Confessions of a Male Nurse. Michael Alexander
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he wasn’t smiling and he certainly wasn’t happy. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he gave in just to have some peace and quiet.
With a sense of relief I left Mr Kent to his own devices and walked away down the corridor feeling at least content in the knowledge that I had done what was right, even if Mr Kent wasn’t 100 per cent convinced . . .
Beeeeeeepbeeeeeeeeeeep!
It was coming from Mr Kent’s room. Someone was probably sitting on their call bell – at least I hoped that was it – but as I turned around and hurried back to his room, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I entered Mr Kent’s room and his eyes locked on to mine. He was struggling to sit up and reach his walking stick, but the right side of his body didn’t seem to be working very well. He kept on falling back on to his pillows. His right arm wasn’t doing what he wanted; it seemed to be determined to lie there like a lump of lead. His droop had worsened and his mouth was hanging slightly open. Mr Kent was having a stroke right in front of me.
I watched, with mouth agape and a sickening feeling in my stomach. The stroke didn’t stop him from being able to talk. ‘You’ve done this to me; you’ve killed me.’
I’m sure his voice must have been slurred, but I heard every word very clearly.
My skin broke out in goosebumps. I tried to help Mr Kent sit up but he waved his good arm in my face.
‘Get away. You’ve done enough damage already.’
I could feel the eyes of all the other patients in the room on me: disbelieving, shocked, accusing. I was to blame; it was my fault – I had forced him to take the new aspirin. At least, that was how they must all have seen this. I was responsible for setting this man on the path to death.
I couldn’t think rationally. I tried to help Mr Kent again; this time he didn’t speak to me, instead he made a loud moaning noise, a noise that spoke volumes. His stroke was progressing rapidly.
It felt like forever before the other nurses rushed in to find me standing there doing nothing – immobilised by shock; racked with guilt. The doctor was called and I left the room on the verge of tears. I was in no state to see any of my other patients. I knew if I went in to see one, I would no longer be able to hold back the flood.
Worst of all is that part of what Mr Kent said was true: the stroke probably was the end of him. Even if he survived, the effect the stroke would have on his mobility would be a huge blow, especially with a prosthetic leg. Once mobility is gone it’s never good; it’s a very slippery slope, especially in the aged.
Looking back now, I realise that Mr Kent’s stroke had nothing to do with either me or with the new aspirin. However, in Mr Kent’s mind, I was to blame. If he is still alive today, he probably still blames me, probably genuinely believes it was my fault. That is not a nice feeling, but I have come to understand that there are some things you cannot change and I can live with it.
I left work that day feeling as miserable as I ever had felt in my life. I was still battling with tears. I was only 21 years old, and just like Mr Kent had said only a short time ago, still a boy really.
Mr Simpson was 45, fit, and an avid golfer. His biggest worry was whether he would still be able to play after the surgery he was having the next day. I explained that if all went well in the operating theatre, there should be no reason why he couldn’t continue to play golf.
Mr Simpson was by no means my first surgical patient, but he was the first patient that I had prepared for his type of operation. He was going to have a femoral popliteal bypass graft. Basically, the circulation to one of his legs was rubbish, and the surgeon was going to put in some new plumbing that would fix the problem. If the surgery wasn’t performed, Mr Simpson could eventually lose the leg.
As horrendous as my recent experience with Mr Kent had been, I felt happier in my new environment. It certainly helped that I wasn’t dealing exclusively with sensitive matters pertaining to female health, but the main reason things felt better was because of the team I was working with.
Katie was the nurse in charge for the shift, and she was great. Katie was always there to lend me a hand. Whenever I needed help with a wash, a lift, a wound dressing, advice of any kind, she was the person I turned to. Katie had already asked me several times if I was going to be okay looking after Mr Simpson on my own, and after reassuring her that I felt I could cope, she made it clear that I could come to her for help or advice, no matter how trivial. Knowing I had some support gave me a rare feeling of confidence.
Everything went smoothly and Mr Simpson was wheeled to the operating theatre at 7.30 in the morning. I didn’t see him again until one o’clock that afternoon.
‘How was it?’ he asked me for the third time in the last hour. With leftover anaesthetic in his system and a pump infusing him with intermittent morphine, that sort of thing was to be expected. I reassured him all went well.
The next day Mr Simpson was a bit livelier, and asking about when he would be able to play golf, but I still would not give him a definite answer.
By the second day post-surgery, Mr Simpson was in fine spirits, mainly because there was live golf on the television. I left him in peace and reminded him to call if he needed anything.
Thirty minutes later Mr Simpson’s bell went off.
‘My leg feels worse; it’s more painful than normal.’
Up until now his pain had been well controlled, so it was a bit of a surprise that it should start being a problem now.
I began to examine his leg, worried at what this could mean. I checked the pulses in his foot, to make sure the blood was still getting through. I examined his calf and his thigh. Thankfully there was no swelling. As a precaution I went to search for Katie and get her opinion.
I never got a chance to chat with Katie as I was distracted by the call bell of another of my patients.
Mr Dexter was one of my medical patients. He had pain in his chest, caused by angina. Simply put, the arteries supplying the heart were not letting enough blood through, resulting in poor oxygenation of the heart muscle. It’s the lack of oxygen that causes the pain.
Mr Dexter had a small bottle of spray which he was supposed to squirt under his tongue whenever he had chest pain. The medicine dilated his blood vessels, including the ones that supply the heart. Hopefully this would allow more blood and, therefore, more oxygen to the heart muscle.
He explained that he had given himself a dose five minutes ago. I instructed him to give himself some more spray. It works very quickly, within moments of taking it. I waited the recommended five minutes to reassess.
‘How bad is the pain now?’
I didn’t get a chance to hear how the pain was, because the call bell in Mr Simpson’s room went off, and continued to go off. It wasn’t stopping. I ran to his room.
‘Oh shit, it’s agony,’ Mr Simpson said as soon as he saw me.
I looked at his thigh and knee and placed my hands on them. I could feel something hard in his thigh. It wasn’t swollen to the naked eye, but I could definitely feel a lump that wasn’t there before. It was also hot. By the time I went to feel for a pulse in his foot, the other nurses on duty that shift were in the room.
Katie took charge, and within minutes had the doctor at the bedside. Katie told a terrified Mr Simpson that his graft wasn’t working, and that he needed to go back to theatre.
The head surgeon was urgently called back into hospital. During the next hour, myself, the junior doctor and the registrar made what preparations we could to get him to theatre. That hour was probably the most terrifying in Mr Simpson’s life. There was a chance that he would not only never play golf again, but possibly lose the leg altogether.
When he finally left for the operating room, the last of the adrenaline