Читать книгу Confessions of a Male Nurse - Michael Alexander - Страница 16

Who’s to blame?

Horrendous, horrible things sometimes happen in my line of work. Things that make hospitals seem like a living nightmare. But good can come out of even the worst experiences, even if it is just a new way of looking at something – sometimes, perception is everything.

Interpretations of a situation can vary tremendously, especially when it comes to a patient’s perspective versus that of a nurse. It’s to be expected that the nursing staff will have a better understanding of health and illness and how the body deals with sickness. What is not always appreciated is a patient’s understanding, or lack thereof, of a particular problem.

‘Get ya hands off it; I don’t want ya breaking anything.’

I put Mr Kent’s leg back in the corner. It wasn’t a whole leg – just the lower part of his right leg.

‘I’ve been living without a leg since before you were born and I don’t need your help now.’

Mr Kent had lost his leg in a motorbike accident when he was 25. He had never married, always lived alone and never had to depend on anybody for anything – well, apart from the prosthesis manufacturer.

I was just trying to help him strap the thing on – speed things up a bit because he was taking so long to get ready. I know it sounds terribly impatient of me, but he looked helpless as he groped for his walking stick while struggling to sit up in bed.

Once Mr Kent had his leg strapped on and was on his feet he was a different person. He was mobile and, if not exactly nimble, he could move pretty quickly.

‘I don’t need to be here, it will pass,’ he kept saying.

And every time, I responded the same way: ‘It’s just a precaution, the doctors know what they’re doing; you’ll probably be home in no time at all.’

Mr Kent was a very strong willed man. He was so fiercely protective of his independence that he would not let any of the nurses help him in any way. The closest he had come to asking for assistance, was pointing his walking stick at the television and saying, ‘Be a good lad will you and change the channel for me.’

But for all his tough demeanour, I suspected he was more worried than he let on.

Mr Kent had been admitted to hospital because he had woken up one morning and found that the left side of his mouth was not quite working properly. When he had gone to look in his bathroom mirror, he noticed that this side of his mouth was drooping slightly.

The hospital doctors were concerned that Mr Kent might have had a small stroke, or even just a TIA (a Transient Ischaemic Attack – a mini-stroke).

‘A mini-stroke, now I’ve heard it all, next you’ll be trying to admit me,’ and of course they did.

Luckily none of Mr Kent’s limbs appeared to have been affected: there was no telltale weakness or paralysis in his arms or legs; and even though his mouth had a slight droop, his swallowing had not been affected.

On the third morning of Mr Kent’s stay with us the doctor decided to change his medicine slightly. For the last five years Mr Kent had been taking half an aspirin a day; the doctor now wanted to give him an enteric-coated aspirin, which has a protective outside layer so it’s less rough on the stomach. It was a good idea of the doctor; Mr Kent should have been on this medication years ago.

Aspirin is one of the most common drugs given to patients, but it can help prevent some serious problems. It thins the blood, thus reducing the risk of clots forming, lessening the likelihood of strokes (clots in the brain) and heart attacks (clots in the arteries that supply the heart).

The only problem was Mr Kent seemed a touch reluctant to take the new enteric-coated aspirin.

‘I’ve made it this far on my own with one leg and I will not be told what’s good for me by a boy.’

I could feel my face turning red as I sensed the eyes of the three other patients in the room on me. I had no reason to be embarrassed, and I certainly needn’t have felt stupid, but I did.

I suppose Mr Kent’s stubbornness was a way for him to stay in control of the situation, but I was resolute: I would make him see reason and win, especially as I had an audience. After all, it was for his own good.

‘If it makes you happier, I’ll have the doctor come in and explain things again,’ I offered, but Mr Kent just sat there with his arms crossed.

‘I don’t want to talk to him either,’ Mr Kent said, referring to the junior doctor. ‘I want to see someone old enough to know what they’re doing.’

‘Well, I can’t force you to take it,’ I said, changing tactics and making as if to exit the room.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Mr Kent piped up, ‘I never said I wouldn’t take the blasted thing.’

Why the sudden change of heart? Again, it was another way for Mr Kent to retain some control of his situation.

‘Get the doc. I’ll listen to what he has to say and then decide.’

I didn’t argue. Soon the doctor reassured Mr Kent that the change was in his best interest. Fifteen minutes later, the battle was over and I was the victor – although it didn’t really feel like a victory. As Mr Kent brought the aspirin to his lips he kept his eyes glued on mine; he wasn’t smiling and he certainly wasn’t happy. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he gave in just to have some peace and quiet.

With a sense of relief I left Mr Kent to his own devices and walked away down the corridor feeling at least content in the knowledge that I had done what was right, even if Mr Kent wasn’t 100 per cent convinced . . .

Beeeeeeepbeeeeeeeeeeep!

It was coming from Mr Kent’s room. Someone was probably sitting on their call bell – at least I hoped that was it – but as I turned around and hurried back to his room, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I entered Mr Kent’s room and his eyes locked on to mine. He was struggling to sit up and reach his walking stick, but the right side of his body didn’t seem to be working very well. He kept on falling back on to his pillows. His right arm wasn’t doing what he wanted; it seemed to be determined to lie there like a lump of lead. His droop had worsened and his mouth was hanging slightly open. Mr Kent was having a stroke right in front of me.

I watched, with mouth agape and a sickening feeling in my stomach. The stroke didn’t stop him from being able to talk. ‘You’ve done this to me; you’ve killed me.’

I’m sure his voice must have been slurred, but I heard every word very clearly.

My skin broke out in goosebumps. I tried to help Mr Kent sit up but he waved his good arm in my face.

‘Get away. You’ve done enough damage already.’

I could feel the eyes of all the other patients in the room on me: disbelieving, shocked, accusing. I was to blame; it was my fault – I had forced him to take the new aspirin. At least, that was how they must all have seen this. I was responsible for setting this man on the path to death.

I couldn’t think rationally. I tried to help Mr Kent again; this time he didn’t speak to me, instead he made a loud moaning noise, a noise that spoke volumes. His stroke was progressing rapidly.

It felt like forever before the other nurses rushed in to find me standing there doing nothing – immobilised by shock; racked with guilt. The doctor was called and I left the room on the verge of tears. I was in no state to see any of my other patients. I knew if I went in to see one, I would no longer be able to hold back the flood.

Worst of all is that part of what Mr Kent said was true: the stroke probably was the end of him. Even if he survived, the effect the stroke would have on his mobility would be a huge blow, especially with a prosthetic leg. Once mobility is gone it’s never good; it’s a very slippery slope, especially in the aged.

Looking back now, I realise that Mr Kent’s stroke had nothing to do with either me or with the new aspirin. However, in Mr Kent’s mind, I was to blame. If he is still alive today, he probably still blames me, probably genuinely believes it was my fault. That is not a nice feeling, but I have come to understand that there are some things you cannot change and I can live with it.

I left work that day feeling as miserable as I ever had felt in my life. I was still battling with tears. I was only 21 years old, and just like Mr Kent had said only a short time ago, still a boy really.