by Dave Spikey
This part of the job could be quite stressful, dependent on which wards you were allocated. Routine medical and surgical wards were relatively easy, the patients on the whole being helpful and amenable; the gynae and obstetric wards were okay (apart from the heckling and sexual innuendo); but some of the geriatric wards were difficult; and the worst of all were the paediatric wards. I tell you, the kicking, screaming kids on these paediatric units had to be seen to be believed; you just had to walk away from some of them or there could be serious injury.
Due to the range of tests we had to run, we required a fair amount of blood from a single thumb prick – so you had to make sure you stabbed the kids good and hard the very first time (that sounds all wrong – but you know what I mean). In theory, this should be relatively manageable, but is of course a massive problem when you’re simultaneously wrestling with a hysterical six-year-old and engaging in hand-to-hand combat with them, you with a lancet in one fist and therefore at a serious competitive disadvantage. Even if you did manage to surprise them with your first attempt, most of the blood ended up smeared all over your hands and lab coat as the shrieking child tried to hide his pricked thumb under his arm while fending you off with the other, so it was often a traumatic yet complete waste of time.
I loathed and detested taking blood on the kids’ wards; the only upside was that you could sometimes get an attractive nurse to help by holding the little monster!
However, although the paediatric wards presented a challenge, overall I absolutely loved the job. Best of all was the fun we had as a department. For this daily round of dedicated work that we conscientiously undertook was complemented by some truly mad antics and comedy moments. It was fun, fun, fun.
Every day, we tried to get all the lab work done by four o’clock so that we could have a game of bench-top cricket with a homemade mini cricket set, or a game of football with a mini ‘ball’ made out of layers of surgical tape wrapped into a ball shape, or a mini Grand Prix, where we’d hurtle round the labs and corridors on our wheelie lab chairs, while wearing stainless steel specimen bowls on our heads as ‘crash helmets’. We brewed our own beer and wine in the lab; we also had a tap-dancing competition, which comprised a grand opening through the lab’s double doors, a two-minute routine to the soundtrack from 42nd Street, and then a big finish.
Phil G from Immunology was up first: as the music started, he burst in through the double doors, sliding on one knee, carrying a pipette as a cane and wearing a steel sample bowl as a hat. We cheered as he started tap-dancing – but then confusion reigned; we couldn’t hear a thing. Then we realized he was wearing Hush Puppies. How can you enter a tap-dancing competition wearing Hush Puppies? Disqualified.
Sean was next up and I expected big things as he has always been quite the extrovert. The music started, the doors flew open and Sean entered in a similar fashion to Phil, but then he tap-danced … well, he made a lot of noise with his feet. He tap-danced all over the lab, then jumped on a bench and danced among the apparatus to wild cheering. How could he top this with his big finish? Easy, he jumped out of the window.
Now, okay, the laboratory was on the ground floor, but (and this escaped Sean’s memory at the time) the building was built on a kind of raised embankment, so that effectively we were on the second floor, with quite a drop to the (thankfully) grass lawn outside. I vividly remember to this day the cheer that accompanied his dancing changing suddenly to a collective gasp and a stifled scream as he exited the large open window. Then it was like watching a scene from a Loony Tunes cartoon as Sean seemed to stop in mid-air as Wily Coyote does after going through a door marked ‘Diversion’, which Roadrunner has placed on the edge of a cliff. It seemed that time stood still for that fraction of a second as Sean looked first at us and then down, and then in quick succession his legs, his body and then his elongated neck and head disappeared out of view. How he escaped unhurt I’ll never know.
We had a spell of playing practical jokes on one another. In addition to the usual laxative spearmint, the soap that turned your hands black and that plastic dog poo, we got together to organize some more elaborate japes. Someone enrolled me on a Charles Atlas course because, believe it or not, I was quite thin at that age. Sean and I enrolled Glenn as a member of a sailing club and invented a set of initials after his name – S.K.I.P. – and for years he received brochures about the latest dinghy or lifesaving equipment, and he even had a rep from a yachting company turn up to see him one day.
The worst practical joke was played on me. I had just had a medical and my full blood count was being analysed while I took my morning break. My haemoglobin was okay, but my white cell count was top normal, so I decided to spread a blood smear and look at it under the microscope. I left it staining while I went for my coffee.
As soon as I left the lab, my colleague Kay spread a similar-looking smear (she later said my technique was so rubbish it took her ages to make a replica) on a slide and swapped it with my own sample. However, she used the blood sample of one of our patients who had acute leukaemia. So my question to you: is this funny? No, it isn’t – and yet she still laughs when she remembers the look on my face immediately after I slipped it under my microscope, scanned it briefly and experienced that terrible aching panicky fear.
I looked up at Kay, who sat on the opposite side of the bench, and her expression gave nothing away. I looked back down the microscope – surely there’s some awful mistake, those cells are just big lymphocytes, aren’t they, and not immature, primitive ‘blast’ cells? I looked back up and said to Kay, ‘I’ve got leukaemia,’ and still she never gave anything away, but there was something odd about this – and then it suddenly hit me. The blood smear was identical to one I’d looked at earlier from a patient with acute myeloid leukaemia. I removed the stained smear and studied the name on it – and although it did say ‘Dave’, I was pretty sure that wasn’t my writing. Then Kay laughed, as did the others who were in on the plot. I have to say, I didn’t laugh, and I still don’t. Kay does; she’s laughing now reading this over my shoulder.
It was also around this time that Glenn took a blood sample from a dead patient and I encountered a seriously unbalanced old lady on one of our psychiatric wards.
Glenn first. He’d gone to one of our long-stay geriatric wards to take a blood sugar thumb prick sample from a Mr J. This patient had a very unstable reading and had to be tested every day. Glenn made his way onto the busy ward and, knowing where to find Mr J (and only slightly surprised that the screens were round the bed), he tried to take a sample of blood from the patient’s thumb – but it wouldn’t flow. He tried the other thumb: nothing. A finger or two and as a last resort the ear, which yielded just about enough blood after a deal of squeezing. ‘Well done, Mr J.,’ Glenn said, as he finally took the sample.
Back in the lab, he tested the blood and rang the ward with the result. It went something like this.
Glenn: I’ve got a blood sugar result for Mr J.
Sister: Which Mr J?
Glenn: Mr Arthur J.
Sister: I’m sorry, but Arthur passed away.
Glenn: Oh? When?
Sister: A couple of hours ago.
Glenn: I thought he was quiet.
Sister: When did you take the sample?
Glenn: Thanks, bye.
I’d drawn another short straw and had to take a blood sugar sample from a Mrs Alice D on Russell 1, which was a female psychiatric ward. When I got there, she wasn’t in her bed and so I asked the nurse where she was and she indicated the entrance hall. I wandered through and discovered her sitting on a chair near the large double-door entrance, gazing with some agitation down the driveway. She was dressed entirely in black: black coat, black shoes, black hat – you get the picture.
I told her that I needed a sample and she took a glove (black) off and asked me to hurry as she was going out for a drive. I knew this was unlikely, but she was dressed up and I thought that maybe she’d been allowed a couple of hours on the outside. As I p
repared the lancet and alcohol swab to sterilize her thumb, I asked her where she was going and she said …
Alice: Three bishops are coming for me in a big black Rolls-Royce.
Me: Bishops?
Alice: They come every Tuesday, all dressed up in black they are, and they take me for a drive up round Rivington.
Me: It’s nice round Rivington.
Alice: Mmm, it is. We park near Anglezarke Reservoir.
Me: Lovely.
Alice: Then they all f**k me! Hard! All of ’em. Big cocks.
Me: Right, well, have a good time!
Dirty Old Town
DURING MY LABORATORY rotation, I had day-release to study for my ONC in Medical Laboratory Sciences at Salford Technical College. All seven juniors enrolled and we had to go on different days to minimize disruption to the laboratory. I went on my own, on the bus every Tuesday, and studied Maths, Physics, Chemistry (organic, inorganic and physical), Biology and Medical Laboratory Science.
It was a long day at college, starting at 9 a.m. and finishing at 8 p.m. in order to cram in the heavy mix of theoretical and practical sessions. I met and studied with other junior staff from a variety of local hospitals, and we were lectured by a motley crew of ex-lab staff and academics. I remember Dr Maddox, who was a big, slightly scary, imposing bloke, and some mad old physics lecturer who looked like Wilfrid Hyde-Wight, whose name escapes me. I do remember, however, his early explanation of atomic theory, in which the electrons were butterflies fluttering around a flame, which represented the nucleus. He demonstrated this with his hands becoming two butterflies (!), showing that every time the butterfly dropped out of its orbit and came closer to the flame, it felt the intense heat and started to burn and shouted, ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow!’ and with new-found energy fluttered quickly back to its orbit. That’s atomic theory in a nutshell.
I didn’t make any great friends during that time. We did all come together, however, in our baiting of a weak and frankly rubbish teacher of Chemistry. The pack instinct kicked in and he was so ineffectual that he never stood a chance. Once, during a particularly rowdy Chemistry practical session, he pleaded again and again for silence and concentration, but to no avail. He sort of lost it a bit and shouted, ‘Right! That’s it! You’ve pushed me too far and now you will have to suffer the consequences!’
We stared open-mouthed; he’d never reacted like this before. What was he going to do? We soon found out when he said, ‘I’m going to go out into the corridor and I’m going to stay there until I hear complete silence in here’ – and with that he stormed out.
We exchanged puzzled glances. ‘He’s not quite got this right, has he? He’s not quite grasped the theory behind this type of punishment.’ We gave a collective shrug and resumed our noisy, high-spirited behaviour. Every now and then, we’d see his worried, sad little face peep through the glass window in the door … then, with a shake of the head, he’d be gone. Later, he actually popped his head into the class and shouted above the din, ‘I’m still here!’ We acknowledged him with a thumbs-up. ‘Well done, sir, only another fifteen minutes to go.’
After two years, we had to sit the ONC exam. There were theory and practical exams, which both contributed to the overall score. In order to progress to study for the HNC at Manchester Polytechnic, we had to pass four out of the five subjects. Most of the exams were very hard as I recall, although one was a complete farce and predictably it was the Chemistry teacher’s Medical Lab Science practical exam.
I forget exactly what we had to do, but it involved some blood coagulation testing and some preparation of agar, and I think blood sugar testing. Anyway, most of the techniques required incubating in a water bath at body temperature or in an incubator – and the hopeless teacher had forgotten to switch them on. As we only had ninety minutes or so for the exam, there was no way we would get any meaningful results. He told us to do the tests and make up the reagents anyway and we’d be assessed on those techniques. I thought that without the pressure of obtaining results in some of the tests, it would be a bit of a breeze.
We received our results a month or so later and I found that I’d passed everything – except Medical Laboratory Science! Not one of the other six juniors had attained the necessary number of passes, all failing at least two subjects. We were hauled before the bosses and asked to explain our poor showing. They banged on angrily and told us how disappointed they were with us and how much it reflected badly on the department that every one of us would have to re-enrol and take the year again.
While we were on the receiving end of this bollocking, I suddenly had a thought, which was this … As far as I was aware, we needed to pass four out of five subjects in order to progress – and I had! When I outlined this to the assembled senior staff, scorn was poured upon my suggestion that I should progress to the HNC. ‘What? Are you an idiot? Progress to Manchester Polytechnic without a pass in Medical Laboratory Science – you know, the very science you are studying?’
When I got a free minute, I telephoned Manchester Polytechnic’s admissions officer and explained my situation. He looked at the rules, made a few phone calls, then called me back … to say that, although it was highly irregular, my results did actually fall within the rules of admission to the HNC, as I had effectively passed an ONC in Sciences.
Much to the surprise and dismay of some of the senior staff – and a few of my contemporaries – I was on my way! I’d shed my ‘Junior’ tag at last! Now, with my ONC under my belt, my job title changed to Medical Laboratory Technician. My main feeling wasn’t elation – rather relief that I wouldn’t have to take the year again.
Medicine Man
IN THE MONTHS leading up to the ONC exam – and with my dad back at work – I was encouraged by my parents to resume my academic career and apply to study Medicine. Dr Manning very kindly wrote a glowing reference for me, which I sent with my CV to several universities. I was offered places at three, provided I passed my ONC and secured a grade A or B in A level Biology. I applied to the A level board to take the Biology exam and was given a date a couple of weeks after my ONC exams.
Slight problem was that I’d not done any studying for my A Level Biology. I know that sounds mad, but I convinced myself, rather stupidly – no, incredibly stupidly – that the Biology I was studying at ONC would see me through. After all, I passed the Biology module easily at ONC, so I should walk the A Level. I was so confident that I didn’t even use the two weeks before to swot up. Idiot.
I walked confidently into the laboratory at Bolton Tech on the day of the practical exam – and within five minutes I realized, as a cold shiver ran down my spine, that the grade I was destined for was Grade A Prat.
How did I know that so quickly? Because the lecturer gave me a dogfish to draw, label and dissect. I drew the dogfish and labelled up as much as I could – ‘fin’, ‘another fin’, ‘fin’, ‘tail’, ‘tail fin’, ‘mouth’, ‘eye’, ‘nose’ (not sure about that one, probably has a different name, ‘snout’ maybe). The dissection went better; I recognized most of the internal organs from my time in Histology and from the Human Biology I’d taken on ONC.
Yes, that’s ‘Human’ Biology – but oh no, what’s this approaching? Looks like some sort of plant to draw and label – ‘stalk’, ‘bud’, ‘flower’, ‘fin’, ‘leaf ’
What’s next? Something human hopefully or … a worm. Not much to label on a worm, I think you’ll find. There’s that lumpy girdle thing on it, don’t know what that’s called (tempted to call it a ‘fin’). You know, I’ve always meant to look that up, but I never have, so I’ll do it now … google ‘worm anatomy’ … there! It’s called a ‘saddle’. I could have guessed that!
What next? Oh shit, he’s bringing a jar with a twig in it now! In despair, I take the top off and the ‘stick’ jumps out! Who in their right mind would give unsuspecting students a real live locust to study?
‘Look! I wouldn’t have taken the stupid lid off if you’d told me it was alive. No, I don’t know where it
went. What if we release the gecko? He’ll find it and eat it. It’s what? A newt? And how exactly is that different to a gecko? Oh, right.’
I didn’t pass A level Biology. I didn’t care, really; I was having such a great time in the labs, I was earning a decent wage – £3. 11s. 6d. a week – had some great friends, and the icing on the cake was that I was surrounded by fit nurses … and you know what they say about nurses. They say, ‘She’s a nurse.’
D-I-S-C-O
DURING THESE YEARS, I was transformed from a quiet and shy lad straight out of school into a slightly more confident eighteen-yearold. I loved ‘belonging’ and being part of the teams in each laboratory.
I also discovered and immersed myself enthusiastically in a vastly different social life than I was previously used to. While at school, I’d attended the occasional discos at Heaton Cricket Club and St Thomas à Canterbury’s youth club … but now there was a new world of pubs, clubs, doctors-and-nurses parties and hospital dances!
There was a period while working at the General Hospital when most of the staff went to the Wednesday night disco at Bradford Ward Labour Club just around the corner. This was where I started to have the occasional drink. My first drink I remember was half a pint of mild, which cost 11d. – so about five and a half pence in new money.
None of us juniors had a car, which was obviously limiting, but we could always get around by bus. Saturday nights were spent in Bolton town centre drinking in The Lower Nags Head, The Three Crowns, The Trotters, The Old Man and Scythe (one of the oldest pubs in the country), The Swan, The Brass Cat (Golden Lion) and then onwards and upwards to the Cromwellian Club (The Crom). I say upwards because it had dance floors on three floors, playing Tamla Motown, Stax and Atlantic Soul Music. They never played Northern Soul at The Crom; you had to go to Wigan Casino for that.