Yes Sister, No Sister

by Jennifer Craig

  I calm down as we go round. Sage knows her patients well and I hear her address a sleepless patient in a warm, kind way. Just as our round is over I get an urgent call to see a woman with a plugged tracheotomy. The nurse had removed the inner tube to clean it but before she could insert a clean one, the patient coughed violently and plugged the outer tube.

  ‘We’ll have to change the outer tube,’ I say to the staff nurse. ‘Have you done it before?’

  ‘No, Sister,’ she says. ‘I’m too scared to.’

  Out of the hearing of the patient I say, ‘Stand by with a pair of forceps, just in case the hole starts to close before I can get the new one in.’

  A slit trachea will close immediately if the object holding it open is removed. I select a new outer tube and prepare the tapes for it. I explain what I am going to do to the patient and ask her to try not to cough. I cut the tapes of the blocked tube, twist it, pull it out and quickly insert the clean one. I hold it in place while the staff nurse ties the tapes and then we insert a fresh inner tube.

  At the door, I ask the nurse if she thinks she could do that again. ‘Remember to check that all the parts fit before you do it,’ I say. ‘I put one in once and none of the inner tubes were the right size. Big flap to find the right ones.’

  More calls: a post-op patient’s wound is bleeding, a diabetic is sweating, a man can’t urinate, a drip is plugged, a suction won’t suck. ‘Much like days,’ I think, ‘except I have to walk further.’ So far nothing has happened that I can’t cope with and I am enjoying the alacrity with which the nurses move to meet me. Their respectful attitude reminds me of the power of the uniform I am wearing. I vow not to abuse it.

  I manage to be in the office for tea at three. I get a call from the Ida hospital. ‘How’s it going?’ Sandy asks.

  ‘Not so bad. Busy all the time even though Buzz is covering a couple of wards for me. How’s it up there?’

  ‘Quiet as a grave as usual. Boring. Anyway, not much longer. In a few weeks, you’ll be up here until a new night sister comes on.’

  ‘Todd’s leaving, so it won’t be for long.’

  ‘Is she? Where’s she going?’

  ‘Into the RAF. More chance of meeting a man she says.’

  ‘Have you met Philip Brown yet?’ Sandy asks. ‘I’ve got quite a crush on him. He’s so much fun! Livens everyone up.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t in the office tonight. He’s houseman for Pearson and Cokes isn’t he?’ I yawn loudly. I always feel terrible between three and four in the morning.

  ‘Yes, but they all change over at the end of the month so he’ll be on one of the medical firms.’

  ‘Whoops, there goes my beeper. Got to go.’ I hang up and dial the hall porter to see where I’m needed. Urgent call for Ward 11. There’s a staff nurse in charge so it must be something serious. I hurry down the main corridor.

  In Ward 11, there are curtains drawn around a bed and a dim light silhouettes the figures of two nurses. I enter the cubicle to see a staff nurse placing an oxygen mask over a man’s face. He is deathly pale, breathing in deep sighs, and is unconscious.

  ‘It’s Mr Peterson, Sister. Cancer of the liver. He was open and shut about a week ago. Metastases everywhere. He was alright until a few minutes ago, then he collapsed.’

  ‘Can you get me his chart, please.’ I note that he has a wife, does not have a telephone, like the majority of people in Leeds, and that he is Roman Catholic.

  I go to the phone outside the inner ward doors, call the hall porter and ask Busby to call me on Ward 11. A couple of minutes later the phone rings. I answer it.

  ‘Sister Ross.’

  ‘Buzz here. What’s up?’

  I tell her about the patient and then ask if I should get the houseman up.

  ‘What do you think?’ Trust Busby to throw the ball back to me.

  ‘Well, as he’s riddled with cancer, there’s nothing the houseman can do, so I wouldn’t get him up. I’d leave a note for him to come here first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Right. I agree with you. What else are you going to do?’

  ‘Send for his wife. He lives in Armley. How do I find the number of the local police station?’

  ‘The front desk will have it.’

  ‘Also, he’s RC. Is it the same number for a priest as on days?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Busby. ‘You seem to he coping OK. Bye.’

  I phone the hall porter, get the number of the Armley police station and dial it.

  ‘Armley police.’

  ‘This is Sister Ross at the Infirmary. I wonder if you could go and knock up a Mrs Peterson at 5 Pooley Grove and ask her to phone me.’

  ‘Right you are, Sister. Her husband is it? I’ll stay with her.’

  The police are wonderful. They are so kind to the people we ask them to deliver bad news to; they stay with them at the telephone kiosk, ring for a taxi, see to pets in the house, and inform the neighbours the next day. We couldn’t do without them.

  A priest says he’ll be there in 15 minutes and I go into the ward to ask the staff nurse to get ready for last rites. My buzzer goes. Mrs Peterson is on the phone.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Peterson. This is Sister Ross. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.’

  ‘Been taken badly, has he Sister?’

  ‘Yes luv. I think it’s best if you come here right away.’

  ‘Ay, I’ll do that. We’re Catholics tha’ knows. Shall I send for t’priest?’

  ‘I’ve already done that, Mrs Peterson. Ask the bobby to get you a taxi and I’ll see you when you get here.’

  I ask the staff nurse to let me know when Mrs Peterson arrives and go back to the office. The others are putting on clean aprons for morning rounds and I do the same. We wear the same one to start the next night but we like to look fresh in the morning when the patients are awake.

  The last phone call of the night is at about 7am. A staff nurse tells me that one of her patients put a denture cup, with her false teeth in it, on the bathroom windowsill and a seagull has flown off with them.

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ I say.

  ‘No, I’m not Sister,’ she says laughing. ‘It’s true. The patient saw the gull swoop down and before she could do anything, it picked up her teeth and flew off.’

  I phone the nearest police station. ‘Sister Ross from the Infirmary. If you see a seagull with false teeth, would you arrest it for theft?’

  Chapter 24

  ‘SANDY, TELL ME something funny or interesting before I drop dead from boredom,’ I say on the phone.

  Now I am night sister at the Ida, I can understand why Sandy was anxious to return to the Infirmary. The four wards of convalescing patients, staffed by eight student nurses, do not provide enough work or stimulation to keep me interested. Even though I do at least one teaching round every night, I still have hours of empty time and as these occur between three and six, it is hard to keep awake. Phoning the Infirmary, when I know the night sisters will be having tea in the office, is the highlight of my night.

  ‘Well, you know this group of housemen, with Philip Brown as ringleader, is completely crazy? Tonight one of them jumped out of a first-floor window into a blanket the others were holding but the blanket gave way. Now he’s in Casualty with a query fractured pelvis.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Hamid Imam. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, he was on Ward 5. What else has been happening?’

  ‘I wish I could talk but my beeper has just gone. Bye.’

  I wish my beeper would go but I don’t even have one as my office is within easy reach of the four wards. I make myself a tray of tea in the main kitchen and return, yawning, to my office.

  The Ida hospital is in the countryside outside Leeds. Instead of sounds of traffic, we hear cocks crowing, owls hooting and the rustling of grass made by nocturnal creatures. Wards are smaller than the main hospital and beds are arranged in rooms that lead off each other. This more casual arrangement and the reduction in bustle
makes for a peaceful, tranquil atmosphere.

  Most of the patients are convalescing. Instead of tables being used for treatment equipment, they are covered with jigsaw puzzles and crib boards. Six children, all bedridden at present, are kept entertained by adult patients and during the day their cots are wheeled out on to the veranda.

  Some patients, those without family, come here to die, though we do not admit this. We try to pretend that patients are getting well, but in my experience so far, they know very well that they are dying. We keep up the pretence anyway. Families are told the prognosis and it is up to them to inform the patient. In most cases, they do not.

  ‘Sister, come quick! I think Mr Ravinsky has died.’ The junior nurse sounds alarmed.

  ‘You seem surprised,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you know he was dying?’

  ‘No Sister,’ she says and starts to cry.

  ‘Sit down a minute. Have a cup of tea. There’s no need to rush back.’ I remember how Buzz had comforted me when baby Nicholas died. ‘Some sisters might think you’re unprofessional when you cry, but I’m pleased that you care so much. It’s when we stop crying that we’re in trouble.’

  ‘He was such a nice man,’ the young nurse sobs. ‘I feel so sorry for him. He lost all his family in the concentration camps. He was only 62. I’m sure he died of a broken heart.’

  ‘You’re probably right, even though he had cancer.’ When she calms down a bit, I say, ‘Let’s both lay him out as our last act of respect for him.’

  There is no morgue at the Ida so we wheel the body into a garage to await transport in the morning. Mr Ravinsky has only a distant cousin living in London so I decide to wait until morning to notify her.

  I am sitting addressing Christmas cards and writing annual letters one night when the phone rings. It is Sandy. ‘Good news, Jen. There’s a new night sister coming on next week. Guess who it is?’

  ‘No idea. Tell me.’

  ‘Milbury.’

  I suddenly feel awake. ‘Oh no! Don’t tell me I have to work with her again. I can’t stand her.’ My thoughts go back to the Dragon’s ward when Milbury lied about her seniority and told the staff nurse that I had not changed a patient. I have seen her in the corridor sometimes. She always gives me a big smile. I smile back through gritted teeth.

  ‘It will be a long time before you actually do work with her because she’ll be going to the Ida. As no one has plans to leave, she might be there a long time. I don’t think you’ll make it down here for Christmas though, as she starts December first and should have a month here.’

  ‘I’ll have to start praying.’ I don’t want to be here, alone, for Christmas and miss all the fun at the Infirmary.

  A couple of weeks later I am heating up my dinner in the kitchen when I hear a car draw up. The outside door bursts open and six housemen, rather the worse for beer, tumble in singing ‘The First Noel’. Philip Brown, an enormous young man who should be a champion rugby player, picks me up and whirls me round the kitchen.

  ‘Thought we’d come and cheer you up,’ he says. ‘What have you got in the way of cheer?’ He opens the fridge. ‘A dry house, I see. We’ll have to do something about that!’ He leaves the kitchen to go to the car and returns with several bottles of beer.

  We sit round the table drinking except for Paul who is peering at the clocking-in machine. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s for the domestic staff to clock in and out,’ I say.

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘They take their card from that rack, put it in that slot and pull the handle. The time they do it is … NO, don’t fool with their cards – they’ll get into trouble.’

  Unfortunately, there’s a pile of letters, mostly Christmas cards, for Miss Hawkins, the Assistant Matron in charge of the Ida. Before I can stop him, Paul takes each letter and runs it through the machine so that it ends up with a hole in it and a time stamped on it. I sigh as I wonder what excuses to make up.

  I am feeling so cheerful after they all leave that I stop worrying about the letters and take the empty beer bottles out to my scooter bag. Then I leave the door to the kitchen open to get rid of the smell of a pub.

  Mid-December and I am still at the Ida. I am resigned to spending Christmas there. Then the phone rings.

  ‘Buzz here. I want you back at the Infirmary after your nights off. Milbury will replace you. You will have to cover her nights off sometimes, like the others, but otherwise you’ll be down here.’

  I am overjoyed. A few minutes later Sandy phones. ‘You got the good news?’ Her voice lowers. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think Buzz can stand Milbury. She’s always sucking up to her and that does not go down with Buzz at all. She’s always saying, “Yes Sister Busby, No Sister Busby.” It’s enough to make you puke.’

  ‘So she hasn’t changed much – still the blue-eyed girl. What does Buzz do?’

  ‘Nothing really. It’s just the expression on her face that gives her away. Anyway, I’m so pleased you’ll he here. No one is nights off on the 24th or 25th so we’ll have a really good time.’

  I have my nights off and go back to work on Christmas Eve. As we are all on, we have fewer wards to cover and as these are half-empty, we are not at all busy. Sandy and I meet after our first round to visit the wards to look at the decorations.

  Decorating the wards at Christmas is a major activity at the Infirmary. It is so important that a silver cup is awarded to the best-decorated ward. Each ward has an enormous tree in the middle covered in baubles and hangings that patients have made or donated over the years. After that, it is up to the ingenuity of the ward staff and patients. The one we like best has cardboard cutouts of stockings with toys hanging out of them, attached to each vertical bed rail. On the centre table is a cardboard sleigh and a Father Christmas made of stuffed clothes and a papier mache head. The sleigh is filled with gaily-covered parcels.

  ‘That’s really clever,’ Sandy says. ‘I hope they win the cup.’

  We go back to the office, which is packed with housemen, some drinking from the teapot and others from various bottles. They pair each other off and take it in turns to be on call and therefore sober. Philip is wearing a Santa hat to go with his false beard and red robes that are draped over a chair. He has been elected to visit the children’s wards and fill their stockings. All the patients hang up stockings that the night staff fill with nuts, tangerines and toiletries, but only the children receive a visit from Father Christmas.

  Philip comes up to me. ‘Have you been a good little girl?’

  ‘Oh yes, Santa,’ I say in a falsetto voice.

  He gives me a big kiss as a reward. At midnight he sets off with his sack as we go for dinner and the other housemen go to bed. They have left a coal fire burning in their sitting room so we go there after dinner rather than to the office. We are in and out attending to our wards but otherwise we sit in the glow of the fire enjoying our leisure and each other’s company.

  ‘Buzz,’ I say sleepily, ‘I want to know what you got the MBE for.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Yes, come on Buzz, tell us,’ the others say.

  ‘I got it for doing my duty, which is more than I can say for you lot right now.’ She won’t tell us even though we go on nagging.

  We sleep through Christmas Day and so miss the consultants’ visits with their families, the carving of the turkey in the middle of the ward by one of them and the tea for patients and their visitors. We also miss the staff dinner when the sisters wait on the nurses and the housemen wait on the sisters. The cup for the best-decorated ward is given out at the sisters’ dinner. We hear later that the ward with the Santa in the sleigh won it.

  By the time we come on duty the hospital is quiet, though some parties are still going on in side wards. I arrive early so I can visit Casualty before BB goes off but they are busy with a car accident, a child who swallowed a sixpence in the Christmas pudding, several drunks and a man with his finger lodged in a ‘build-yourself-a-clock’ part.
So I go up to Princess Mary to say hello to Howes and admire the theme of spinning tops they have used as decorations.

  ‘I hear you’re leaving,’ I say to Howes.

  ‘Yes, at the end of February. I’m joining the RAF. Four of us are.’

  ‘How are you at saluting?’ I ask.

  ‘We have a month of drills and things but then we’re posted to a hospital and it will be much as usual. It’s time I left. When the housemen start looking like boys, it’s time to go. Why don’t you apply for the ward?’

  I hesitate. ‘Much as I love it, I want more experience with adults. And it’s too soon for me; I’ll only have been on nights for three months.’

  I wonder if I should apply. With my experience as a perm there, I stand a good chance. But such a special ward is out of the mainstream and my experience would then be limited to sick infants. I would like to be well rounded so I can travel in the future. I give up the idea.

  A few days later the sister’s pantomime is performed. Because we’re on duty at nine we have to go to the first house at seven when the audience is mostly night staff and patients. The second house at 9.30 is much more interesting as Matron and the consultants are there.

  BB organises the pantomime. All who are interested meet in November and join one of three teams: actors who revise a script and play parts in the actual pantomime, the dance chorus and the singing chorus. One or other of the choruses separates scenes of the plot. This year it is Aladdin in LGI. Part of the repertoire of the dance chorus is ‘She wore an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini,’ with the nurses dressed accordingly.

  The singing chorus composes verses to well-known tunes and there are songs for housemen, registrars, surgeons, physicians, and nurses. The housemen’s song is to the tune of ‘John Peel’. One of the verses is:

  Philip Brown is too big by far

  To try and drive a midget car,

  For we’d rather have you as you are,