You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  During clearing-up time and setting-up for activities, I helped to move tables a little more conscientiously. ‘This could be an assessment,’ I thought. As I walked around the room my conversations and banter with the patients became a little more animated as I tried to make a good impression. I could feel Mr. Tinsley’s eyes following me around the room, like a portrait in an art gallery, but I was relieved when I saw him smile at me and nod his approval. ‘It’s going well,’ I thought.

  Fred then went into a walk-in cupboard just along the corridor and wheeled out one of several vacuum cleaners which were kept in there. The patients were well into their individual activities, and, being Sunday, one or two were sitting watching television. As he was about to plug in the cleaner he saw me watching him and came over.

  “I always like to help out like this at weekends,” he said and then started to hoover around, barking out orders to people to lift their feet as he approached the TV area.

  ‘I can take a hint,’ I thought, and then used my initiative and wheeled out a second vacuum cleaner and started at the other end of the room between the tables. After a minute or so, Malcolm emerged from the charge nurse’s office and saw me struggling to manoeuvre an industrial standard vacuum cleaner.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted in my ear over the noise.

  I switched off the machine and said, “What?”

  “What do you think you are doing?” he repeated in a quieter voice.

  I was tempted to answer ‘What does it look like?’ but I resisted because I felt that it would have sounded more disrespectful than intended, especially to the acting charge nurse. I answered his question with a question, “What do you mean?”

  “Since when has it been part of your duties to hoover the floor?” he asked in slightly bemused manner.

  “Well, I thought I had better show willing since Mr. Tinsley is leading by example,” I explained as I nodded in the direction of the TV area where he was still cleaning.

  “You mean Fred?” asked Malcolm.

  “Yes, he did ask me to call him by his first name.”

  “John, please follow me to the office,” instructed Malcolm solemnly.

  I thought I must have transgressed some important rule regarding use of electrical equipment without the statutory training. I also felt that Malcolm’s manner was rather officious and I put that down to his temporary elevation to the dizzy heights of Charge Nurse.

  “So you have been taking instructions from Mr. Tinsley this morning, have you?” was his stern, rhetorical question.

  “You mean Fred?” I replied, trying to lighten the tension. At that point I realized that Malcolm did not take kindly to someone from another ward coming into the Benedict Clinic and giving orders. This surprised me, because I was now seeing another side of his character which I hadn’t noticed before. He had always seemed such an easy-going, laid-back person and we had got on well up to that stage, particularly since we shared a similar sense of humour.

  “I’m sorry Malcolm, but I wasn’t intending to undermine your authority. I just thought, being a vacation student who needs to keep his job, I had better do as I was told.”

  This seemed to work as Malcolm’s tone softened. “It is true that Mr. Tinsley often comes over from St. Ann’s ward to help out at weekends,” explained Malcolm, “but John,” he continued, “and I don’t know how to break this news to you... Mr. Fred Tinsley... is a patient!!”

  My face must have been a picture. After a couple of seconds of stunned silence Malcolm thundered into laughter which filled the room. By the time Anne came into the office to see what was going on, Malcolm was roaring and holding his sides in pain, with tears streaming down his face.

  “Fred Tinsley is a patient? ... Well you could have fooled me!” I said loudly in order to be heard over the sound of laughter.

  “He did!” Malcolm spluttered, before convulsing into further fits of mirth.

  “So let me get this right,” said Anne to Malcolm, as if I wasn’t there, “John thought Fred Tinsley was a member of staff, and he has been taking orders from him all morning.”

  “Yeah,” screeched Malcolm, as he dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief, “The lunatics have taken over the asylum.”

  My expression remained deadpan, or was it bedpan? ... And they hadn’t finished with me yet.

  Anne tilted her head towards me saying, “And is this the same John who George Church thought was a patient? ... That must be some kind of a record!”

  “Stop it,” croaked Malcolm as he collapsed onto a chair. For a second I thought we might have to send for a doctor. What could I do but laugh along with them? Eventually they settled down and sanity prevailed. It’s not often you can say that in a psychiatric hospital.

  “Now come on,” I eventually retorted, “you must admit that Fred doesn’t act like a mental patient. I still can’t work out what’s wrong with him.”

  “Well,” said Malcolm, gradually regaining his composure, “I can’t remember the exact medical terminology because Fred’s case file is kept in St. Ann’s ward, but I do know that he suffers from a severe type of paranoia. It is a form of persecution complex and he believes that if he sees a group of people talking, or two people whispering, they are actually talking about him.”

  “Really,” I commented as I sat down to hear more.

  “Yes, he has been thrown out of pubs for causing trouble because he had accused complete strangers of plotting against him. It has happened in Liverpool City centre and supermarkets. He was even banned from going to rugby matches because every time the players formed a scrum he ran onto the pitch and berated them for talking about him.”

  “No, unbelievable,” I exclaimed with the shake of the head.

  “Okay, I admit I made the last one up,” teased Malcolm.

  “But I’ll tell you what is true,” he said “Fred’s paranoia extends to people on television.”

  “Is this another joke?” I asked apprehensively, suspecting that I was setting him up to deliver yet another punch-line.

  “I’m perfectly serious,” said Malcolm as he went on to tell me that the television incidents were the reasons why Fred had been admitted to Rainhill Hospital.

  “So what kind of things did he do?”

  “Oh, he would rant and rave at the screen if he suspected that anyone was conspiring against him. He has tried to get round the back of the telly, and he has sometimes put his foot through the screen. Also, anyone speaking directly towards the camera, such as a newsreader, was speaking to him personally and he tried to hold a conversation with them.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Keep an eye on him today,” suggested Malcolm. “You might see something interesting.” As I was leaving the office Malcolm shouted, “Oh, by the way, John...”

  “Yes?” I said as I popped my head back.

  “Don’t let Fred tell you what to do!”

  “Ha, ha...”

  Later that day, Malcolm and I were sitting near the television area, spending time with some patients and browsing the Sunday papers. On television was an episode of the series ‘Mission Impossible.’ Fred Tinsley was sitting at a nearby table casually glancing at some magazines while half-watching the telly. A conversation was taking place on screen, and one character asked the other if he had a pen. At that point Fred pushed back his chair and walked directly towards the television while taking a biro from his shirt pocket. Malcolm’s newspaper dropped as he frantically attempted to attract my attention with a combination of loud coughs, nodding his head and rustling the paper. I looked up to see him gesticulating to me to turn towards the television. I was just in time to witness Fred Tinsley approach the screen with his outstretched hand holding a pen.

  “Yes Sir, I have a pen you can borrow, here you are,” he said to the screen as he offered it to the actor on TV. J
ust at that point the two actors exchanged pens, and Fred simply said, “Oh, I see you have got one,” and turned away, replacing his pen in his top pocket. He returned to his table and continued flicking through his magazines. I watched him all the way and then looked back towards Malcolm, who was grinning broadly. He looked at me and tapped his chin with the back of his hand.

  “Close your mouth,” he was signalling, as I sat there shaking my head incredulously.

  Operation Stitch-up

  One morning, during tea break in the social area, Henry casually asked Malcolm, “How did the operation go last night?”

  “Oh, fine, no problems at all, a great success,” answered Malcolm.

  Not wishing to intrude on what I thought could be a personal issue, I didn’t say anything, but my surprised expression seemed to speak for me. Henry sensed my curiosity and brought me into the conversation by telling me that Malcolm had been an observer in the operating theatre the previous day.

  “Really, how fascinating,” I enthused.

  I assumed that Malcolm had attended an operation in an official capacity as a nurse, but they told me that any staff who expressed an interest could arrange to watch an operation taking place. Henry explained further that when the Benedict Clinic had been built it incorporated a brand new ‘state-of-the-art’ operating theatre. I assumed that he meant that it was exclusively for patients at Rainhill Hospital, but I was informed that this was not the case. Patients were brought in by ambulance from other hospitals, and many specialist surgeons visited on a regular basis.

  “It must be fascinating.”

  “Would you like to see an operation?” Henry asked me, almost matter-of-factly.

  “Would I be allowed to, being a vacation student?”

  “Of course, I will arrange it if you like?”

  Being a ‘why-not’ sort of person, I simply nodded and thanked him.

  I didn’t think much more of it until about a week later when Henry called me into his office and asked me if I was still interested.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied.

  Before I could ask for further details, he simply added, “This evening after work, at quarter to eight.”

  I was a little stunned by the suddenness of the arrangement. Henry told me that a team of theatre nurses would be coming over later for pre-op checks, and I would be able to meet them. I received this news mid-morning, and I spent the rest of the day wondering what I had let myself in for. How would I feel? How would I react to the sight of blood? What operation would be taking place?

  At five o’clock Henry called me to his office to meet the three specialist theatre nurses: a man and two women, all in their mid-thirties. He introduced me to Frank, Linda and Janice, each of whom greeted me with a friendly handshake and warm smile. I had seen them around the hospital and in the staff canteen, but this was the first time we had actually met.

  “So you want to watch an operation, do you?” said Linda.

  “Yes, it should be quite an experience.”

  They were on their way to the operating theatre and suggested that I accompany them, checking with Henry that he could spare me for half an hour.

  “I think we can muddle through,” Henry replied light-heartedly.

  The operating theatre was located in the Benedict Clinic, but I had never actually been required to go to that part of the building. We entered through heavy double doors, each of which had a maritime-style porthole at eye level. The operating theatre had about the dimensions of a squash court. Stainless steel seemed to predominate, and the various beds and trolleys seemed like modern sculptural works-of-art with all the levers, handles, wheels. There were a couple of screens, brightly coloured with flower motifs, and several trolleys, some of which were covered with green sheets. It was a very light room with a skylight. It reminded me of the studios at Art College, but without the splashes of paint. The only time I had seen similar lighting units was in the dentist’s clinic. There were a couple of stainless steel sink units, with the type of taps you would not find in your kitchen. The various dispensers and taps had the long arms which were operated by elbows after scrubbing-up. I knew that from numerous hospital dramas on telly. There was a further annexe room in which there were lockers and washing facilities.

  “Okay John, let’s take you through the procedure,” said Janice, adopting a business-like tone.

  She told me to arrive as soon as possible after I finish work at seven o’clock, and that they would provide me with the necessary clothing. She gestured around the room and stressed that I must not touch anything on a green trolley, as they held sterilized instruments. I assured her that I would not be touching anything.

  “Just one question,” I said as I looked around the theatre, “Where is the observation section?”

  She told me that I would be standing just inside the doorway, but I would be close enough to see what was going on. The surgeon, a Mr. Simpson, would be arriving at about seven thirty, and we should be ready for that time. As Janice was briefing me, Linda and Frank were going through a list on a clipboard, checking everything, including a complicated-looking piece of apparatus of gas cylinders with numerous dials.

  “We need another half-an-hour in here, so we will see you just after seven,” Janice concluded, gesturing me towards the door.

  I returned to the Benedict patients in the social area, and I rang the geriatric ward to let Norma and Jeff know what was happening.

  I arrived back at the theatre feeling rather nervous, almost as if I was the patient undergoing the operation. Frank, Janice and Linda were already there, and I was surprised to see that they were already wearing their theatre uniforms. They were dressed in green, wearing a hat, short-sleeved top, trousers, and a pair of white wellington boots.

  “So you decided to come back and go through with it?” said Frank with a welcoming smile as he beckoned me to join them.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied, unconvincingly.

  He then took me into the annexe locker room and gave me an identical uniform to put on. I entered the theatre with a ‘Ta dah!’ as I extended my arms to show off my new outfit to the nurses.

  “Very fetching,” said Linda playfully, “give us a twirl.” I spun around theatrically as if I had just come out of the changing room at ‘Burtons,’

  “Yes, I think I will take it,” I joked as we all laughed.

  “Okay John, we now need to get rid of your static electricity,” said Janice in a serious tone.

  “Get rid of my what?”

  She then told me that I must touch my toes ten times to get rid of any build-up of static. I found a space to start, and as I did the first one I sensed that I might be the victim of a wind-up.

  “Is this the equivalent of sending somebody for a tin of polka-dot paint, or a jar of elbow grease?” I asked dubiously.

  “Don’t know what you mean,” they replied in mock innocence.

  “So when did you do your static toe touching? I’ll do it with you,” I retorted.

  So we formed a circle in the middle of the operating theatre. We only counted as far as two before they all started laughing. At least the joke broke the ice and momentarily took my mind off the forthcoming operation. At that point two theatre orderlies, dressed in the same style of uniforms but only in white, came into the room. We were still standing in the circle laughing and one of the orderlies looked at me, and with a knowing smile said, “Don’t tell me... static electricity.” The flippant, jokey atmosphere then changed in an instant as I was told that the patient would be wheeled into theatre very soon. The orderlies told the theatre nurses that the surgeon, Mr. Simpson, and the anaesthetist, Dr. Rogers, had arrived and were currently changing and scrubbing up.

  “Okay John, time for serious business. Listen carefully,” instructed Janice solemnly.

  She now had m
y full attention as she told me that the operation was going to be a sterilisation of a lady who had been brought from St. Helens hospital.

  “It will involve an incision here,” she said as she demonstrated by pointing at her own abdomen, “and the surgeon will tie the fallopian tubes. The procedure is called Tubal Ligation.” She told me that there will obviously be plenty of blood on view, and asked me if I would be able to cope with that. I have never been squeamish at the sight of blood, but to be honest that has only ever been a cut or a graze playing rugby. All I could do was tell Janice that I wasn’t sure. She showed me exactly where I would be standing during the operation and told me that if I felt the slightest discomfort, nausea, or sickness, just turn around and walk straight out through the double doors.

  “Don’t apologise, or speak, or try to fight the feeling. Just go.” She emphasized this by pointing towards the door and then added firmly, “but Do Not come back in because you would have left a sanitised area. Everything clearly understood?”

  “Absolutely.”

  It was now scrubbing-up time, and we went to the sinks. I followed their example as we dispensed a blue gel by operating the elbow taps and washed our hands and forearms thoroughly, rinsing off with warm water from another elbow-operated tap. The theatre doors opened and the white-uniformed orderlies pushed in the patient on a trolley. This was accompanied by a couple of stands from which protruded a variety of tubes and a stand which carried gas cylinders and a multitude of dials and gauges. We then put on green masks which covered my mouth and nostrils, and which was secured in place by pressing a piece of white plastic into the contours of my nose. We also wore very fine, tightly fitting transparent gloves. We were now ready to go from the scrubbing room into the operating theatre.

  “Good evening doctor,” they said, welcoming the anaesthetist who was seated at the operating table behind the patient’s head. He was surrounded by a collection of dials which he was scrutinizing like a pilot doing a final check before take-off. The green covered trolleys, which I had seen earlier, had been put into place besides the operating bed, and the sheets had been taken off to reveal a set of gleaming silver instruments, shining brightly under the operating lights. They were neatly laid out on a green under-sheet, and there seemed to be every conceivable type of scalpel and scissors (perhaps conceivable is the wrong word to choose, in view of the nature of the operation!) The patient was already unconscious; she lay there with tubes leading into her mouth and nose. I took up my designated position about six feet from the operating table as instructed, and Frank, Janice, and Linda took up their positions facing towards me.