Glasgow Royal Infirmary, 1988, drunk lad pinned down by police and porters, “get tae fk, get aff me ya bastards!” face slashed (bottle/ knife?) blood up the curtains, on the docs white coat. “Keep still!!”
My job, apply pressure (try not to get stitched to mental boy in the process) fingers scarily close to needle, thick black silk, no plastic surgeon, no operating theatre. Finally, the doc finished, another ‘Glasgow kiss’ done.
Many nurses prefer the night shift, patients tucked up in bed (in theory) less people to deal with, less paperwork, no auditors, no practice drills. Suits the night owls perfectly. Torture for early birds like myself who love to sleep.
My first proper job, 1983, staff nurse in a city hospital medical ward in Glasgow, night shift roster, seven on, seven off for six weeks.
Early in the shift a Nursing Officer would round expecting us to know all patient names and diagnoses from memory, no paper cheat sheet allowed.
Miss M was terrifying, physically imposing, never cracking a smile. Patient name forgotten, there was deafening silence. My quick-witted buddies made names up or burst into hysterical giggles but I quaked in my shoes 😩😆
I’d work the odd agency night shift (on top of full-time hours) earning extra for holidays, mortgage payments or sometimes between jobs? Don’t know where I got the energy from but I was young, brave (stupid?) up for anything.
Waiting at bus shelters in the rain, catching public transport across the city, listening to tapes on my big Sony Walkman, morose songs to match my mood at the thought of staying awake all night. REM’s 🎶 ehhhvry body huuuurts, ehhhvry body cries 🎶 a favourite.
Always a challenge getting home without incident, falling asleep on buses or trains, missing my stop, waking up drooling, disorientated.
Or driving, so sleepy i’d have the windows down, slapping my face, pinching my cheeks, sometimes pulling over for a short nap.
Arriving home exhausted, crawling into bed, asleep instantly only to wake at 11am with barking dog or ringing phone. Aaargh! I’d turn into crazy lady.
Every nurse has memories of particular night shifts. For me the following are embedded. That agency shift at Glasgow Royal Infirmary casualty I’ll never forget.
Next a private aged care residence in Edinburgh. Crunching up the gravel driveway of a large Wuthering Heights-type building, inside, dark wood-panelling and brown tiled floors. Followed a sign to the office where I met desperate-to-leave nurse.
Quick orientation, up and down stairs, along rabbit-warren corridors, “fire extinguishers here,” keys handed over, sinking realisation, I was the only qualified nurse on the premises.
Turned out the permanent auxiliary staff were fabulous motherly women, basically ran the place. Clocking my deer in headlights expression one of them “c’moan hen” came with me on drug – round, confirming auld sleepy faces (looking nothing like their ID photos)
Settling everyone, helping to the toilet, changing incontinence pads, checking skin, applying barrier cream, positioning pillows, making all residents as comfortable as possible.
The nursing care was very familiar but the surroundings so creepy! Answering buzzers imagining Mrs Danvers appearing with her candle or The Shinings Jack Nicholson grinning round a corner, knife in hand. Instead I’d find a wee Scottish granny in her nightie wanting to go to the loo!
Before long (thank gawd) birds were tweeting, delivery lorries rumbling past and my fabulous buddies packed their knitting bags away before last rounds checking all the precious peeps were present and correct, in bed not on the floor, god forbid!
The next shift, a neurosurgical unit caring for patients post surgery, brain tumours, blood clots just removed, all still at risk of swelling and bleeding. The nurses job, hourly observations looking for early signs of these complications.
That night all patients were stable but sitting at that dimly lit nurses station between rounds I could NOT keep my eyes open, didn’t want to be that agency nurse who snoozed on the job so i stayed on my feet and paced, round and round, up and down. Longest shift ever.
Next, the beautiful Palliative Care unit, the nurses welcoming me with open arms, warm and friendly, lovely to work with and learn from, helping folks to a peaceful death. Felt like I was doing the most important job in the world that night. What could be a more important job?
Patients tended, morphine and sedatives dispensed, beds then set up in a day room with blankets and pillows, ready for break time when I was instructed to sleep! Heaven! So sensible, so civilised, should be mandatory for all who work in the middle of the night.
Over at the Childrens Hospital different story, staff sighing, tutting and eye-rolling barely acknowledging my presence all night, “hope they’re being nicer to the sick bairns?” I thought, surely they’d prefer an agency nurse than manage one down?
A toddler admitted in the early hours with a scary asthma attack then transferred to paediatric intensive care confirmed looking after sick bairns wasn’t my thing.
My last memory from 1994, midwifing on the ground floor Antenatal ward of a large Edinburgh Maternity Hospital. 3am-ish, two of us found a group of young dads-to-be at the open french doors of the inside court yard chatting and smoking with their pregnant, drug addicted “burds” 😩 😆 missing them! “Jist leavin nuurse!”
They left in peace, locks changed asap. When Train Spotting was released in 1996 I recognised the Rentboy, Spud, Begbie and Sickboy types from that night.
End of night shift, day light always comes, the army of tip toeing, torch-wielding nurses head home.
Many of my colleagues enjoy nights, “sleep is for the weak” types, who can somehow survive on a few hours. Me, I turn into cranky zombie lady.
Night duty, no thanks.
Lindsey Crossan Registered Nurse/Midwife
Great story! Very interesting insight – would love to hear more!
Thanks!