Confessions of a Male Nurse

Four weeks passed. It was now only a few days until Christmas Day. The girls had been busy decorating the ward, and I nearly broke my neck balancing precariously on a patient’s bedside cabinet to put the finishing touches to the tree. I love this time of year – everyone is in such great spirits – even the patients don’t seem so sick.

With half the ward empty we had time to sit around gossiping and reminiscing about who was the drunkest at the Christmas party – until it came time for me to check on Mr Holdsworth.

‘How much that time?’ he asked.

‘Forty milligrams,’ I replied. ‘Is it enough?’ I added.

He had stopped clutching his chest but his face was still creased with pain.

‘Could you try a little more, just another ten? That should do the trick.’

The instructions given to us by the consultant were to give Mr Holdsworth whatever it took to keep him comfortable, so I administered a further ten. With the additional dosage the last vestiges of pain left his face.

‘You’ve been good to an old fool like me,’ Mr Holdsworth said.

‘We all make mistakes,’ I replied.

‘It won’t be long now and I’ll pay the ultimate price.’

My mind was blank. There was no suitable response. I chose that moment to leave the room, my Christmas spirit well and truly dampened.

The next morning something strange happened; as I headed towards the nurses’ station I found myself taking a detour until I was standing outside Mr Holdsworth’s room. The first thing I noticed was that his name had been removed from the door; the second was the deathly silence in the room.

I felt strangely depleted. I think that deep down, I had been believing that a Christmas miracle might happen. I quietly opened the door and there, staring me in the face, was an empty room. I headed to the office, where the nurses seemed to have gone mad.

Jenny greeted me with a big smile. ‘Have you heard the news?’

I didn’t know what news she was thinking. I know we all had mixed feelings about Mr Holdsworth, but it didn’t seem quite right to be so damn happy first thing in the morning when a patient has just passed away.

‘It’s Mr Holdsworth,’ she was almost exuberant. ‘They came for him last night. They found a donor. He’s getting a new heart.’

Everyone in the office was so genuinely happy that he was going to have a chance at life – regardless of whatever past mistakes he had made. Without a doubt that had to be the best Christmas present ever.

Mr Holdsworth’s transplant operation had taken place far away in a big city hospital, so Jenny had to phone the hospital every few days to get an update on how our patient was doing.

‘He could be discharged soon,’ Jenny informed us, three weeks after he had been taken away. ‘The doctors say he is doing really well. No sign of rejection.’

Three months later and Mr Holdsworth was back at home and living a normal life – although, we assumed, a much more careful, healthy life. It makes sense that a near death experience makes a person wiser.

During the two and a half years I had spent with patients in the medical/surgical ward, I thought I’d seen it all. I had seen how high the human spirit can soar, and then how low and selfish humanity can be. But then, along would come someone new, who would set up new boundaries, whether high or low.

One April morning I was greeted by Jenny, who had news to share: ‘Mr Holdsworth is in the emergency room.’

‘Organ rejection,’ I blurted out.

‘Oh no, it’s much worse than that’ – What could be worse than your body rejecting your new heart? – ‘He’s back to his old habits. He’s overdosed on morphine.’

Jenny didn’t attempt to hide the scorn in her voice.

‘But that’s not even the worst part. When he gets out of here, he’s got an interview with the police. It seems he’s been selling it as well.’

I guess not everyone learns from their mistakes. As I look back at some of the ambivalent feelings I had had while looking after Mr Holdsworth, I wonder if deep down I doubted that he really had changed. That heart could have gone to someone else less likely to waste it. I try not to judge, but the fact is we’re all human and we do have opinions. I just hope that as a nurse, I can always accept people for who they are and give them the best care that I can.

Making a difference (#ulink_0bb3f951-cdba-5407-8b3a-2e19690d2cc5)

‘Mr Henderson has taken a turn for the worse,’ Colleen read to the assembled nurses. ‘He wouldn’t get out of bed today and his chest is sounding bad.’

Colleen looked pretty upset about this; moisture was pooling in the corners of her eyes. Colleen was straight out of training and hadn’t lost a patient yet; everyone was wondering if Mr Henderson was going to be her first.

All of the nurses liked Mr Henderson; he was a truly genuine, down-to-earth sort of man, with a heart of gold. At the age of 69 he should still have had some good years in front of him, but he had a bad case of pneumonia that the antibiotics couldn’t seem to get rid of.

‘The doc requested another chest X-ray. The infection hasn’t improved at all,’ she continued. ‘He even thought it was a bit worse. Every breath Mr Henderson takes is an effort. It’s horrible to listen to.’

The sound of a rattling, bubbling, straining set of lungs is never nice.

Everyone kept quiet – we had all had our first lost patient, and though Colleen might shed a few tears if Mr Henderson passed away, she would eventually recover.

With the report over, we filed quietly out of the office, talking with muted voices about the patient, as if he had already passed.

I was helping Colleen with Mr Henderson that day. As I entered his room, I took in his sickly grey skin. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Henderson, I hear you’ve been giving the girls a bit of trouble.’

This brought a smile to his face. ‘Could be better, son,’ he rasped.

That was Mr Henderson, having a joke in the face of death. I grabbed a passing nurse and together we heaved him upright in his bed to help his breathing.

‘I don’t think I have much time,’ Mr Henderson said to me when his coughing passed. ‘I’ve had a good life. I’m not ashamed of the life I’ve led.’

I felt a lump in my throat.

‘It’s not over yet, Mr Henderson’ – I had to at least try to be optimistic – ‘The doc has just started you on a new antibiotic; you might feel like a new man tomorrow. Besides, you can’t go letting young Colleen down after all her hard work.’

Mr Henderson managed a wry chuckle before bursting into another round of coughing.

‘You’re a bad liar, but you and the wee lass have done a lot for me – it would be a shame to disappoint you.’

Still, I wished there was something more I could do. Often it’s just a case of being there for a patient, and willing to listen. Every so often, though, there’s the option of doing something extra. Later that evening I had a chat with the other nurses about how we could make Mr Henderson more comfortable.

‘Room 5 is free. What do you say to that?’ I asked Rose.

‘The poor fella is in a four-bedded room. It’s not nice for him, or for the others in the room. Let’s move him,’ Colleen added.

This was the same Rose who’d been with me during my first patient death. She was the acting charge nurse for the late shift. She had as much experience as most of us on the ward put together, but she would never be a full-time ward manager. For her, nursing was a hands-on profession. Hands on patients, not hands on pen and paper. Once you started to move up the nursing ranks to managing you lost a lot of that daily contact with your patients.

Thankfully, Rose approved the move.

What’s so great about room number 5? Just ask Mr Henderson.

‘I never get bored with the view,’ he told Colleen and I as we gave him his bed sponge.