeon to use a different scalpel after the first incision.’

  ‘But the man’s near retiring!’

  ‘Fancy nobody pointing it out to him before.’ Jo was shocked.

  ‘I’ll never reach these heights.’ Despair crept into my voice. ‘One moment we’re told to love and cherish our patients and the next, we’re carving them up.’

  Saint Jo clicked her teeth and sounded impatient. ‘Your trouble is your imagination. You just have to forget that’s a person lying there and remember Miss Jones’ lectures.’ She looked into the middle distance as if admiring a landscape. ‘It’s just the same only the colour’s better.’