Acreage and animal ownership brings joy and pain in equal measure, responsibility and hard work, you have to be up for it all. We’ve learnt on the job, made a few mistakes along the way.
Our first ever cow (Sally) arrived in a hired trailer. It was dusk. Rob drove in , shut the gate, then peered at her wondering what to do next?
Hindsight and many cows later, we should have left her exactly where she was, in the trailer with fresh hay and water till the morning. Obvious? Right?
1988. Glasgow Royal Infirmary, drunk lad pinned down by police and porters, “get tae fk, get aff me ya bastards!” face slashed (bottle/knife?) skin flapping, blood spraying 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 smile’ done.
We take modern surgery for granted. Anaesthetists render us unconscious, surgeons make deft incisions, cauterise, snip, scrape, biopsy, repair. We wake without remembering a thing. A miracle of modern medicine.
Not a miracle of course but the result of many highly qualified individuals coming together, an array of pharmaceuticals, specialized equipment and instruments.
I often work in a women’s operating theatre prepping them for surgery, minor, major, life-saving, specific to the female sex.
In this theatre, babies are born by caesarean, haemorrhaging is stopped, prolapsing organs replaced, cancers removed, contraceptive devices placed, pregnancies ended, tiny fragments of tissue gently removed after miscarriage.
In admissions our job is to help women feel safe, respected, cared for. Turning up for surgery is nerve wracking. We get it!
We see women across the spectrum.
Elderly, Girls with mature bodies, Indigenous, Neurodivergent, (aspergers, autism, dyspraxia) Disabled physically or intellectually, With mental illness, With history of sexual abuse and resulting PTSD, With gender dysphoria, Refugees, Non – English Speaking.
All humans, all worthy of dignity, respect and equal healthcare. Negative stereotyping is deadly. Nurses know this. We don’t assume anything.
Exquisitely dressed woman with the frosty demeanour and clipped communication style may be on the verge of a panic attack, just holding it all together.
Woman with english as a second language, relaxes in our presence, reveals a significant health issue, till now untold. Surgery is delayed.
Vague , delightful elderly woman may not understand exactly what’s about to happen, surgery can’t go ahead without appropriate consent.
The next elderly woman spirited, spritely, sharp as a tack, gives accurate answers and cheek!
Shouty angry woman might just be terrified, missing her usual self medicating drugs, anger turning to tears.
Woman clasping emotional support teddy, own pillow , headphones, eye mask and fidget spinner is autistic with sensory issues.
We accomodate, we manage, advocate, gate-keep, check lists, mitigate risk, tend fragile mental health, keep everyone safe. Nothing surprises us, humans are complex.
Questions, questions, so many questions
Why are you here? What surgery are you expecting ? When did you last eat? Did you take any drugs today? Do you need any drugs? Any jewellery on your body, any sneaky piercings?
Some women are scared, facing a lengthy surgery for cancer, pre-chemotherapy.
Some having minor surgery, glad of the anaesthetic escape from the relentless parenting of small children.
Some mortified, hating the need for surgery in their most intimate parts.
Some barely conscious, rushed through from emergency, actively bleeding, blood drip, drip, dripping into a vein.
We swoop, urgency, speed, focus, No words needed.
Some physically damaged from assault. So confronting every time. TLC is dispensed.
Some thousands of miles away from family.
Many heartbroken having miscarried a pregnancy, still bleeding, needing a curette
Some having an abortion feel shame, embarrassed, many are not, aware of their right to reproductive autonomy, no matter the opinion of others.
She’s been raped, maybe a child herself, abused by a family member, her life a train wreck, she’s vulnerable, she is septic, she is bleeding, at risk of dying if the pregnancy implanted in her fallopian tube ruptures.
She is beyond heartbroken, devastated, carrying a baby with abnormalities who won’t survive, has made the brave decision to end the pregnancy
Can you even begin to put yourself in her shoes?
No matter your feelings, thoughts, opinions, this decision is never taken lightly, is frankly no one else’s business, should not be up for public debate , certainly not by old white male politicians of the patriarchy. Photos of the Supreme Court judges in the USA abhorrent, make my blood boil
The idea of a woman not being able to have this safe procedure in a hospital is unthinkable, medieval.
In my hospital, in this theatre if you need us, you’ll be in safe hands.
Doctor’s gather in the hallway, rainbow lorikeets coming to roost.
Bedside, the red button is pushed, “don’t worry M…, lots of people will arrive soon, you need some extra help.”
Blue curtains whooshed back,
“Need me to call?” “Yep”
A seamless dance begins, crash-trolley in, furniture back, medics swoop, a nurse tells the story “this is M… 70-year old lady with ……”
A junior doc kneels, tap tap taping, looking for a vein, another, stethoscope in ears listens to M’s lungs, two others confer, “we need to, I think, lets ….”
M shaking, her face sheet-white, the nurse soothes, another preps an IV, checks the existing spaghetti (where will it fit?) another documents events.
Diagnosis ✔️treatment ✔️plan ✔️, then, quick as they arrived, the docs are gone, M’s crisis under control (for now.)
She’s exhausted, eyes shut.
Button-pushing nurse clears up the mini-medical hurricane, face frowny, day just starting, thinking of her other patients, two of immediate concern, ‘dropped down’ from ICU lady, a crumpled tiny heap in the bed, numerous lines, pumps, drains, catheter too, massive wound, not out of the woods yet, needing skilled nursing care and TLC.
And the other, a far-too-young-to-be-dying woman, her carefully prescribed painkiller regime, NEEDING it when she buzzes (wouldn’t you?) rages, shouts at a minutes delay. Hope she’s ok?
The nurse wonders how her holding-down-the-fort buddy is going? Teamwork really is the dream work here.
In the background a sweet elderly lady, buzz, buzz, buzzes, shouts “my drugs, where are my drugs? I WANT them” upset, out of her normal routine, “I know, i’m very sorry, bringing them now” placates.
Rest of the day is difficult, a chasing tails day, every small thing that could go wrong, does.
With a push the nurses finish, satisfied, spent, needing a bit of TLC themselves.
Chatting on the way out, slowly leaving hospital world behind, enjoying the sight of the blue sky, warm sun on skin.
Arriving home, “how was work?”
“Fine.” How to explain?
The nurse eats, sleeps, rests body and brain, preparing to do it all over again. Tomorrow will be better.
The day I had the accident it was heaving down with rain. I was heading to the GP with my youngest lad to see if he needed antibiotics for a painful ear.
Driving uphill on a familiar straight stretch of road, down through winding rainforest, a route i’d taken hundreds of times before, was very comfortable with.
