Her Very Special Boss. Anne Fraser
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working the kinks out of his muscles. ‘But obviously you’ll need a nurse or an assistant to help you translate when there are patients who don’t speak English.’ Kirsty made a mental note to try and master as much of the language as she could. She had learned a few words before coming out, mainly greetings, but intended to learn more.
‘I’m just telling Lydia that the morphine that we’ve given her is what’s making her sleepy. She’ll probably be out for the count for the rest of the day,’ Greg explained, and sure enough Lydia had closed her eyes and seemed to have already succumbed to the sedating effects of the drug. Kirsty and Greg moved away from the bed.
‘I also hoped for a tour of the rest of the hospital. I’m really keen to see it all.’
Greg wrapped his stethoscope around his neck. ‘I could show you later,’ he replied.
‘Please, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve got enough to do. One of the nursing sisters can—or, if everyone’s busy, I can see myself around. I won’t get in anyone’s way—I promise. But first I need a cup of coffee! I haven’t had any yet and I’m a bit of a caffeine junkie.’
Greg hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Damn, I’m sorry about that. I meant to organise some provisions for you yesterday but with everything going so crazy here, it completely slipped my mind.’ His sheepish grin was contrite. ‘I’m almost finished the ward rounds so if you can hold on, I’ll show you the dining room. Then unfortunately I’m due in Outpatients so I’ll have to leave you to your own devices.’
‘I’ll come with you to Outpatients, if that’s OK. I’d really like to get stuck in as soon as possible. A coffee and toast will do me until lunch,’ she said.
Greg looked at her appraisingly. Kirsty couldn’t help notice how the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. But even when relaxed there was a presence about the man, an animal-like energy that seemed to fill the room.
‘We could do with the help. Jamie and Sarah are in Theatre this morning and Jenny is anaesthetising for them, so quick rounds, followed by coffee and Outpatients it is.’ He went on, ‘This, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, is the female surgical ward.’ He moved to the next bed. ‘You recognise this young lady?’
It was the woman who had had the femoral bleed, Maria. A quick look at her chart told Kirsty that she was stable.
‘I take it if she’s not in Intensive Care, she’s going to be all right?’
‘We had her in surgery most of the night, but it looks hopeful. Once we’re sure she can tolerate the journey, we’ll send her by ambulance to one of the teaching hospitals in the city. They’ll be able to take it from there.’
‘And Lydia’s little boy? Where is he?’ asked Kirsty, suddenly remembering.
‘He’s in the paediatric ward for the time being. There was nowhere else to put him. He’s been driving the staff crazy with his loud wailing. He won’t be consoled. We’d let him see his mother if she looked a little less frightening. Can’t you hear him?’
And Kirsty did, faintly. She found herself moving in the direction of his cries.
‘Any relatives we can contact?’
‘No one’s come forward to claim him but it’s early still. When the mother surfaces properly, we’ll get more information.’
‘I think he should see her,’ she said firmly.
‘Would that be wise?’
‘He’s, what…about two years old? Old enough for some understanding. I think he needs to feel his mother’s still alive, even though she’s “sleeping”.’
‘It might make things worse. Surely it’s better to wait until she’s alert enough to reassure him herself?’ he suggested.
‘How could anything be worse for him than what it is now? He’s not crying just because he’s miserable and wants to make a loud noise. He’s crying for his mother, and he can’t understand why she’s not coming. In his mind she’s abandoned him.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘I’m not sure. It depends on his ability to comprehend. But he seemed so well cared-for I’m willing to take a gamble… Besides, I do know a thing or two about children.’ Kirsty felt the familiar crushing pain as she said the words. She ignored Greg’s searching glance and turned towards the cries before he could say anything.
They entered the children’s ward together. The toddler was not the only one crying but he was certainly the loudest. Kirsty’s greeting of the staff on duty was cursory as she focused her attention on the unhappy child. Picking him up, she depended on the natural inherent curiosity of toddlers for him to be distracted long enough for her to talk to him. She was confident that, like most very young children, he understood a lot more than most adults would give him credit for. Recalling the desperate concern of the mother at the accident scene, this child knew love.
‘Shh,’ she said, soothing the distressed infant, dangling her stethoscope in front of him. It took a while but he quietened eventually as, momentarily distracted, he explored his new toy. Kirsty knew that it wouldn’t be long before his cries resumed.
She caught sight of one of his fingers, which had a sticky plaster on it, a superficial pre-crash wound she’d noticed yesterday.
‘Ow,’ she said, lifting his hand and kissing the well-wrapped injury. The little boy seemed hypnotised by her attention. ‘What’s “Mother sleeping”?’ she asked the staff while the boy gazed, astonished, at his finger, as if seeing it for the first time in a new light. ‘Tell him his mummy has a big “ow” and is sleeping.’ The nurse spoke to the child and he listened, taking in what was being said to him.
Armed with a few new words of the language, Kirsty followed Greg back to the surgical ward.
‘Mummy’s sleeping—bomma robetsego,’ she tried in his language as the toddler stared down at his mother. His bottom lip quivered and Kirsty knew tears were not far behind. In an age-long gesture, he leaned out of Kirsty’s arms, his arms stretched pleadingly towards his unconscious mother.
‘Mummy’s sleeping. Shh,’ Kirsty repeated softly, allowing him to touch the still figure. ‘Let her sleep.’
The little boy crumpled in her arms. This time, though, his tears were quieter as she took him away and returned him to the children’s ward.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Greg said, walking alongside her.
‘It doesn’t always work,’ Kirsty admitted, ‘but I thought it worth a try. He’s exhausted so hopefully he’ll sleep now, and when he wakes up someone should take him back to see his mother. With a bit of luck she’ll wake soon and comfort him herself.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
‘Then he’ll know why,’ she replied simply. ‘If not now, then later when it matters. Children are more able to cope with a parent who can’t help or comfort them. It’s those who think their parents have abandoned them who suffer most.’
Greg flinched and he looked off into the distance, before striding out of the ward, leaving Kirsty to scurry along in his wake. It seemed she had touched a nerve. She was dismayed and not a little curious. What on earth had she said that had affected him like that?
In the male surgical ward, Dr Jenny Carter was taking a blood sample from a patient. She looked up as she heard the ward doors swing open.
Kirsty found her instantly likeable. Plump, with a thick bush of greying hair tied back at the nape of her neck with what looked like a shoelace, she had a gregarious, warm manner.
‘Ah, our new recruit! Come to check we’re taking good care of your patients from last night?’ But there wasn’t an ounce of malice in the question. ‘Here’s Mr Mhlongo. Says we can call him Eddy! And he must be doing fine because he’s