In the Midst of Life

the nurses took, returning a few minutes later with empty trays.
    ‘Take this to Mrs J. and see that she can manage. Stay with her, if necessary.’
    ‘Yes, Sister.’
    ‘Mr P. doesn’t like carrots, so give him this one.’
    ‘Yes, Sister.’
    ‘Special diabetic diets for Mrs D. and Mrs H. Don’t get them mixed up, Nurse.’
    ‘No, Sister.’
    ‘There’s enough left over for the walking patients in the day room. Take it through to them please, Nurse, and see if anyone wants seconds.’
    Yes, Sister.’
    ‘And Nurse…’
    She turned, her voice bright and buoyant. ‘Sister …?’
    Your cap is incorrectly folded. Attend to it before the afternoon, please.’
    Her smile vanished, and her mouth tightened.
    Yes, Sister,’ she muttered.
    I knew just how she felt, having spent all my early nursing years kicking against the rules and regulations, but discipline had to be maintained …
    The routine continued like clockwork, I, hopefully, remembering everyone’s needs and fancies. But one thing I never forgot whilst serving lunches was the mayhem I had caused one dinner time when I was a student nurse.
    I was eighteen, nervous and clumsy, awkwardly trying to do my best, and failing at every attempt - every ward sister’s nightmare. I felt like a fish out of water in the rigid female hierarchy.
    The sister of the ward on which I worked required a cannula that she did not have, and asked me to go to another ward to see if one might be borrowed. Filled with the importance of my commission I walked quickly (we were
never
allowed to run!) toSister Collins’ ward. It was lunchtime, and no one was in sight. Assuming that the sister would be serving lunches I rushed eagerly into the kitchen. Sister and Staff were not there, but the food trolley was. The porters had left it crosswise to the kitchen door, which I was not expecting. I rushed in, and my whole body collided with it, causing the trolley to topple over and hit the floor. Dinners – meat and gravy, fish in white sauce, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, rice pudding, prunes, egg custard, stewed apple, jelly –
everything
shot across the kitchen floor and slithered under the sink. Horrified and rooted to the spot, I gazed at the scene. The trolley wheels turned slowly in the air; I turned and ran – yes, ran! – from the ward. Still no one was about, no one had seen me enter the ward or leave, so no one could possibly associate me with the disaster. Once round the corner, I slowed to a fast walk and went to another ward to request the loan of the cannula required by my ward sister. An hour later, in the nurses’ dining room, everyone was talking about the extraordinary upturning of a hospital food trolley full of dinners. I could never serve dinners without thinking of this, and if nurses saw me smiling, or heard me giggling quietly to myself, they must have wondered why …
    After lunch I went to the male ward to supervise the moving of Mr Waters to the side ward. Not before time, I thought; that dreadful cough had been unsettling for the other men, but now his inability to cough was worse. Phlegm bubbled and rattled in his chest. Struggling with asphyxia, Mr Waters would die as hard as a man can die, unless drugs were given. I pulled the curtains around his bed and used suction to try to remove the excessive fluid bubbling up from his lungs.
    ‘I’m sorry about this beastly sucker, but it will make you feel better,’ I said, trying to avoid his panic-stricken eyes. His lungs were struggling under some terrible oppression and breathing was an intolerable strain. Any respiratory death is distressing to watch, but a natural anodyne – a sudden dimming of consciousness due to oxygen starvation of the higher centres of the brain – comes atthe peak of suffering, and mental and physical deterioration descends as swiftly as a hawk dropping on its prey.
    ‘Mr Waters, we think you would be better off in the small room. It has two windows, and they can both be open all the time. It will make your breathing easier,’ I said softly. He nodded, and picked at the sheet. I was alone with him, but I could sense a figure hovering beside me. Could he see or feel this ghostly presence? None of us will know until we get there.
    I had called the porters, and they arrived with a trolley.
    ‘I think it will be better if we move the whole bed, rather than lifting him on to a trolley, and then on to another bed,’ I said. It would be more difficult for them, because the