At the Coal Face Page 8

  There was one young lad in particular, called Jonathan, who had battled for most of his life against leukaemia. He was given good news as a child, only to relapse years later. Jonathan underwent treatment time and time again, and at one point we thought he was winning his fight. He eventually grew into a fine young man. At 18 years old he met a girl and got married, and soon she was pregnant. Although his wife knew he’d suffered from cancer as a child, when it returned a few years later, bringing with it a grim prognosis, she promptly left. Jonathan was heartbroken and felt as though his life was over. Desperate to see his young wife, he marched over to his mother-in-law’s house, where he smashed down her front door. The police were called, and he was charged with criminal damage. Shortly afterwards, he was having treatment at the unit when he broke down and told me what had happened. It was upsetting to see him distraught, so I spoke to the registrar, who agreed that something needed to be done. We telephoned the police and asked them to call in at the hospital.

  ‘The thing is, Jonathan only has three or four years left to live, so Sister Hart and I feel it is totally unnecessary to charge him with this offence,’ the doctor explained.

  The police officers looked a little shocked, but I pressed further.

  ‘The poor lad has lost everything – his wife, his unborn child – and soon he’ll lose his life. Please don’t add to that by taking his freedom too. As soon as she discovered he wouldn’t live long, she upped and left, saying he’d never see their child. Right now, Jonathan has got nothing left to live for.’

  The senior officer nodded his head grimly.

  ‘Well, Sister. This sheds a whole new light on the situation, and if this lad has only got a short time left on this earth then I don’t feel a punishment is entirely appropriate. I think we’ll let him off with a caution instead.’

  The anxious breath I’d been holding inside came rushing out as a sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank you, Officer. Jonathan’s already been through so much. I think he deserves a little kindness.’

  The officer agreed, shook our hands and thanked us for our time. Common sense had prevailed and Jonathan was let off with a simple slap on the wrist. He died a few years later. He was just 26 years old and he never got to meet or even hold his baby.

  At the unit, our patients’ conditions ranged from disfiguring birthmarks to full-blown skin cancers. Those who had been hospitalised came to the unit for treatment before being taken back to their wards to rest, while others we saw were visiting outpatients or follow-up assessments. The children were mostly treated as outpatients unless they were particularly frail or unwell. The hospital had three radiotherapy wards, which housed patients with cancer. They were kept separate to patients on surgical wards because their immune systems were weak and more prone to infection. But poorly children were always kept on the children’s ward. Naturally, their parents would be anxious and upset once a diagnosis had been made, but many supported their children throughout long and often gruelling bouts of radiotherapy. A cancer diagnosis for anyone, child or adult, is hard to accept, and often we’d find parents would go into denial. If they could pretend it wasn’t happening, then somehow it would make it not real. Obviously their children were very ill, but more than often, I found, it was the mothers who went into denial rather than the fathers. Even though the natural female instinct is to care and protect, some mothers found the thought of a critically ill child just too much to bear, so it would be the fathers who’d bring them to the hospital. I never judged anyone because I didn’t have children of my own, so I could only imagine what these poor women were going through, never mind their children. But the choices some parents made were simply unforgivable.

  On one such occasion, a four-year-old boy had been referred to the unit suffering from leukaemia. He was desperately ill and needed an immediate blood transfusion, but because his parents were Jehovah’s Witnesses they refused. They argued that a transfusion went against their beliefs. Back then, the medical profession had no legal power, so we were unable to go against the parents’ wishes, even in a life-and-death situation. Less than a week later, the poor mite died. He was so ill that he’d passed away silently and unseen by the other parents, in a side room adjacent to the children’s ward. It made me question everything.

  Today, that same child would be made a ‘ward of court’, but back then the parents were left to choose, rightly or wrongly, the fate of their own child. I’d never been particularly religious, but it made me question how a parent could put his or her religion before the life of their child. I’d seen a similar situation some years earlier as a student nurse. A little boy, aged five, had been admitted to the children’s ward. He had something seriously wrong with his throat and was quite literally choking to death. The doctors had pleaded with his parents to allow the operation, which required a blood transfusion, to go ahead, but they refused point blank. I’ll never forget sitting with him during those final few days, holding his tiny hand as his life ebbed away. I was so distraught that the doctor dipped his head around the curtain and beckoned me outside to have a word.

  ‘You leave now, Nurse,’ he said.

  ‘But the little boy …’ I replied, pointing back to my young patient.

  ‘Nurse, you shouldn’t have to witness that,’ he said. ‘It is their decision, not yours. It is a decision that will cost their child his life. We are here to save lives, not to watch them be taken. It is far too upsetting for you, so I’d like you to carry on with your other duties. It will be the parents who will sit and watch their child die.’

  The parents had effectively condemned their son to death. As medical professionals we were there to treat and preserve life, not watch it be taken away, be it through religion or any other means. But also we were not there to judge, and we had to remain impartial and professional at all times, however hard that may be. Sadly, a day or so later the poor little boy lost his fight for life. I have never forgotten him to this day, or the choice his parents made.

  Although I tried my best to be a nurse first and foremost, it was hard not to get too attached to my young patients. Back then, radiation was a very frightening word. Members of the hospital management didn’t venture too close to the unit for fear of it, so we were pretty much left to our own devices, which suited me. With no one to bark orders, I tried to make the hospital experience as much fun as possible for the children. I’d book half a day off work and take three children at a time to visit London Zoo, just so they could forget about hospitals and cancer for one day. I always paid with my own money, but I didn’t mind – the joy on their faces made it worthwhile.

  A young patient was referred to us called Michael. Michael was very ill indeed. He was only two years old, but his spleen was so enlarged that he couldn’t stand up without toppling over. He had chronic myeloid leukaemia. Michael’s spleen had become so enlarged that it had all but disabled him. He had unnaturally long hair for a boy and his clothes were threadbare. I soon found out why. His father had brought him in for radiotherapy but there was no sign of his mother. I wondered if she’d gone into denial like so many of the others, but then I discovered that as soon as Michael had been diagnosed with cancer she’d simply upped and left. Michael was such a beautiful little lad, with long blond hair and big blue eyes, that it broke my heart to think of his mother abandoning him. I knew what that felt like.

  ‘I try to look after the children, but I have to work. Now Michael’s ill, so I have to be here. To be honest, Sister, some days I don’t know if I’m coming or going,’ his father admitted.

  Michael’s cancer meant that his dad had taken so much time off work that money was scarce. It certainly explained the child’s threadbare clothes and long hair. I knew I shouldn’t have got involved, but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll try our best to get him better, and any time you get stuck you come and see me.’

  Michael’s father was grateful, and after that day I made it my mission to help out wherever I could. />
  ‘You should see him,’ I told Peter later that evening as we sat down at the kitchen table to eat. ‘He’s only a baby and his father is trying his best to keep a roof over their heads. I hate to see them struggle; there must be something I can do?’

  Peter paused and then said, ‘It’s hard not to get involved, and I know what you’re like, you’ll do anything you can to help.’

  It was at moments like these that I really valued Peter because, whatever I decided, I knew he’d always be there, right beside me.

  It took three years, but Michael responded well to treatment and finally he grew stronger. The swelling in his spleen subsided until he was not only able to stand, but also to run too. For the first time he was able to play like a regular little boy. During his treatment, Michael’s father and I often talked about his son and his remarkable progress.

  ‘You’ve worked wonders on him,’ he remarked as we watched Michael bomb around the ward. ‘At one point I really thought I’d lose him.’

  I rested my hand down on top of his and left it there.

  ‘But you haven’t. Look, he’s a happy and delightful little boy. He’s responded so well to the treatment, better than we could’ve ever hoped. You should be proud of yourself,’ I insisted, patting his hand gently, ‘and everything you’ve done for him.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister Hart,’ he replied, dipping his head so I wouldn’t see the tears welling up in his eyes.

  For a moment there was a comfortable silence, as we both contemplated how far Michael had come and just how hard he’d fought to stay alive.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘What he really needs is a haircut!’

  Michael’s dad shook his head in dismay.

  ‘I know. I keep telling him, but he won’t listen to me. What that boy needs is a woman’s touch, because he won’t let me cut it with a pair of scissors.’

  ‘Won’t he?’ I said, standing up. ‘Well, just you watch this.’

  I walked across the ward and called out his name. Michael stopped in his tracks and wandered over towards me. The scissors were already in my hand. ‘What you need is a haircut, young man!’

  Michael spotted the scissors and backed away warily.

  ‘No, I don’t want it cut,’ he protested. ‘I like it like this,’ he said, running his fingers through his shoulder-length curly locks. In truth, he had the hair of an angel, which is exactly what he was.

  I sighed and knelt down on the ground so that we were face to face.

  ‘You’re a little boy, but with long hair like that,’ I said, twisting his curls in between my fingers, ‘you look like a little girl. And you don’t want to look like a little girl now, do you?’

  Michael shrugged his shoulders, looked down and shook his head.

  ‘So, can I cut it, then? Your hair, shall I cut it so that you can look like all the other little boys?’

  Michael’s eyes darted from his father’s and back to mine. He dipped to the side to check if the scissors were still in my hand. They were, but I didn’t want to frighten him, so I let him decide. His face clouded over for a moment as he thought.

  ‘It won’t hurt, will it?’

  ‘No, of course not, Michael. It won’t hurt a bit, I promise.’

  ‘Promise?’ he asked, crossing his fingers across his heart.

  ‘Promise.’

  With that, he sat down in a chair and let me cut his hair to a more manageable length. His father was amazed.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s let you do that,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I’ve been trying to get it cut for ages but he wouldn’t let me anywhere near him.’

  I knew why Michael had let me. He hadn’t said it, but he hadn’t needed to. He missed his mum, just as I had done. I knew he was still hurting. I wasn’t his mother, but I vowed to be there for him whenever he needed me. As he grew, Michael became a part of the unit. He visited us every three months for a check-up, and I came to love him as a son. One day, when he was seven or eight years old, I decided to take him on a visit to the zoo with some of the other children. As we walked around the animal enclosures I noticed that he was limping. Alarm bells rang and my heart raced with uncertainty.

  ‘Michael, are you well?’ I asked, pulling him gently to one side.

  He looked up at me. ‘Yes, I’m fine, Sister Joan.’

  ‘Does it hurt anywhere?’ I asked. ‘It’s just that I’ve noticed something. You seem to be limping.’

  Michael looked down at his feet and then up at me. A grin spread across his face.

  ‘No, Sister Joan. It’s my shoes, you see, they’re really hurting me. They’re not mine. They’re my brother’s, but they’re too tight.’

  I was flummoxed.

  ‘So why did you put them on, then, if they’re too tight for you?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘Because they were the smartest shoes we had and I wanted to look my very best for you, Sister Joan.’

  I put a hand to my chest and tried to stop the tears welling up in my eyes.

  ‘Come here,’ I said, pulling him close. ‘You daft brush! I don’t care what you wear; you don’t have to look smart for me. As long as you’re well, that’s all I care about.’

  To be honest, I was just so relieved it wasn’t anything sinister causing Michael to limp. I also couldn’t bear to watch him suffer, so I took the children to a shoe shop and bought him some shoes that actually fitted. They only cost me 2 shillings, but you’d have thought I’d given him the world.

  ‘Are they mine?’ he asked, twisting his feet to admire them. ‘Are they all mine, to keep?’

  ‘They are, Michael. They are.’

  ‘Wow! Thanks, Sister Joan,’ he said, running into my arms.

  After our day out at the zoo, I took Michael and two other children back to my flat to wait for their parents to pick them up. Michael was the last one to be collected because his father was running late from work, so he was still sitting there when Peter came in. Michael’s face lit up as soon as he saw him – he’d met Peter before and the pair had got on famously.

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ Peter said, hanging his coat up on a peg inside the doorway. ‘How was your day at the zoo?’

  Michael’s eyes were wide with excitement as he told him all about the monkeys, elephants, tigers and lions we’d seen.

  ‘So, you had a good time then?’

  ‘Yes, and Sister Joan even got me these,’ he said, holding his snazzy new footwear aloft.

  Peter looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Wow, you’re quite the little gent in those,’ he said as Michael sat up proudly in his chair. Peter then pulled something out of his pocket – it was a gift for Michael.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Michael asked, taking it from the palm of his hand.

  Peter nodded and glanced over at me to check that it was okay. It was.

  ‘Do I have to do anything for it, any chores or anything?’ the little boy asked, clutching the 10-shilling note in his hand.

  ‘No, it’s yours to keep. It’s a present, from us,’ I insisted.

  Later, after his dad had picked him up, I turned to Peter. ‘That was a kind thing to do,’ I said, planting a kiss on his lips.

  ‘He’s a good kid. Besides, it was worth it just to see the smile on his face.’

  And it was. Back then, ten bob was quite a sum, and to Michael it was as though Peter had given him the crown jewels. But Michael was one of my favourite patients. In many ways, I identified with him and what his family had gone through. Even though I wasn’t supposed to get too involved, when it came to birthdays I made sure every child was given a party. With no management to interfere, I’d allow cake, balloons and party games – anything to put a smile back on the children’s faces so they could forget about being ill, if only for a few hours.

  It was strictly against the rules, but if a child was particularly sick or anxious I’d allow their parents to bring in the family pets to help calm them. Over the years, we welcomed ev
erything from dogs to goldfish; in fact, any creature (within reason) that we thought would lift a child’s spirits. Animals have a unique ability to bring joy and a quiet calm even to the most stressful situations. Besides, what harm could it actually do? I’d seen the pleasure those simple days out at the zoo had given them, so bringing the odd pet into the unit, however forbidden, seemed a natural progression.

  As well as birthday parties, we also held Christmas parties. The nurses would turn their capes inside out so the scarlet lining was visible. We’d stand and sing Christmas carols along with the patients as the surgeon popped in to carve the turkey. Back in the radiotherapy unit, we’d make a fuss of the younger patients. Every year, we’d arrange for one of the male members of staff to dress up as Father Christmas and deliver a sack of presents individually labelled for each patient. It was wonderful to see their little faces light up as we handed them out.

  ‘Oh, look. He remembered, Sister Joan,’ a little boy gasped. It melted my heart.

  I dealt with many patients from different walks of life, but none were more dashing than Colonel James Johnson. Colonel Johnson was tall, dark and handsome. He was attached to the American Air Force, and he was also a terrible flirt. I always knew when the colonel was in for treatment because all the nurses would blush and go weak at the knees. I had five staff nurses working in the unit, but for some reason, even though I was happily married, the colonel decided to make a play for me.

  ‘So,’ he asked one day as he waited for treatment, ‘when are you going to let me take you out, Sister Hart?’

  The colonel flashed me a megawatt smile and, in spite of myself, I felt my face flush like a silly schoolgirl. I hadn’t realised it until that moment, but it seemed that I was as taken with the handsome American pilot as the other girls.