Do No Harm
That old battleaxe Sister Knox is on tonight. Never a word of praise for anyone. You can’t do anything right for her. Put that over there. Not that way. For God’s sake girl, have you no sense at all? On, and on, and bloody on. Then all that fuss she made about you spending time with Mandy’s parents instead of cleaning up the trays they used for her chest drain. They wanted to talk. They were worried, naturally. You didn’t approach them. They approached you. You couldn’t very well ignore their questions, could you? She marched up with that superior smirk of hers and asked them to come into her office, those prim tight lips of hers betrayed her jealousy. She said you didn’t have enough knowledge or experience to answer their questions. Experience? As if she’s even heard of half the different medical tests you’ve had over the years; it all makes you a better nurse, you know what patients are going through. Just because you’re quiet, she thinks you’re stupid but you listen and you’ve been reading. Lots. She’s so bitter and mean. Brushed you off and told you to sort out the insulin in the fridge and organise the dosages for Jamie and Vanessa. No respect for SENs. Dogsbodies
If only she’d seen you in action at Timmy’s cardiac arrest, maybe then she’d take notice. It all makes you feel like a pot that’s about to boil over. She’s no appreciation of how hard you work or how much you give to this place. Just like Mum. Bitch.
Sister Rawlings is the only one here who even sees you. There was real pride in her voice when she spoke to you last week after Timmy died, came up with a big smile and called you a natural. Said it was obvious that you’re well suited to Paediatrics. Good with the babies, good with the parents. Made you glow all over. And you do love Paeds. Could be your future. So much better than dealing with miserable geriatrics who only want to die anyway, or grumpy demanding adults who so clearly deserve to be sick.
You were never demanding when you had meningitis that time in the Royal. What were you? About nine? Probably the best time of your life. The nurses were amazing. Sometimes you thought they were real angels, wings and all. Delirium most likely, but you knew then you had to become a nurse. They were so special, they couldn’t do enough for you. Even Mum was nice for a while but that soon wore off. Dad stuck it out, came every day, drunk or not. Pity he was the one who died.
He wanted to die at the end, they wouldn’t have let him these days, try to keep everyone alive no matter what. Probably would have done a liver transplant. But in school the teachers all decided to be nice to you because your father was dying, so it served a purpose. It set you apart. They listened to you for once and you were able to get the bullies expelled. That was such a high, literally, like you were flying.
A near death experience comes close to that sensation. The arrest team were called for you once, thought you were a goner. You remember it clearly. Being close to death is something remarkable. Unparalleled. Surviving makes you a chosen one in a way.
Resuss procedures these days are like clockwork. The doctors are there in a flash, everyone knows exactly what they have to do and the equipment is on every ward. Like last week when Timmy arrested in the middle of your injection. You only had to reach to the wall and press the Cardiac Call button. In seconds the place was alive with doctors. You’d barely even started baby CPR, just like you were taught - make sure the airway is clear - two finger chest compressions every second - a tiny puff mouth to mouth every 10 secs. If you try to do it like you would with an adult you could break all their little ribs – like wishbones, they say. You could tell the doctors were impressed, saw the raised eyebrows and questioning looks that passed between them. They pushed the defibrillator up to the bed and the lead doctor was like an orchestra conductor, totally in control. Impressive. Timmy was in asystole, but they tried to shock him anyway and gave him adrenaline and all that. He was so little, he was never going to make it. Poor Timmy. It was exciting. That’s experience.
His parents were totally distraught, of course. His mum looked like her eyes were raw from acid burns, she’d been crying so much. They’d thought he was getting better. And it was you they wanted to see when they arrived. After all, you were the last one to see him alive. They were ever so grateful to you and asked later if you would come to his funeral service. So sweet. No one else in the hospital was asked. You were the only one, unique.
Sister Rawlings brought us all into her office after the arrest and singled you out, said you were wonderful at the time and later with the parents, a credit to her. You’d kept your cool and done everything right. You could be like her one day, fragrant, never a hair out of place, always a professional smile on your face. But her smile is different when her husband comes in with little Rosie, warm like a fur coat. You can almost hear her purr. Rosie’s such a cutie with her blonde curls and big blue eyes. Everyone loves her. Her parents do make a fuss of her, kissing and hugging, cooing and giggling together. You were cute too in the old photos you’ve seen, but you never got the kind of attention Rosie gets. The dad’s not bad either, you could give him some proper attention.
You never know though, you might just make it here.
Knox. Bloody Insulin, bloody fridge. What do you have to do? Collect the drug charts from the end of their beds. Go to the drugs fridge. Tidy the bloody fridge. Write in the book how much you’re taking. Draw up the dosages and bring them to the drugs trolley. Big fuckin’ deal. A skivvy that’s what you are. Real specialised work for a nurse. Not. When you do Paeds it’s like you start over. You’re just a trainee again, says Knoxie with her snaky sneer.
Let’s see what’s in here. O God. A bloody mess. Bottles of all colours, different preparations, different strengths, some half empty, some full. This is a disaster waiting to happen. And the log book? Yep, a total fiasco. You can sort this - start counting.
Begin with the long acting preparations, get them into order of strength. Be thorough. Check each one against the log. Okay six. That tallies.
Intermediate acting? Yeah, four bottles, all there.
Rapid acting – nope. It says seven in the log but eight here. Dreadful. She’ll have to give you some credit for spotting this. Yeah sure. Like she’ll even notice. Take the extra bottle back to the ward and show how capable you are. Show the old bag.
Draw up tonight’s drugs. These doses are so different for the two kids. Strange how a little boy like Jamie needs so much more than a big girl like Vanessa. Guess he’s only just been diagnosed, not stabilised yet. What if he got Vanessa’s shot? It wouldn’t keep him going overnight and if she got his, she’d go hypo during the night. It could even kill her. Powerful stuff insulin. Exceptional. Label the syringes and log the amount taken in the book. Easy done.
Back to the ward now. Nothing’s changed. She looks like her jaw is stuck tight with glue. How does someone look so constipated all the time? Oh lord, she’s shouting again. Say nothing. What the hell have you done this time? Oh, just shut up you silly cow. You really can’t win with her, pointless trying. Yes, of course she should have done it herself, then the fridge would still be in a mess. You can always tell when she’s distracted or in a hurry. Her eyes dart about like a fish looking for an escape route. Well that’s fine, she doesn’t have to know about the extra bottle. You can make use of that. More experience. Stupid you are not. Bugger her. Let’s see if she checks the labels, let’s see who’s incompetent. Sister Rawlings checks everything - twice, but she’s a paragon. Like you will be one day. She says the most important thing is to do no harm.
You never meant Timmy any harm when you went to give his antibiotics, it was pure accident. You picked up the syringe full of air that was meant to go into the bottle with the saline to dissolve the crystals. You forgot you hadn’t done that bit, and injected it into the bung on his drip. It is so easy to kill a baby. They simply don’t have the strength to fight back. You thought maybe the post mortem would tell them how he died but you don’t need to say anything about it now as they didn’t find any cause of death. You’ve been reading up about that since it happened. Air is undetectable in post mortems. It’s everywhere as soon as they cut open the body. There’s lots of things they can’t detect at autopsy, especially if they don’t know what they’re looking for.
Some drugs even. Like insulin. Especially in a diabetic.
That old battleaxe Sister Knox is on tonight. Never a word of praise for anyone. You can’t do anything right for her. Put that over there. Not that way. For God’s sake girl, have you no sense at all? On, and on, and bloody on. Then all that fuss she made about you spending time with Mandy’s parents instead of cleaning up the trays they used for her chest drain. They wanted to talk. They were worried, naturally. You didn’t approach them. They approached you. You couldn’t very well ignore their questions, could you? She marched up with that superior smirk of hers and asked them to come into her office, those prim tight lips of hers betrayed her jealousy. She said you didn’t have enough knowledge or experience to answer their questions. Experience? As if she’s even heard of half the different medical tests you’ve had over the years; it all makes you a better nurse, you know what patients are going through. Just because you’re quiet, she thinks you’re stupid but you listen and you’ve been reading. Lots. She’s so bitter and mean. Brushed you off and told you to sort out the insulin in the fridge and organise the dosages for Jamie and Vanessa. No respect for SENs. Dogsbodies
If only she’d seen you in action at Timmy’s cardiac arrest, maybe then she’d take notice. It all makes you feel like a pot that’s about to boil over. She’s no appreciation of how hard you work or how much you give to this place. Just like Mum. Bitch.
Sister Rawlings is the only one here who even sees you. There was real pride in her voice when she spoke to you last week after Timmy died, came up with a big smile and called you a natural. Said it was obvious that you’re well suited to Paediatrics. Good with the babies, good with the parents. Made you glow all over. And you do love Paeds. Could be your future. So much better than dealing with miserable geriatrics who only want to die anyway, or grumpy demanding adults who so clearly deserve to be sick.
You were never demanding when you had meningitis that time in the Royal. What were you? About nine? Probably the best time of your life. The nurses were amazing. Sometimes you thought they were real angels, wings and all. Delirium most likely, but you knew then you had to become a nurse. They were so special, they couldn’t do enough for you. Even Mum was nice for a while but that soon wore off. Dad stuck it out, came every day, drunk or not. Pity he was the one who died.
He wanted to die at the end, they wouldn’t have let him these days, try to keep everyone alive no matter what. Probably would have done a liver transplant. But in school the teachers all decided to be nice to you because your father was dying, so it served a purpose. It set you apart. They listened to you for once and you were able to get the bullies expelled. That was such a high, literally, like you were flying.
A near death experience comes close to that sensation. The arrest team were called for you once, thought you were a goner. You remember it clearly. Being close to death is something remarkable. Unparalleled. Surviving makes you a chosen one in a way.
Resuss procedures these days are like clockwork. The doctors are there in a flash, everyone knows exactly what they have to do and the equipment is on every ward. Like last week when Timmy arrested in the middle of your injection. You only had to reach to the wall and press the Cardiac Call button. In seconds the place was alive with doctors. You’d barely even started baby CPR, just like you were taught - make sure the airway is clear - two finger chest compressions every second - a tiny puff mouth to mouth every 10 secs. If you try to do it like you would with an adult you could break all their little ribs – like wishbones, they say. You could tell the doctors were impressed, saw the raised eyebrows and questioning looks that passed between them. They pushed the defibrillator up to the bed and the lead doctor was like an orchestra conductor, totally in control. Impressive. Timmy was in asystole, but they tried to shock him anyway and gave him adrenaline and all that. He was so little, he was never going to make it. Poor Timmy. It was exciting. That’s experience.
His parents were totally distraught, of course. His mum looked like her eyes were raw from acid burns, she’d been crying so much. They’d thought he was getting better. And it was you they wanted to see when they arrived. After all, you were the last one to see him alive. They were ever so grateful to you and asked later if you would come to his funeral service. So sweet. No one else in the hospital was asked. You were the only one, unique.
Sister Rawlings brought us all into her office after the arrest and singled you out, said you were wonderful at the time and later with the parents, a credit to her. You’d kept your cool and done everything right. You could be like her one day, fragrant, never a hair out of place, always a professional smile on your face. But her smile is different when her husband comes in with little Rosie, warm like a fur coat. You can almost hear her purr. Rosie’s such a cutie with her blonde curls and big blue eyes. Everyone loves her. Her parents do make a fuss of her, kissing and hugging, cooing and giggling together. You were cute too in the old photos you’ve seen, but you never got the kind of attention Rosie gets. The dad’s not bad either, you could give him some proper attention.
You never know though, you might just make it here.
Knox. Bloody Insulin, bloody fridge. What do you have to do? Collect the drug charts from the end of their beds. Go to the drugs fridge. Tidy the bloody fridge. Write in the book how much you’re taking. Draw up the dosages and bring them to the drugs trolley. Big fuckin’ deal. A skivvy that’s what you are. Real specialised work for a nurse. Not. When you do Paeds it’s like you start over. You’re just a trainee again, says Knoxie with her snaky sneer.
Let’s see what’s in here. O God. A bloody mess. Bottles of all colours, different preparations, different strengths, some half empty, some full. This is a disaster waiting to happen. And the log book? Yep, a total fiasco. You can sort this - start counting.
Begin with the long acting preparations, get them into order of strength. Be thorough. Check each one against the log. Okay six. That tallies.
Intermediate acting? Yeah, four bottles, all there.
Rapid acting – nope. It says seven in the log but eight here. Dreadful. She’ll have to give you some credit for spotting this. Yeah sure. Like she’ll even notice. Take the extra bottle back to the ward and show how capable you are. Show the old bag.
Draw up tonight’s drugs. These doses are so different for the two kids. Strange how a little boy like Jamie needs so much more than a big girl like Vanessa. Guess he’s only just been diagnosed, not stabilised yet. What if he got Vanessa’s shot? It wouldn’t keep him going overnight and if she got his, she’d go hypo during the night. It could even kill her. Powerful stuff insulin. Exceptional. Label the syringes and log the amount taken in the book. Easy done.
Back to the ward now. Nothing’s changed. She looks like her jaw is stuck tight with glue. How does someone look so constipated all the time? Oh lord, she’s shouting again. Say nothing. What the hell have you done this time? Oh, just shut up you silly cow. You really can’t win with her, pointless trying. Yes, of course she should have done it herself, then the fridge would still be in a mess. You can always tell when she’s distracted or in a hurry. Her eyes dart about like a fish looking for an escape route. Well that’s fine, she doesn’t have to know about the extra bottle. You can make use of that. More experience. Stupid you are not. Bugger her. Let’s see if she checks the labels, let’s see who’s incompetent. Sister Rawlings checks everything - twice, but she’s a paragon. Like you will be one day. She says the most important thing is to do no harm.
You never meant Timmy any harm when you went to give his antibiotics, it was pure accident. You picked up the syringe full of air that was meant to go into the bottle with the saline to dissolve the crystals. You forgot you hadn’t done that bit, and injected it into the bung on his drip. It is so easy to kill a baby. They simply don’t have the strength to fight back. You thought maybe the post mortem would tell them how he died but you don’t need to say anything about it now as they didn’t find any cause of death. You’ve been reading up about that since it happened. Air is undetectable in post mortems. It’s everywhere as soon as they cut open the body. There’s lots of things they can’t detect at autopsy, especially if they don’t know what they’re looking for.
Some drugs even. Like insulin. Especially in a diabetic.
