Yes Sister, No Sister

by Jennifer Craig

  After Margaret there are no more children but I am busy stitching gashes made by flying glass, dressing grazes and dealing with people who are shivering and dazed with shock. I take one woman with a glass shard sticking out of her eye to theatre, and I admit two people with fractures. BB tells us to grab tea and sandwiches when we can and Kitchen keeps everything replenished. At one point I am told that a Mrs Jones wants to see me.

  ‘Your little Trojan can go home,’ I say to her. ‘She’s been a right champion. She may have been knocked out by the blast so you need to keep a good eye on her. I am sure she’ll be alright but it will be wise to wake her up every hour during the night to make sure she is conscious and to check her pupils with a torch, like this.’ I show her how to test the pupils. ‘If they become very tiny or very large or different sizes, call an ambulance and bring her in. We would keep her in normally but, as you can see, we are overwhelmed.’

  ‘I quite understand. Do you know how the others are?’ Mrs Jones asks.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs Jones. We were just swamped with casualties and I’ve been too busy to get the general picture.’ I don’t want to tell her about the small humps I’d seen under sheets. There must have been at least six.

  I am seeing one case after another and lose all track of time. It is nice to have Markham to help as she does all the sterilising, which makes it quicker for me. She also takes the patients who can go home to physio and gives them tea. The little bus-type ambulances, used to transport patients to and from hospital, are beginning to clear the room so patients do not have to wait for long now.

  BB comes in. ‘That’s the first wave of patients. They were on the street. Now we can expect those that have been buried under rubble. A store collapsed on top of them. So far the only ones they’ve got out are dead.’

  I look at my watch. It is nearly eight o’clock. I can hardly believe it. I have been attending to casualties for over eight hours without a break. Then I think, ‘Oh no – we were supposed to go riding and I didn’t let Livvy know.’ I don’t suppose Judith did either as all off duty was cancelled throughout the hospital. Those who should have been off were sent to help here or in theatre. There is a lull so I go to the phone in the tiny room that serves as BB’s office to call Livvy.

  ‘Livvy here,’ a voice booms after two rings. I hold the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Livvy, it’s Jennifer. I’m terribly sorry that we didn’t let you know we weren’t coming but there’s been a disaster.’

  ‘Don’t worry old bean. Heard about the bomb. Guessed you’d be busy, as I know you’re in Casualty. Good thing you can handle it – hardened to it I expect.’

  Something gives way. ‘Hardened to it,’ I shriek down the phone. ‘Hardened to seeing little kiddies blown to bits, people with their faces half blown off, a man with no feet and…’ I start to cry. There’s a pause.

  ‘Look, I’m terribly sorry old thing. Didn’t mean it. It’s just that…’ Livvy’s voice hesitates, ‘I’m no good at anything, you know. I couldn’t do what you and Judith do. I do admire you. See you next week, I hope.’

  ‘Yes you will,’ I manage to say before I hang up. Then I put my head on my arms and sob. All the horror and exhaustion drain out of me as I let it out through tears.

  BB comes in. ‘What’s this? I thought you were a stoical Yorkshire woman?’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ I snivel.

  He puts an arm over my shoulders. ‘You did OK, kid. Now go over to the Nurses’ Home and powder your nose or whatever you women do, and put on a clean pinny. You look like a butcher. Then come back in ten minutes and there will be bacon, eggs and chips for everyone. That’ll cheer you up.’

  When I return, Casualty is quiet and we are able to sit and eat our bacon and eggs undisturbed. I do feel more cheerful. I didn’t realise I was so hungry. Everyone in the room looks exhausted, especially Father John. He and BB have had the awful job of getting people to identify the dead. Most of them were children. I had seen the stricken parents waiting for news as I flew in and out of my cubicle. I was lucky – the only parents I saw were the ones who could take their child home. As I munch I feel the same sense of camaraderie I felt in theatre and I am proud to be one of this group – proud to be a nurse. If I can cope with today, I can handle anything.

  Sister Busby comes in. It must be nine o’clock and the night staff is on. Not much chance of us going off yet as we are expecting victims who have been buried. The police have let us know that the diggers have nearly broken through the rubble and that several people are trapped but alive.

  ‘I hear you’ve had a somewhat busy day, BB,’ Busby says. ‘Just like old times, eh?’

  ‘With this team, we can only win.’ BB looks round at us.

  Today must be like the war was and those two have been through it. But it wasn’t just one day for them but day after day after day. How on earth did they survive? I look at them with new respect.

  ‘Sister Busby,’ I say. ‘I’d like to know what happened to a little girl called Christine Stacey. She had a head injury and went to theatre with a severed artery in her arm.’

  Busby looks through her reports. ‘She’s on Ward 10. She had her arm amputated. But she’s conscious now. You can go and see her if you like.’

  There is the sound of ambulances again but this time many of the casualties walk in. They are in shock but not badly injured. They had been in the back of the store that collapsed and were trapped. Some of them have broken limbs and need to be admitted, but after we have examined them and attended to any small wounds, the rest can go home.

  It is midnight when I get home. Judith and Jess are there but not Sandy. We catch up on each other’s news.

  ‘I’ve been in theatre all day. Sandy is still there but on the last case, I think,’ Judith says.

  ‘We had to thend as many patients home as possible and we had loadth of admissions,’ Wee Jess says. ‘It was awful. Most of them were thurgical cases even though we’re a medical ward and don’t have the right equipment.’

  ‘What was it like for you, Jen?’ Judith asks as she puts down a mug of cocoa for each of us.

  ‘It was terrible. The first lot was all little girls. They had been in a bus queue right next to where the bomb went off. There were some horrible injures and several deaths. After today, nothing worse can happen to me.’ I sip my cocoa. ‘You know, I don’t care what cause the IRA stands for, to set off a bomb among ordinary people, including children, is simply barbaric. I hate them and all they stand for and will do for the rest of my life.’

  Chapter 19

  I AM TO SPEND my third night duty on Princess Mary, the ward for sick infants. Before I can be in charge on nights I have to present myself, in a completely clean uniform, for two days orientation. I am excited though nervous about the prospect of looking after babies. My only contact with wee bairns has been my brother, who was born when I was 14, but that was not enough experience to give me confidence.

  Sister Howes greets me. For some reason, I expected a large motherly type but she is small, cheerful and energetic. She asks me what my off duty is.

  ‘I don’t know, Sister. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Well, the evening routine is much like the afternoon so you may as well have a five-to today, and tomorrow as well.’ She smiles at me. I immediately like her; she does not seem to be officious or rule-bound, two qualities I can’t stand. To ask about my off duty straight away indicates that she has sympathy for students.

  ‘I’ll show you how to change and feed a baby first as that is what we mostly do.’

  Sister Howes puts on the white gown hanging beside a cot, opens the locker and slides out a tray with a small bowl, cotton-wool balls and baby talcum powder. She fills the bowl with warm water. Then she lowers the cot side and picks up a tiny, wizened baby.

  ‘This is Matthew. Failure to thrive. We get quite a few of these in as we’re the centre for the whole of Yorkshire. It’s heart-breaking, as we can’t find the reason. They
just don’t grow.’ She lays Matthew on her lap, takes off his nappy and puts it in a bowl on the floor. Then she carefully washes and dries his groin with cotton wool. She folds a muslin square into a triangle, folds it again and places it under the baby.

  ‘You bring this flap up like this and fold the other two ends across. Then, holding your fingers under where the safety pin goes, you pin it. Keeping your fingers here means you prick yourself, not the baby, if you push too hard.’ She puts Matthew back in his cot while she washes her hands. Then she picks him up again, settles into a chair with her feet on a stool, takes up a glass feeding bottle from a jug of hot water, tests a drop of milk on her forearm and puts the teat in his mouth.

  Matthew sucks weakly. ‘This one isn’t interested but some of them are proper little guts-aches. Come on, Matthew, there’s a good boy.’ Sister Howes jiggles the bottle. After a while she puts it back in the hot water and sits Matthew up.

  ‘This is how you burp them. Don’t be afraid to bang on their backs – they’re not made of porcelain.’ Matthew’s expression is one of profound concentration. Then he gives a giant burp for one so small and his expression relaxes. ‘Now, perhaps you could change and feed Shirley in the next cot. She’s eight months old and came in with gastroenteritis but she’s better now and ready to go home.’

  I feel extraordinarily happy holding a baby on my lap and cradled in my arm. I spontaneously start to sing a lullaby. Shirley has round blue eyes, pink cheeks and sucks her bottle with gusto. I hold her tiny hand and admire the miniature nails. I nuzzle my chin on her head and feel the softness of her hair. She smells of baby powder. Then I look up guiltily. Perhaps I shouldn’t be cuddling a baby. Perhaps I will infect her.

  Sister Howes comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘I am glad to see you cuddling Shirley. They need that as much as food and clean nappies.’

  The ward reminds me of Peter Pan and Wendy as it looks like an old-fashioned nursery. At the far end there is a large fireplace with a brass fender around the hearth and a coal fire burning. A clothes horse is bent around one side of the fire and a medley of tiny woollen garments hangs out to dry. Six white-painted metal cots flank each side of the room. One of them holds several stuffed animals and a chubby-cheeked baby who is standing up mouthing the cot rail.

  After I finish feeding Shirley, Sister Howes says, ‘It’s time for David to have his penicillin. I want you to give it.’

  ‘I can’t inject a baby,’ I say in horror.

  ‘Yes, you can. You have to. It’s the same as an adult only you use a smaller needle.’

  I take David’s nappy off and stare at the tiny bottom. ‘I’m going to hurt him,’ I say to Sister.

  ‘Yes, you are. But he has to have his medicine. Go on – brace yourself and give it.’

  I quickly insert the needle into the tiny bottom and press down the plunger. There is a moment’s silence and then a furious howl. David’s little face is screwed up and his mouth is wide open. His whole body is letting the world know of his affront. I pick him up and hold him against my shoulder.

  ‘Oh, David, I’m sorry. There, there.’ I cuddle him until he stops crying and put him back in his cot.

  Sister Howes is laughing at me. ‘You’ll soon get used to it.’

  We have admitted a baby with pyloric stenosis and we are getting him ready for theatre. I learn how to give subcutaneous saline (sub-cut). Instead of an intravenous infusion, saline is injected under the skin in an attempt to keep the baby hydrated. I also learn how to pass a tube through the baby’s mouth into his stomach to wash it out.

  ‘Pyloric stenosis is quite common,’ Sister Howes says. The diagnosis is made when a baby vomits and it shoots across the room – projectile vomiting. Luckily, it’s a simple matter to cut the pylorus, which is all that needs to happen. Then it’s OK after it heals.’

  She holds up the shrivelled little baby. ‘You watch,’ she says, ‘he’ll be so plump next week you won’t recognise him.’

  We all start night duty the next day and although I hate nights I am looking forward to working on Princess Mary. It is so peaceful. I am busy all the time but it is not the frantic rush of the adult wards. As the ward is small, and as I sit down a lot to feed babies, I don’t get as tired as usual.

  A few nights later I admit a three-month old with gastro-enteritis. Her mother, who wears a headscarf over her curlers, a man’s overcoat fastened with safety pins and down-at-heel shoes, carries Nancy in. She smells and I am thinking how I wish she would take a bath when I remember my day with the district nurse in PTS. This woman probably lives in a one-up, one-down with one cold water tap. Nevertheless, the baby is clean. I start to undress her and peel off layer upon layer of hand-knitted clothes. Finally she is dressed only in a nappy and I can almost hear her say ‘Whew.’

  I take off the nappy, which is dirty with liquid green stool, and wrap it and the clothes for the mother to take home. ‘There you are Mrs Naylor, you take these and bring in a clean nappy and clothes when you come to take her home again.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be alright, nurse?’ Mrs Naylor looks tired and anxious. ‘She’s been fretful all day like and hasn’t kept nowt down. And look at her bum! It’s all red and sore but I’ve been changing her often, honest I have.’ She starts to cry.

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ I say. ‘It’s difficult to keep them clean when they have constant diarrhoea. But there’s every good chance Nancy will recover quickly and she’ll soon be home with you. The doctor is coming to examine her and he will explain what is wrong and what we are going to do. Perhaps you could wait in the waiting room until he arrives.’

  I weigh Nancy, take her temperature and dress her in clean clothes. I have just finished when the paediatric houseman and the night sister come in.

  ‘Is the mother still here?’ the houseman asks. ‘I’ll get a history from her before I examine the baby.’

  ‘Yes, she’s in the waiting room,’ I say.

  The night sister tells me to put Nancy in traction. When babies have severe diarrhoea we put splints on their legs, then hang them up onto pulleys suspended from two poles which traverse the cot ends. In this way their bottoms are exposed to the air and they are not sitting in stool.

  The houseman comes back from the waiting room with Mrs Naylor, who leans over the cot to give her baby a goodbye kiss.

  ‘Phone in the morning Mrs Naylor, to find out how she is,’ I say as I see her out of the ward. ‘Visiting hours are from two to four and from seven to eight or you can make arrangements with Sister to visit when it suits you.’ I touch her arm. ‘You brought Nancy in before she’s really bad so I don’t think it will be long before she’s home and keeping you on your toes.’

  I give Nancy her first sub-cut and then go to make up her feeds. I scrub up to enter the milk kitchen. It is bright and gleaming with a long stainless steel counter above which is a shelf holding large round tins of National Dried Milk powder. Those with blue labels hold full-cream, those with red labels, half-cream. There are also jars of Benger’s food and other special milk powders. A big Brown Betty teapot looks strange among the tins and jars but I need it now as babies with diarrhoea have their feeds made up with tea. There is little else we can do for the numerous babies we get with gastro-enteritis: try to keep them hydrated, stop the skin of their buttocks from becoming excoriated, and wait. If we get them before they are severely dehydrated, the prognosis is good.

  Nancy soon recovers. Sister Howes gives Mrs Naylor lessons on the importance of sterilisation of bottles and teats and the use of boiled water to make up feeds, before she takes her baby home.

  In my own home, we are all excited as Judith announces, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed, that she is engaged to be married. She waves her fourth finger at us to show off a ring. It does not hold a diamond but an amethyst. She says she prefers that stone and thinks diamonds are over-rated.

  ‘Well, you’re a dark horse. I had no idea,’ I say. ‘Who is the lucky chap?’ I feel
hurt that she hasn’t told me before the general announcement. I am her best friend after all.

  ‘His name is Alan King and he was a dresser at the women’s hospital. I’ve been out with him a few times but I didn’t tell you lot because you would have ribbed me too much. He’s coming for supper on Saturday so if any of you are around, you can meet him.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ Sandy asks.

  ‘He’s dark, not particularly tall, brown eyes, nice smile. Rather gorgeous really.’ I am amused by Judith’s dreamy look as she says this. What a transformation!

  ‘I’m going to be in on Saturday if it means refusing an invitation from the Queen,’ I say. ‘When’s the wedding? How about a double event with Marie?’

  Judith gives me a withering look. ‘We don’t have a date planned as I want to finish and do Midder. Alan wants to specialise in something, he’s not sure what.’

  When we’re in bed Judith says, ‘Will you be my bridesmaid, Jen?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to,’ I say. ‘As long as I don’t have to wear frills and lace.’

  Judith laughs. ‘No, it will be a very quiet affair in a registry office. No one there but our parents and you.’

  My hurt disappears. Judith has always been reserved and I appreciate the fact that I am the one she chooses to debate with. When the four of us are together she doesn’t say much but when she and I are alone, we discuss books, philosophy and how much better we could run the hospital.

  Judith spends the entire Saturday shopping and preparing food. I am not allowed to help or even lay the table. Her normal eating habits are absent-minded so I am amused by her industry. She prepares spaghetti bolognaise, salad, crusty bread, a creamy pudding and arranges Camembert cheese and grapes on the table. She has also bought an expensive wine rather than our usual plonk.

  Alan arrives as Sandy and Jess get up and we all sit down to eat. He is handsome but I don’t like the way his dark eyebrows nearly meet or the blue-dark shadow where he has recently shaved. He reminds me of Heathcliffe.