At the Coal Face Page 10

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not a normal fracture – it’s a pathological one.’

  My heart plummeted because I knew what it meant: something was underlying.

  ‘I think its bone cancer,’ he concluded. ‘She’ll need more tests but I think that’s what we’re looking at.’

  In a strange way, the news didn’t come as a shock because my mother had undergone a radical mastectomy for breast cancer in the early 1950s, and I was certain the bone cancer was secondary. It was a hard thing to do but I knew it was up to me to try to deliver the news to her.

  ‘But they told me it was a tumour in my breast; they didn’t say anything about breast cancer,’ she gasped.

  Like many people, she was unable to connect the words tumour and cancer together because cancer wasn’t spoken of then as it is today.

  I tried to explain that she’d need to visit my radiotherapy unit to receive testosterone injections, which was the treatment at that time.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I’ll only have them if you do it.’

  In the end, it was agreed that Mum would be an outpatient in my department, where I would administer the painful and deep injections. When faced with a second cancer diagnosis, most people would’ve given up, but not my mum. Instead, she turned her regular appointments into a jolly day out and would even bring in homemade sandwiches for the consultant. She’d always use home-baked bread, the finest butter and the leanest ham she could find.

  ‘Now,’ she said, putting the carrier bag down on the doctor’s desk. ‘I bet you’ve not had your lunch yet, have you?’

  ‘But Mum, I don’t think Dr …’ I tried to interrupt, but she held up her hand to quieten me.

  ‘Nonsense, Joan, I’ve just seen him walk over from the eye hospital. Anyway, I’ve made you some lovely ham sandwiches. They’re in here somewhere,’ she said, rummaging around inside her bag.

  I wanted the ground to swallow me whole, but the consultant seemed delighted that one of his patients had made him lunch.

  ‘It’s good ham, that,’ Mum insisted, pointing at the meat as he bit into it. ‘I’ve even cut off all the fatty bits.’

  From then on, my mother brought his lunch along to every visit.

  ‘’Ere, I’ve put some of that mustard on that you like,’ she grinned one afternoon as she handed over a brown paper bag.

  I was mortified because the senior sister had made it clear that she didn’t approve of Mum’s over-familiarity with the consultant. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to – the look she gave me was enough.

  ‘Go and get the man a glass of milk, Nurse,’ Mum barked at one of my colleagues. ‘He can’t eat his sandwich with nothing to wash it down, now, can he?’

  Mum continued with her treatment, although I realised it wouldn’t save her life, just slow down the cancer growth.

  The new Departmental Sister continued to implement changes. She altered clinics even though they’d run like clockwork before she’d arrived. She also changed our working hours, and put a ban on all pets in the unit. It wasn’t long before I found work impossible. Before, the radiotherapy unit had been a happy ship, but suddenly it felt as though we were drowning in red tape, rules and regulations. I went to see Matron to protest, but she made it clear that I was no longer in charge. So, after 19 years at Hammersmith Hospital, including my year out at Brodsworth pit, I handed in my resignation. I knew I’d miss my patients and colleagues, and Jean in particular, but I also knew it was time to leave. However, first I needed to say goodbye to my favourite patient, Michael. He was 12 years old, and he’d been one of the luckier ones to survive cancer.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Sister Joan,’ he said, wrapping his arms tight around me.

  ‘Me too, Michael. Me too.’

  After that day I never saw him again, but I expect and hope he went on to live a full and happy life.

  I was wondering where life would lead me next when my old tutor mentioned she was looking for a district nurse to cover an area of London. On her word, I went to see the sister in charge of Kensington borough, who gave me the job on the spot. On my first day, I shadowed a nurse who was leaving to get married. As we whizzed through London in her red Mini, I thought what fun it was to be a district nurse. A few days later she left and I was on my own. I didn’t drive, so I was handed a black bag and a large, heavy iron bicycle.

  My ‘area’ covered Portobello Road, South Kensington and Ladbroke Grove. The only problem was that I had absolutely no sense of direction. On my first day solo, I finished work over three hours late because I’d got lost so many times. It was 1971, and there were riots across London, so I was assigned a police officer to escort me. However, he’d presumed I was in a car and so zoomed off, leaving me for dust on my antique bike. Peter tried his best to help. He drew a map and even drove me along my route the night before. But cycling through London when you haven’t got a clue where you’re going is a complete nightmare.

  One winter’s day, I was cycling behind a car when it came to a sudden halt without indicating. I slammed on my brakes to try to stop myself from crashing into the back of it. Tutting loudly, I huffed, readjusted my twisted front wheel and cycled around it, only for the motorist to then swing his door open. How I didn’t come off and fall into the heavy traffic, I’ll never know. After a bit of a wobble, I managed to regain my balance, but by now a fury had boiled inside me and there was no turning back. I threw the blasted bike against the kerb and banged loudly on the front of his car bonnet with both fists. The man looked up at me, startled.

  ‘Go on then, have another go! Run me over, see if I care!’ I screamed.

  ‘Er, I don’t know what you mean.’

  He looked sheepish and, if I’m honest, a tad scared of me. But I didn’t care because by now I was in full flow. I continued to scold him as passers-by stopped in their tracks to stare and listen.

  ‘Yes, you do know what I mean,’ I hissed, holding my arms out like a demented woman. ‘I almost went into the back of you because you didn’t signal. Then you opened the door and almost took me out! So go on, get back in your car and run me over because you seem intent on doing so!’

  The man looked so frightened that I lowered my arms. Huffing loudly, I straightened my coat, picked up my bike and climbed back on. I cycled away into the busy London traffic, cursing him as I went. As much as I hated the bike, I missed it when it was gone. A few weeks later, I was working down Portobello Road, so I chained it to a set of railings. Shortly afterwards, I emerged to find that not only had the wheels gone, but the handlebars had been stolen too.

  ‘Unbelievable!’ I cried as I marched off to a phone box. I searched for coins in my purse and rang Peter to ask if he’d come and collect me.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough of this district nursing lark,’ I moaned as I slid into the passenger seat. ‘I just don’t think it’s for me.’

  It wasn’t. After a year of cycling the streets of London, I handed in my notice and took up a position as an industrial nurse working for British Petroleum at its headquarters in Moorgate, London. The salary was incredible. It was February 1972 – exactly a year after decimalisation – and my starting wage was £1,722 per annum. It seemed like a small fortune compared to the £705 I’d risen to at Hammersmith. For the first time in my life, I felt like the richest woman on earth, and, more importantly, I was back doing industrial nursing – the job I loved best.

  8

  A Heartbeat from Death

  I adored my job at BP. Peter had left his old job, working as a plumber at the council, and secured a position working as a buyer for Trusthouse Forte. It wasn’t long before he’d moved up the ranks. In many ways our lives were on the up, and, for the first time ever, we had money to spend. We loved to socialise and would often be found in bars with his colleagues, drinking cocktails and spirits into the early hours. After my time working down the pit, I liked to keep up with the boys, and so, despite being a nurse, I enjoyed the odd cigar or two, usually King Edwards. But th
is was back in the days when smoking was considered glamorous and everyone did it. My special trick was to try to keep the ash on the end of the cigar for as long as I could.

  ‘I think I’ll call you Ginger,’ one of Peter’s colleagues said, alluding to my distinctive red hair. After that, all his friends called me ‘Ginger’, even Peter, although he shortened it to ‘Ginge’.

  While I was working at BP, another nurse called Deirdre and I were offered the chance to set up a medical centre in Saudi Arabia. It all sounded very glamorous, until we discovered that we’d be expected to perform minor surgery, including appendectomies. Unsurprisingly, we turned it down. BP housed a state-of-the-art operating theatre. It was permanently on standby in case of IRA bomb attacks, which were on the increase at that time. But, other than give injections and deal with general injuries, I wasn’t called on to do anything too extreme and so I came to expect the humdrum. One day, I was sitting in the medical centre when I received a call to say someone on one of the top floors had cut their hand.

  ‘No problem, I’ll be right up,’ I said, searching inside the first-aid box for plasters and a piece of gauze.

  I took the lift up, but as soon as I stepped out of it the office was in complete pandemonium.

  ‘Over here, Sister,’ a man cried. That’s when I spotted it – blood splattered all over the ceiling, walls and floor. It looked like a scene from a horror movie.

  I dashed over, cursing the pathetic plasters in my hand.

  ‘What on earth have you done?’ I asked the injured man, who was slumped against the floor. He was pale and looked in danger of passing out. As I uncurled his hand I realised why. He had such deep lacerations that he’d almost severed three of his fingers.

  ‘He went to close the window,’ his colleague explained, ‘when the wind blew it shut. His hand went through the glass but he pulled it out again.’

  I shook my head. Offices aren’t usually dangerous places but the first rule of nursing is to always expect the unexpected. Thankfully, I knew what to do and I began by deploying his work colleagues.

  ‘You,’ I said, pointing towards the first man. ‘You run back downstairs and fetch the other sister. Ask her to bring up some morphine, a blanket and a set of bandages.’ The man nodded and ran off in the direction of the medical room.

  ‘You,’ I said, pointing to another. ‘Call an ambulance. I want you to go straight outside and wait at the front of the building for it. When it arrives, bring them straight up here because we haven’t got time for them to get lost inside the building.’

  I held the injured man’s hand upwards, clasped in both of mine. His blood was pumping furiously and I could feel it dripping down the side of my wrist. I applied pressure using a cotton-wool pad and tightened a tourniquet to stem the flow.

  ‘What do you want us to do, Sister?’ two other men asked.

  They looked almost as ashen and shaken as their injured colleague.

  ‘Nothing. I want you to stay here with me. And whatever you do, don’t leave me.’

  My words did little to comfort them. If anything, they looked even more terrified.

  Moments later, Deirdre appeared along with the first man. She’d brought bandages and immediately began to wrap the patient’s hand while I administered morphine to kill some of his pain. He’d gone into shock and had started to shake, so we wrapped him up in the blanket. Two ambulance men emerged from the lift and came dashing over to help. They checked him as I relayed what had happened and what his injuries were. They loaded him up onto a stretcher and whisked him off to St Bartholomew’s Hospital, where surgeons had been alerted. Amazingly, despite his blood loss, the man was extremely lucky and managed to keep all three fingers. It was nothing short of a miracle, although I expect he was a little more careful shutting the window after that.

  During my time at BP, I did a crash course in industrial nursing, flying up to Dundee University for specialised training. Peter’s job with the hotel chain meant he was able to wangle a few days up in Scotland. Like me, he was always dashing around, so when he started complaining of chest pains I put it down to indigestion. But I became concerned because Peter had gradually become very overweight. Working for a hotel chain often meant long, boozy lunches, which quickly thickened his waistline, yet, despite my worries, he insisted it was nothing. Peter headed back to London, and, a few weeks later, I finished my course at Dundee. I’d learned all about preventative medicine, law, legislation and health and safety in the working environment. I loved the fact that industrial nursing meant it was always down to you to make the decision and trust your own judgement, which came in useful when Peter’s chest pains continued.

  ‘You need to see the doctor,’ I nagged.

  Peter was headstrong but he realised I was right. He agreed to see a GP, who referred him for an X-ray. It revealed that he’d suffered a mild heart attack. Not only that, but his heart was enlarged. The doctor had seemed largely unconcerned, but I was worried so I had a word with one of the consultants at BP, who agreed to examine Peter and take further X-rays. BP had its very own X-ray room, so Peter underwent more tests, which confirmed his heart was enlarged. The consultant recommended a heart specialist, so we paid privately to see him at his consultation rooms in central London. His office was very grand. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glass-topped desk in front of him, which was both unusual and expensive at the time.

  I sat down as he proceeded to examine Peter and read through his medical notes. Finally, he showed him back to his chair, sat down and gave us his damning verdict.

  ‘It’s like this,’ he said, clasping his hands together in front of him. ‘Your heart is clapped out, like an old motor.’

  I glanced at Peter, who looked shocked and frightened.

  ‘Now, how did you both get here?’ the doctor continued, breaking my thoughts.

  ‘Er, we caught a taxi,’ Peter began, but the consultant cut him off mid-sentence with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Well, you need to go straight to hospital to be treated. There’s not a minute to waste, so you’d better get yourselves over there right now.’ He scribbled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to us. ‘Now, here’s where you need to go. They’ll have a bed waiting for you, so I’ll see you when I get over there.’

  We walked out of his office in a complete daze. We were totally shell-shocked.

  ‘Right,’ I said, trying to gather my thoughts outside on the busy London street. ‘We’d better catch a cab.’

  I held out my arm but Peter raised his hand to stop me.

  ‘Let’s just pop in and get some lunch first, eh? If I’m going to be stuck inside a hospital the food will be awful, so allow me at least one last good meal,’ he said, sounding like a condemned man.

  I agreed. I could tell the news had hit him hard and he needed time to think and process everything. We both did.

  ‘No problem. Where shall we go?’ I replied, brightening up a little.

  ‘Somewhere that serves champagne and oysters!’

  We caught a cab and stopped off at George’s restaurant in central London for a slap-up meal. Several hours later, we stumbled, giggling and a little unsteady on our feet, into Charing Cross Hospital. When the ward sister spotted us through beady eyes I could tell she wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Mr Hart,’ she called from the other end of the ward. ‘Where on earth have you been? Your bed has been ready for hours.’

  I looked up at Peter, but he didn’t seem to care.

  ‘We had a little trouble getting a taxi,’ he lied.

  The sister nodded, although it was obvious she didn’t believe him. She looked down at her paper and ticked him off her list before asking which name he preferred.

  ‘Shall we call you Peter, or do you prefer Mr Hart?’ she enquired.

  ‘Sir will do,’ he replied, quick as a flash. ‘You can call me sir.’

  Even though the champagne had loosened my inhibitions, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I was a nurse and, althou
gh Peter was only joking, I also knew what it was like to deal with a difficult patient – and one who was also a little bit tipsy.

  ‘Right,’ she snapped, her face a picture. She dropped her patients’ list down onto the desk with a clatter and looked at Peter with steely determination. ‘Mr Hart it is, then.’

  She led him over towards a bed situated next to the main door.

  ‘This is your bed, Mr Hart,’ she announced.

  ‘Oh, I’m not having that one.’

  Although I’d sobered up, I could still hear Peter slurring ever so slightly.

  The sister glanced up at him sternly.

  ‘Why ever not?’ she asked, her patience wearing thin.

  ‘Because it’s near the door, and those,’ he said with absolute conviction, ‘are usually the first patients to die.’

  After a bit of a kerfuffle, Peter got his wish and managed to secure a bed next to the window and, more importantly, away from the door.

  ‘Happy now, Mr Hart?’ Sister enquired as she tucked the bed sheet in beneath him.

  ‘Yes,’ he grinned, resting his head back against the pillows.

  Once he’d settled, I left to fetch his pyjamas and a dressing gown from home.

  Later that evening we saw the same consultant, although his new and revolutionary techniques didn’t fill me with much hope. His belief was that the heart was a muscle, so in order to get it working correctly you had to rest it and slowly build it back up again. In Peter’s case, this involved sedating him until his heart had slowed and almost stopped beating. It was then steadily worked, using physiotherapy, in a bid to strengthen it. However, all it seemed to do was make poor Peter even more desperately ill. If anything, I believed the new technique was actually dangerous. Peter remained in bed for almost a month, in which time he lost so much weight that he became skeletal. He was eventually discharged but, just two weeks later, he suffered a second heart attack. He was admitted to hospital and then had several more heart attacks in quick succession. I was so terrified I’d lose him that I lived at his bedside. I stopped eating, and watched him day and night, praying that he’d get better. I was extremely doubtful of the consultant’s technique, so I spoke to a registrar friend. I could tell by the shocked look on his face that he agreed with me.