The Midwife’s Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain’s Longest Serving Midwives. Linda Fairley

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СКАЧАТЬ all over again. I was so clean my skin was pink and shining, yet I still felt infected with bad odours. Fetid, I realised, was a polite way of describing the stench of rotting flesh. The patients on that ward had suffered horrific injuries. Beneath the assorted splints and dressings and Plasters of Paris, parts of their bodies were dying. I was repulsed. This job really was much harder than I’d thought it was going to be.

      I cried and cried for hours that night, longing to go home so much it physically hurt. I had a deep pain in my chest. Each rib had hardened around my lungs and each breath I drew made me ache more.

      Perhaps I could pack my suitcase and slip quietly out of the hospital in the morning? I allowed myself that fantasy, watching myself, in my mind’s eye, grappling with the heavy drawers of my wardrobe, removing my clothes silently and running off. I would leave my uniform behind, and as I slipped away Miss Morgan and Sister Bridie would become small, insignificant grey dots in the distance, never to be seen again. ‘I’m going home to my mum!’ I would shout, waving my John Lennon poster brazenly in my hand.

      I knew it couldn’t happen like that. Even though I was still a very young eighteen-year-old, I was wise enough to realise there would have to be meetings and confrontations, soul-searching and contingency plans.

      What would I do instead of nursing? How could I let everyone down? My parents were so pleased I had entered not only a respected profession, but the magnificent institution that was the NHS. They were delighted I would earn such luxuries as a staff pension and holiday pay, benefits not available to them as they were self-employed. I couldn’t upset them, certainly not without a back-up plan. Perhaps I should look into nursery nursing, which had crossed my mind when I first considered nursing. I imagined working with children would be a much more enjoyable job, but how could I change course now?

      Graham would be so disappointed if I gave up nursing. He had joined the police force from school and had wanted to rise through the ranks, but health problems prevented him from fulfilling his ambition. Now he was making a very good job of selling second-hand cars, like his father, and he wanted the world for me. He would be sad if his little nurse faltered and failed, despite his optimistic predictions.

      As I tucked myself in and lay awake in the dark, I felt another emotion: shame. I felt ashamed of myself for wanting to quit. I thought of poor Mrs Roache, paralysed in her hospital bed, unable to take control of her own destiny. She had been knocked down by a car and was in agony, but still she tried to smile at me. Still she made an effort. That’s what I had to do.

      ‘Please promise me, Linda, that you will always work hard for your living.’ I heard Sister Mary Francis’s words as I nodded off to sleep, and I told myself to keep going, just keep going.

      The following week Nessa, Anne, Jo, Linda, Janice and I assembled in the schoolroom for some practical work. We were to be shown how to use a Ryles tube, which caused great excitement as we all enjoyed having hands-on experience. It meant we were progressing, taking another step closer to becoming qualified nurses, without the daunting pressure of being on the wards.

      ‘How are you getting on?’ Jo asked while we waited for Mr Tate to fetch the tubes from the store cupboard. We’d been so busy working on our separate placements, as well as studying, that it had been weeks since we’d had a proper catch-up. In the evenings we were completely exhausted, and all we wanted to do was get to bed as soon as possible to make the early starts more bearable.

      ‘I’m all right,’ I said, giving a thin, unconvincing smile. ‘The surgical ward with Sister Bridie is tough, though. I didn’t expect to be looking after people who are actually ill.’

      I hadn’t meant to make a joke but Jo sniggered. ‘What did you expect?’ she asked, then added, ‘I know what you mean. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for either, not really. At the start I couldn’t see why we needed ten aprons, but I certainly do now. I’ve had two of mine covered in unmentionable bodily waste already this week. It’s disgusting!’

      Jo explained that she’d done a bedpan round on the cardiac ward and had misjudged how full one of the covered metal pans was when she carried it rather too hastily to the sluice.

      ‘I think the poor man must have been hanging on to that lot for a week,’ she said, holding her nose dramatically and pretending to gag.

      ‘Once I’d changed and collected the next set of pans from the other side of the ward, I then managed to splatter myself in hot, orange-coloured urine. It was toxic, I swear!’

      ‘Yuk!’ I said, thinking Mrs Roache’s vomit didn’t seem quite so repulsive after all. ‘At least you can laugh about it.’

      ‘Needs must,’ Jo replied, somewhat begrudgingly.

      Linda was looking very pleased with herself and couldn’t wait to tell us she had given her first injection the day before, which we were all quite jealous of.

      ‘What was it like?’ we chirped.

      ‘It was as easy as pie,’ she beamed. ‘Mind you, thanks to Sister Barnes I did have a whale of a man as my first victim. He said he didn’t feel a thing, which was hardly surprising with all that blubber on his backside!’

      Sister Barnes was my favourite sister. I’d spent several days between placements helping out on her orthopaedic ward, and every time I saw her she was smiling. She was big and blonde and, unlike practically all the other sisters, she had a man-friend whom she mentioned often and was clearly very much in love with. Her happiness seemed to rub off on those around her and she had a wonderful, calming influence on her staff and patients alike.

      I learned from a third year that Sister Barnes had trained at the MRI and was still in her thirties, making her one of the youngest sisters I encountered. She always made herself available to us young students, telling us that she remembered her own training well and was there to help. If we had any questions whatsoever, we were to knock on her door and simply ask.

      I admired Sister Barnes and, despite my difficulties, I aspired to be like her. How wonderful it would be to become a successful sister like her, and inspire students in the way she inspired me! The thought cheered me up. Hospital life was tough, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make a success of it and come out smiling, just like Sister Barnes.

      I listened attentively as Mr Tate dished out the narrow plastic Ryles tubes, which he explained were used either to deliver liquid food to the patient, or to ‘aspirate’ or empty the stomach contents, typically before an operation.

      ‘I want you to practise in pairs,’ he said. ‘Nurse Lawton and Nurse Maudsley, here are your tubes.’

      Jo and I looked at each other cautiously, but were secretly quite thrilled about this lesson. If we were to be let loose on the patients with Ryles tubes, we knew we must have earned some trust and respect from our superiors, and were progressing well.

      ‘Please watch very carefully,’ Mr Tate continued. He picked out a student from another group, a fashionable-looking girl called Cynthia Weaver, and he set about demonstrating how to insert the thin tube into her nose and throat and then gently down into her stomach.

      As she lay with her head on a pillow on a low couch, I could see Cynthia clench her fists and bite her lips until they went blue as Mr Tate threaded and teased the tube patiently up her right nostril. He gave a running commentary about the amount of force and manipulation required at each stage.

      There was no need for him to tell us when it had reached Cynthia’s throat and stomach because she gagged and wriggled uncomfortably, her silky bobbed hair dancing around СКАЧАТЬ