Nurse Tripp came in to help me with the jugs and enlightened me. For almost everything, a trolley or tray had to be ‘laid up’ in the approved fashion. The ‘patient washing’ trolley had to have bowls, jugs of hot water, soap, flannels, towels, tooth mugs on the top shelf and a bucket for soiled linen on the bottom. Patients were kept in bed for much longer then than nowadays, so there were plenty of ‘bed patients’ to wash.
‘Aren’t you coming to coffee?’ Nurse Tripp appeared in the sluice doorway.
‘Is it time? I haven’t finished all the washes yet.’ I was staggered to hear that it was 9:30 a.m.—time for the half-hour break. It was a lot less than a half-hour by the time we had run down the four flights of stairs (nurses were not allowed to use the lifts), run across the gardens and climbed to the nurses’ home dining room. There was scarcely time to gulp a cup of watery coffee and rush back up all those stairs. I wondered if it was worth it, but we were expected to do this marathon: it was in the rules.
Back on the ward, Sister bore down upon me.
‘Right, Nurse Brown, you must look at the duty list in the kitchen in future, but because you are new, you will work mornings and afternoons this week. You have one hour for lunch and then you are back here until six. You then have the evening off.’
She made it sound like a gift to an undeserving child.
‘You are very slow,’ she continued, ‘but l will overlook it, as you are new. It is time for the morning round, so be sure that the beds are tidy and the “up” patients are in their beds and don’t have books or papers all over them. After the round, do the bedpan round before the patients’ lunch.’ Then off she went.
There seemed to be endless ‘rounds’, but I supposed this one must be the doctors’ round. It sounded very important, and once more Nurse Tripp and I rushed around the beds, whisking newspapers out of sight, tucking patients in and smoothing the covers. As the lowest of the low, I was told to get on with my work quietly while the doctors were there, but l was not told what I had to do, quietly or otherwise, so I skulked in the sluice doorway and watched.
Sister and Staff Nurse stood by the ward door, Staff Nurse holding a pile of patient notes. In came a very large, elegantly dressed doctor in an immaculate white coat, followed by two other doctors, not quite so tidy, and four student doctors who looked a little down-at-heel compared with the august presence of Professor Proud—as the eminent man proved to be called. Most appropriate, I thought.
Sister approached and accompanied the Professor and his entourage, with Staff Nurse beside her, handing her the patient notes at exactly the right moment. The Professor addressed the doctors and student doctors, imparting information and asking questions. They were obviously terrified of him. I sympathised, as I felt the same fear of Sisters and Senior Nurses.
The parade around the ward went well until one very elderly man shouted out, ‘Nurse! Nurse, I be wantin’ a bottle.’
Everyone ignored him. I did not know what to do. I only just knew what he meant.
Sister glanced towards him. ‘Mr. Turner, can you please wait until the round has finished.’
I doubt if the old fellow knew what ‘a round’ was.
‘No, that I can’t. I be goin’ to wet the bloody bed.’
I felt that, as the lowest of the low, bedpans and bottles were my responsibility, so I grabbed a bottle (and they looked like bottles then—they were made of glass) and quickly shoved it under the bedclothes. As I turned my back (as though he cared about that), I caught Sister’s look of absolute horror and Staff Nurse’s red, embarrassed face.
A much-relieved old man drew the almost full bottle from beneath the clothes and, in full view, handed it to me, saying, ‘See, Nurse. I did want un’ like I said.’
I scuttled off to the sluice, knowing that somehow I had done something very wrong and would soon be ‘on the carpet’—but what?
The round ended and they all packed into Sister’s office for a few moments, and I could hear the Professor holding forth. Then Sister stomped into the sluice, where I was trying to be invisible.
‘What do you think you were doing, Nurse Brown? How dare you shame the staff and the patients in front of the Professor? I was mortified, and I have a good mind to report you to Matron.’
Oh no! Not on my very first day! What would Mum say if she got to hear of it?
I was literally trembling. ‘I … I’m sorry, Sister, He wanted a bottle … I … I just thought I was doing the right thing.’
‘The right thing? If—and it is an if—the patient really needed a urinal, we do not call that receptacle a “bottle” here, Nurse. You should have put two screens quietly round his bed and fetched the urinal covered by a cloth, and removed it in the same quiet way, taken it to the sluice and returned to remove the screens. There was no need for chat.’
I hadn’t opened my mouth; the patient had uttered one sentence. I sensed that explanation would be unwelcome, however.
‘I’m sorry, Sister.’ I muttered, close to tears. ‘I … I didn’t know.’
‘Hmm. I suppose not. It was most unfortunate. Most unfortunate! Well, I will not report you this time, but just be sure you do things properly in future.’
I was so relieved.
Some of the Patients
The next morning, Natalie got up in time for breakfast.
‘I thought you had yours at coffee?’ I said.
‘Nah,’ Natalie growled. ‘They had cleared it all away by then. Miserable lot!’
‘Well, I suppose they have their rules, just as we do,’ I offered.
Anna, too, was making signs of getting up. ‘I shall have to force something down, I suppose. Yesterday I felt quite faint by coffee time.’
Natalie and I had quickly learnt to ignore Anna’s aches and pains—they seemed to change daily anyway.
On the ward, I started to do the same things as the day before and got through my duties a lot faster. I also made an effort to get to know the patients a bit, though standing talking was not allowed. If a nurse happened to have nothing to do for a minute or two (and this rarely happened), she would hide in the sluice because if Sister saw her doing nothing, even for a second, she was in trouble and judged to be lazy. The odd moment could have been well spent talking to some of the vulnerable or lonely patients; so this rule was most inconsiderate. It was also counter-productive, as sometimes nurses were deemed unfriendly.
One patient on the cardiac ward was a very caring man called Mr. Code (pronounced ‘Codey’). Although he had ankylosing spondilitis, a severe type of arthritis affecting the spine, and was bent almost double, he pottered about the ward doing little things for the bed-bound patients, such as pouring them a glass of water from the jug that they could not reach or taking a letter to the ward post box, which was just outside the door. He was on the cardiac ward because he also had a heart condition that was being assessed. He had been in a long time, knew all the staff and wandered at will into Sister’s office or the kitchen with little jokes or snatches of ditties. He would sing, as he pottered around, ‘If I Knew You Were Coming, I’d’ve Baked a Cake’.
I was working in new surroundings with unfamiliar people, the terms of my work were still vaguely unknown and I was so dizzyingly rushed in all that I had to do that the fact that I remember him so well must mean that he was really exceptional. I have a warm feeling, even after some sixty-odd years later, when I remember him.
Heart disease in the 1950s was often fatal, as it was not well understood; drugs were only just being devised to treat the different conditions, and heart surgery was in its infancy. I remember young men who had collapsed at work, and older men who were unable to walk more than a few paces without having to pause for breath; some of the patients were blue about the lips because there was not enough oxygen getting through, and many days I would come on duty to find yet another empty bed.
In my first week, we admitted a double amputee. This man had been in a car accident and had had to have both legs amputated, one belo
w the knee and one above. He was transferred from the surgical ward about a week after his operation to the medical cardiac ward because it was discovered that he had a serious heart condition. He was very ill and confused, and the screens were round him all the time. As the most junior nurse, I had nothing to do with him—he needed special care and was ‘specialled’ at all times by a Senior Nurse.
On my second day, however, the special nurse had to leave him for just a moment to fetch a clean gown, as he had vomited. As she rushed out from behind the screens, leaving them open so that other staff could see him, she glanced at me and called, ‘Watch him for a second and shout if you need help.’
I was passing with some clean sheets. I put them on the end of his bed and stood looking at him. He was quiet and appeared to be asleep, but then quite suddenly he sat up and began to rip the bandages off one amputation. I shouted for help, but no one came. I tried to tell him to stop, but he did not understand; he did not even seem to realise that he had no legs because he began to get out of bed. Shouting again, I barely caught him as he fell to the ground, just as the nurse rushed back.
‘Oh, no. Not again!’ She helped me to lift him, or perhaps I helped her, and we got him back on the bed. He had opened the wound by pulling at the bandages, and the raw, weeping, bleeding area was exposed. It was the first time that I had seen an amputation wound, and, although quite shocked, I was glad to find that I was not revolted or disgusted. This was good. I desperately wanted to be a good, sensible nurse, so I thought this was probably a good test.
The special nurse called Sister, and they dealt with the dressings, for I was much too junior to know how.
‘Psst! What’s happened, Nurse,’ a young man in the next bed whispered.
‘Well, I … ’
Sister overheard and cut off anything I might have said. ‘Nurse, you do not discuss one patient with another.’
‘No, Sister.’ I answered. I had not been about to tell the young man anything other than that the man was ‘rather poorly’, but arguing with Sister, even to defend myself, was not a good idea. At least, I thought, I had been brought up never to argue, no matter what the reason, so humility came easily.
The young man said later: ‘Nurse, did I get you into trouble?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ There I was, pretending again!
‘I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble. I think you are so pretty. They make you work so hard—I think they are jealous.’
I had no idea how to deal with this: nothing of this nature had happened to me before, so I just smiled, shook my head and got on with my interrupted work.
Young Mr. Arnold (we were not allowed to use forenames) kept looking at me and trying to catch my eye. I was afraid Sister would notice. I felt gauche and inadequate; I was sure that all the other girls would have known what to say.
The day passed, as many were to do, in something of a blur of beds and bedpans, lockers and washings, feedings and turnings, taking patients to the lavatories, then more beds.
That evening I went to bed at eight p.m. I was too tired even to chat with Margaret.
A First
The man with the amputations, whom I will call Mr. Jones, was very ill and not expected to live for many more days. I heard it said that there was nothing else that could be done for him except to ensure that he was comfortable, which meant sedated. I thought it strange and sad to think that we were there (as doctors and nurses) to make folk better, but we were just waiting for a man to die. This was something that I would get used to in time, as various terminally ill patients came and went, but the first time it felt like a corporate failure. I wished that I could talk to someone about my confused feelings, but the ethos of that ward at least was that we just got on with whatever we were doing, only asked essential questions and obeyed orders and did not voice ‘feelings’.
Feelings were not allowed; it was not done to exhibit them. I wonder if this strict rule accounted for the stern looks on the faces of so many Sisters and the fact that consultants on their rounds rarely spoke to their patients: only about them. After the many years that some Sisters had been following this rule, their sympathetic side must have shrivelled. I did not have time to think all this out then, but I have wondered about it since. Times are very different now; in many ways, we have become too informal and unprofessional, even sentimental, and perhaps hypocritical.
Late in the afternoon on one of my first few days in the ward I was told to take something to the nurse who was looking after Mr. Jones. As I opened the screens, he gave a deep gurgle and died—just like that. One minute, his eyes were open and he was breathing; the next, there was this strange sound and he was dead. I just stood holding whatever it was that I had in my hands, slowly realising that I was looking at a dead person for the first time. I must have looked shocked because the nurse gently took the thing from me and quietly pushed me out through the screens.
I knew about death—oh yes, I knew about death! My mother’s death had changed my childhood (in fact, my whole life), and all the deaths in the war had depleted families that I knew, taking friends’ fathers and brothers. But so far I had been spared the sight of a dead person.
I carried on with my work, but when my break came I could not join the others in the dining room as usual. I needed a little time to come to terms with my feelings. We could not entirely suppress them, after all.
A Day Off
Just as I was going off duty at six p.m., or just after, Sister called me. What had I done wrong this time, I wondered, as I made my way to the office?
‘Nurse Brown, have you looked at the days-off rota and the duty hours for next week?’
‘No, Sister, not yet.’
‘You should look at the list every Monday morning before you start your work.’
‘Yes, Sister. Thank you.’
I was to have a day off on Thursday, so, with Margaret, who was luckily off at the same time, I made plans to wander around Bristol, looking at the shops. We were thinking about going to a restaurant for a coffee but decided to have one in the dining room instead. Not so nice—but free!
I rang home from the call box in the hallway. The Dragon always managed to be around when anyone was phoning and listened to the end of any of our conversations. It was thus not possible to tell anyone what we really thought of the Sisters and doctors, as she would report any criticism to Matron.
Mum answered, and after the usual hellos I told her that I had Thursday off.
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘That will be useful because you can look after Robert. I have a hair appointment, and I was wondering how I’d manage.’
‘Oh, but Margaret and I were going to have a look around Bristol.’ As soon as I said it I realised it was wrong!
‘What? I’m not having you wandering aimlessly round town. Just come home and look after your brother.’
So that was that.
Odd that Meadow View was still my home when I was needed there. I found it very difficult to tell Margaret and managed to make it sound important that I should have to look after Robert. But my heart sank. Was I going to have to go home for every day off? I loved young Robert and was already making plans to save some of my forthcoming (and meagre) salary to buy him a toy car, but I had hoped to have some days off to myself. Freedom seemed to be fading. Perhaps I was a fool to think that it would be easy to begin a life of my own.
Robert was pleased to see me, and Dad was mildly interested in my work but seemed strangely bothered to know that I was working on a men’s ward. Who did he think nursed the men? Mum found me useful, as I dusted and polished—it was as if I had never left.
As I left to catch the bus back to the nurses’ home, Mum called after me: ‘See you next week!’
It was obvious that I would have to do any wandering round town in my mornings or afternoons off.
The nurses’ rota divided the day into three periods: mornings (6:30 a.m.–12:30 p.m.), afternoons (12:30–6:00 p.m.), and evenings (6:00–9:00 p.m.). Nig
ht duty began at 8:30 p.m. (so that there was an overlap) through until six a.m. There was half an hour for coffee or tea and one hour for lunch. We had either mornings, afternoons or evenings off, but if we had the morning off, we still worked from 6:30 to 9:30 a.m., and then we were free until 12:30 p.m. (with lunch at noon). Evenings off were the favourite: off at six p.m. and we could have supper or not as we wished, and most nurses went out to dances or pictures, perhaps with a boyfriend, and we felt like the rest of the working world.
But we had to be in by eleven p.m. We were allowed a late pass once a week. The Dragon was always there at eleven p.m., looking pointedly at the minute hand on the huge clock on the wall. If we had a late pass, she was there staring at the same minute hand, pointing usually to a few seconds past one. So when did she sleep?
Night duty was quite different. Six nights on and two off for three months at a time. During this spell, it was very difficult to pursue any social life, as we were going to work while the rest of the world was going out for the evening. Our nights off were often spent catching up on sleep. We lost touch with our friends, especially any boyfriends, who just seemed to fade away in the face of our non-availability for dates.
The night nurse’s home was on the Downs in a quiet street, but although we were on nights, the cleaners worked in the day, so there were vacuums whirring and buckets clattering about. I hated night duty with a passion! I found sleeping in the day almost impossible, so I was always tired.
I became friendly with a Welsh girl called Joan, and we began to get to know the centre of Bristol, still only partially rebuilt, but of interest to two country girls. Young women of today would wonder that we found anything in the shops to interest us, but the wartime shortages had been such that any clothes or shoes now on display were exciting. For the first month of my training (before we were paid), I had only enough money for the bus fare home and back for my days off, so I could only look, but my ambition was to buy a pair of high-heeled court shoes—the height of sophistication at the time—followed by the car that I wanted to get for Robert. I knew that we would only be paid £5, so I should have to budget. The car would cost £4 and would leave me once more with only £1 for the rest of that month. But I was sure that Robert’s delighted little face would be well worth it!
The Country Nurse Remembers Page 21