Run to Him (4 page)

They had both made a promise that tomorrow morning they would spend the day wandering around the sales in Church Street and take tea in Blacklers. She would make this Christmas more special than Callum had guessed it would be. Over tea, she would suggest that they visit her mam and da and tell them together, on the night of Boxing Day.

*

Helen waited in the changing room at the end of ward two for Fionnuala to arrive. She could hear her footsteps running down the long corridor, but before she had the chance to open the door and warn her that Matron was already on the ward, she heard the words ring out.

‘Nurse Kennedy, do not run.’

Helen knew if it hadn’t been Christmas morning, the reprimand would have been far worse than that.

Fionnuala’s cheeks were bright red with the cold, as she bustled in through the door and took her ward shoes out, before sliding the basket under the wooden bench.

Helen took the clean uniform, that the laundry porter had delivered the night before, down from her peg and began to undo the white linen-covered buttons down the back, to help Fionnuala save time.

‘What took you so long?’ she asked, as Fionnuala gratefully stepped into the pale pink and white striped dress.

‘I had to be at mass and God, the priest was so slow, he took for flaming ever.’

‘You Catholics, the world won’t cave in if you miss a day, you know,’ said Helen, a touch reprovingly.

Fionnuala raised her eyebrows, ‘I know, Helen, but sure, I wouldn’t enjoy Christmas Day, now, if I hadn’t been to communion, and would you want to have to work with a miserable sinner?’

Helen grinned back. ‘Who says I don’t, anyway. What would be different, I would like to know?’

Fionnuala looked dismayed. ‘God, truly, am I miserable? Have you a spare clip for my hat?’

Fionnuala struggled to tuck her auburn hair under the starched lined cap. She never seemed to have enough hair clips. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I was. I cannot go on any longer with this guilt about me and Callum. I’m going to tell Mammy and Daddy tomorrow night, let them have a nice Christmas before I drop the bomb.’

‘God, are you sure that’s the right thing? I thought you said they were dead set against him and that is even before they know he’s been dating their daughter for months.’

Fionnuala groaned. ‘You should have seen Daddy this morning. He’s so proud of me, Helen. It crucifies me that I might be letting him down, but I have decided, if my seeing Callum is a bad thing, then seeing him in secret is worse. It has to be done, he has to know.’

‘Well, on your own head be it. What will you do if he says that he forbids you to see Callum anymore?’

‘Da won’t say that, Ma might, but not Da.’

‘Fionnuala, it’s Christmas Day. Merry Christmas is the normal thing to say!’ Helen prised a clip out of her own cap and passed it to her friend.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Helen, Merry Christmas.’ Fionnuala grinned at her reflection in the mirror, as Helen picked up the hairspray and coated the back of her hair.

‘Do you know, Fionnuala, I’m sure it’s because you are the eldest, that you can’t dress yourself without help.’

One corner of Fionnuala’s linen apron hung down almost to her waist, as she struggled to extract the fob watch from her purse and with the clasp, pin her apron to the dress.

‘Do you know, Helen, I think you could be right,’ she said, before they both marched out of the changing room and through the swing doors onto the long Florence Nightingale ward, into the little office at the end, to take report.

Fionnuala might not have been able to fold her starched linen hat, but she was a professional through and through. She was a nurse because she loved her job with a passion. It was a love born from the pride instilled in her by everyone who knew her, pride in a girl who had broken the spell which hovered over the Irish immigrant community – where a job at Woolworth’s was considered an impressive achievement and one that paid
good money
.

The night staff looked sombre as they filed into the office, ready to hand over the night report to the day staff. Fionnuala noted the familiar sick, white and exhausted expression on the face of the nurse about to hand over the night report. She almost dragged herself in through the office door. A stark change from the previous evening, when she had bounced in, looking forward to a quiet Christmas Eve and the hospital choir which visited each ward to sing for the patients. She had been on her feet and mostly alone, for a full twelve hours, with no break.

Fionnuala’s earlier concern about breaking the news to her da about Callum faded, as the night nurse in charge read out her report for each patient on the ward, from the Kardex patient file. Apart from the night nurse, Sister Joyce was the only person who sat down during this ritual. Now she took her place on the leather chair behind her desk. Her dark navy blue dress was immaculate and proud against her frilled, starched linen hat. The silver buckle on her Petersham belt gleamed and reflected the lights from the small Christmas tree in the corner of her office.

‘This Christmas tree is surely an indulgence, is it not?’ She said this at least once a day, in her soft Southern Irish accent. ‘Given that we have an enormous tree in the bay window, at the end of the ward, do you not think we have been a little greedy?’

But the nurses on the ward knew perfectly well that it was Sister Joyce herself who had insisted on having a small tree in her office. She was fiercely competitive with the other ward sisters. Her ward had to be the tidiest, the cleanest and the smartest and when it came to Christmas, she had to outshine the others, literally.

Helen winked at Fionnuala and inclined her head slightly, as she looked out through the office window and watched the morning tea trolley rumble down the ward. It was being trundled along by Joe, one of the walking wounded patients, who had been kept in by Sister Joyce for a few extra days over Christmas, rather than be discharged home to an empty bedsit.

Fionnuala and Helen both noticed that Joe’s pyjama pants had slipped halfway down his backside, while he was serving the hot drinks. Joe was also helping out on the ladies’ ward opposite and Fionnuala knew that was where he would be heading next.

‘Excuse me, Sister,’ said Fionnuala quietly, as she slipped out of the office.

‘Joe, pull your pants up,’ she whispered in his ear, then she put one hand on each side of his pyjamas and pulled them up, before tying the thick woven white cord securely.

‘There you go, Merry Christmas, Joe,’ she said.

Sister Joyce had noticed and raised her hand slightly for the night nurse to wait, until Fionnuala was back in the office.

‘Well done, Nurse Kennedy,’ she said.

The night nurse gave Fionnuala a glance which screamed, ‘Couldn’t that have waited?’ Fionnuala instantly felt embarrassed as she remembered that this nurse had three young children at home and probably couldn’t get there fast enough, with it being Christmas morning.

‘Dignity, respect, compassion and reassurance, there are no words more important or worth remembering when dealing with patients.’ Sister Joyce continued.

Everyone in the office replied in unison, ‘Yes, Sister.’

With a work-weary voice, the night nurse continued. ‘In bay three, we have a very poorly young man. He was brought in last night, from the new housing estate, out at Speke. He’s a young Irish boy and works on one of the scaffolding gangs. The scaffolding was frozen, but he was still sent up, for some reason, and slipped on a frozen plank. He has serious concussion, and the tibia and fibula in both legs are broken. In fact, there are eleven major fractures which I have listed here. Apparently, he hit the bars quite hard on the way down. To be honest, he’s not that good. The doctors only left an hour ago and will be back shortly. Nurse Sands is with him now and has been all night, which has left only two of us on the ward. His parents have been informed. Fortunately, they live near the port in Dublin and they are trying their best to board a crossing this morning. If they do, they said they should be here by ten. I think we will be lucky if he holds out until then. His blood pressure is down in his boots and despite the atropine and adrenaline the doctors have given him, there isn’t much improvement. He has a drip up, obviously. Unless he stabilizes, there is no way the doctors can operate yet. Thankfully, he was saved from hitting his head too badly and there is no obvious concussion. His pupil reactions are normal but he had almost no pulse or blood pressure when he arrived with us.’

‘How old is he?’ Helen asked for the one piece of information the night nurse had forgotten to tell them.

‘He is sixteen, Nurse Windsor, and his name is Jack. When he arrived he was still conscious, but not for long. He cried like a babby for his mammy, screaming for her, he was, he was in so much pain. Despite the fact that there is no obvious concussion, he has been unconscious since, which could just be the amount of pain killers he’s been given to try and stop the shock setting in. I have just checked his blood pressure with the nurse as I walked past, it is still only 95 over 60 and his pulse is now rapid and thready.’

The nurse provided every detail of the medication and care Jack had been given, when suddenly, they all heard the sound of the night nurse who had given one to one care to Jack running up the corridor. Instantly, Fionnuala felt a shiver run down her spine. There was only one reason why it was acceptable for a nurse to run at full pelt down a hospital ward and they all knew what it was. Fionnuala threw open the office door, as Nurse Sands’ voice screamed, ‘Get the crash team, he’s arrested!’

‘Holy Mother,’ said Sister Joyce under her breath. ‘A sixteen-year-old lad on Christmas morning,’ and within seconds she was on the telephone and dialling 111, the shortest dial and the emergency number of the hospital switchboard.

‘Send the on-call doctors,’ she said, in a voice which betrayed not a shred of her dismay or concern. ‘It’s a cardiac arrest on ward two.’

Fionnuala and Helen ran down the ward and bustled Joe and the tea trolley to one side, then Sister Joyce opened and fastened back the ward doors wide, to make room for the on-call medical team and to clear a straight run through and down the ward to the one little room which was used for the sickest of patients.

Fionnuala was the first in to join the exhausted night nurse. It was only her second cardiac arrest since beginning her nurse training. The first had been on a post-operative man in his late seventies. The fact that this was such a young boy made her more nervous than she otherwise would have been.

‘Get the foot of the bed off,’ barked the night nurse, as she removed the pillows from under the young boy’s head and threw them outside the curtains.

Helen had both hands on the footboard and now she lifted it clear with one tug, and carefully manoeuvred her way out through the curtains with it.

‘Here, help me,’ the nurse said to Fionnuala, as she climbed onto the bed with one knee and placed her hands under the heavy bed head. Fionnuala copied her and did the same on the other side, but the bed head refused to move.

‘Just what we need now,’ said Nurse Sands. ‘Let’s do it together. Are you ready? On three – one… two… three.’

And with that combined effort, the bed head lifted clear from the frame and banged against the wall, the weight of it almost pulling both of them off the end of the bed. In a second, both Fionnuala and Nurse Sands were on the floor at the side of the bed.

‘Ready, Nurse Windsor, brake off.’

‘Yes, Nurse Sands,’ Helen replied. ‘Right, let’s go.’

The three of them moved the bed into the middle of the room, so as to give the doctors some space at the head of the bed when they arrived, and as Helen slammed the brake on at the foot of the bed, Nurse Sands said to Fionnuala, ‘You start, I’ll do mouth to mouth.’

Fionnuala immediately lifted her raised fist, gave one hard thump on the young boy’s sternum and began to compress his chest up and down. The three nurses counted out loud together.

‘Where the hell are the doctors?’ Nurse Sands said out loud, after her second bout of mouth to mouth.

Then they heard the crashing of metal trolleys against walls and the familiar sound of heavy feet running towards them.

*

When it was all over, Fionnuala found it hard not to cry. The sixteen-year-old boy, who had been sent up a frozen scaffold on Christmas Eve, had died.

Joe was in the kitchen and had made a large metal jug of milky coffee and placed it on the desk in Sister Joyce’s office, with six regulation issue, pale green cups and saucers.

Sister Joyce looked at him in amazement.

‘Ah, away wi’ ye, Sister, ’tis Christmas Day now, the wee girls are upset, so they are. Let them have a coffee. The few patients we have on the ward are upset, too. They are all in the day room, having a ciggie, and the women on the other side are coming over to visit; they know now, as well.’

‘And who told them, Joe?’ Sister Joyce stood upright and stretched every inch of her five feet and two inches. She fixed her withering gaze on Joe, who looked sheepish.

‘Ah sure, news flies round these wards, does it not?’

Sister Joyce relented. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Joe. You’re right, it is Christmas and the nurses will be upset.’

As Joe looked at her in shock, she gave him a smile. A rare event in itself and one certainly never witnessed before by Joe, who had been a patient on the ward for almost two months.

‘Thank you, Sister,’ he said, grinning back, before he left to join the others in the day room.

*

Fionnuala and Helen were still at Jack’s bedside.

‘Open the window to let his spirit out,’ Fionnuala whispered to Helen.

Helen did not regard herself as religious, but it was a routine followed by every single nurse in the hospital after the death of a patient. There were enough ghost stories flying around the hospital as it was, and there were certain wards which every student nurse dreaded being sent on to for a night shift.

‘Isn’t he just gorgeous?’ Helen turned back from the window and stroked the young boy’s hair away from his face and his cheek with her finger. ‘He’s like a young James Dean.’