I always imagined that the Intensive Care Unit in a hospital is a calm and serene place where nurses speak in hushed voices and sickly patients can recover in peace. It’s not. It’s like Paddington Station at rush hour.
Flashing lights, beeping alarms, nurses rushing about unplugging and plugging patients into an array of technology that would make the crew of the Starship Enterprise green with envy, make the ICU anything but peaceful. And how do I know all this? Well, I recently spent three nights in the ICU at the Bristol Royal Infirmary following my melonectomy and practically every other ectomy you can think of. I am in awe at the efficiency and dedication of the staff there. I honestly don’t know how they keep it all together and am pretty sure the nurses walk about a hundred miles during a shift. I was exhausted simply watching them. From my bed.
On opening my eyes following the six-hour surgery, I thought for a moment I was aboard the previously mentioned Starship Enterprise. I had tubes and wires and needles inserted into every orifice and spare patch of skin, and risked throttling myself whenever I moved. Fortunately, one of these wires was attached to a morphine button, and I was able to keep myself nicely sedated while the nurses and other staff ministered and cared for me patiently and kindly until I was able to string a full, coherent sentence together. I confess to becoming very fond of morphine and quickly learned how to rate my pain on a scale from 1 to 10.
I’ve always admired nurses. I once, inspired by a Mills and Boon book entitled Caprice in Hospital Blue (yes, it is sad that I remember the title), toyed with the idea of becoming a nurse myself, until my mother reminded me that I threw up at the merest whiff of any kind of bodily fluid or excretion. I still do. The nurses at the BRI had no such problems and went about their work calmly and patiently. When the drug addict two beds away abused and swore at them while brandishing a small pair of scissors she’d snatched off the nurses trolley, they didn’t flinch or run away screaming, as many would. They patiently persuaded her to come out of the bathroom, to put away the scissors and stub out the cigarette, and then talked to her calmly until she got back in her bed protesting violently about being held there against her will, demanding her methadone and to be let out for a quick fag. And as if that wasn’t traumatic enough, one these very nurses spent ten minutes the same night scratching my back, which was itching more than a flea-filled camel’s armpit.
How they manage to plug the right wire into the correct socket while answering alarms, taking blood pressure and temperature, collecting and labelling blood samples, draining catheters and cleaning up smelly bowel related accidents, administering the correct pills to the correct patient, filling up water jugs and changing dressings among other fun stuff, I honestly don’t know. The technology is astounding. Whatever did they do before computers? And all this done with smiles and friendliness and much, ‘How are you doing, my lovely?’ They didn’t even get annoyed when I complained of a lumpy mattress and moaned pitifully about my itchy back and gluey mouth. They changed the mattress and brought me water. Litres and litres of water, usually placed on a table just out of reach. I suspect it was a cunning plan to get me up and walking as soon as possible. And when I did eventually get up, a well muscled and rather hunky physio (young enough to be my grandson) was there to assist me. What more can a girl ask?
Suffice to say I was impressed with the staff at the BRI. From the nurses and cleaners to the friendly Jamaican man who brought me my dinner (I’m sure they don’t deliberately make it all taste like cardboard), everyone was incredible. It’s a veritable United Nations in there, with nurses, doctors, cleaners and dinner deliverers coming from every corner of the world. My first nurse, from Zimbabwe, was thrilled to make an African connection and instantly recognised my South African accent. I, for the first time, truly understand how the NHS relies on foreigners to keep it going.
I was then transferred to the gynae-oncology ward at St Michael’s Hospital for a week and there I found the peace and calm I’d been craving. Once again, the wonderful nurses treated me like a person who’d undergone a massive operation and didn’t once complain when I rang my bell for the millionth time needing a steadying arm for a trip to the loo, or muttered darkly about how uncomfortable the bed was, or got annoyed with the woman in the next bed who had the Jaws theme as the ring tone on her couldn’t-be-bothered-to-put-it-on-silent phone. Imagine, if you will, being in a morphine induced sleep, and in the wee hours of the night hearing the familiar do-do-do-do-dodododo music blaring into the stillness. Pity they’d already taken my catheter out. I had nightmares all night. And don’t get me started on the woman in the bed next to mine who had a visit from her partner, pulled the curtains round them and proceeded to play their thumping techno music very loudly while they re-acquainted themselves with one another in a disturbing bed-squeaking manner. I don’t even want to know what they were doing. I blame the pain and morphine for my grumpiness. Classic FM through my earphones became my refuge from the occasional bursts of noise.
Once again nurses from around the world, and the delight of the nurses from Mauritius, Seychelles and Rwanda on meeting another African, kept me entertained and made me feel loved and safe. The dear little Rwandan nurse popped in to see me every time she was on duty. I don’t think she fully understood much of what I, or anyone else, said. But what an excellent nurse.
A week in hospital feels like a year, but the kindness and care of the staff made it bearable. Thank you!
The Melon and Me 