Everyone was furious, and instantly agreed to do their best to help Lisa get through the next three weeks.
The problem was, it wasnt only Lisa who was being affected by Dr Bakers behaviour. The hectic period was shaping up to be just as crazy as wed imagined, but what we hadnt expected was that Dr Baker would start to act a little crazy himself.
It was late that night that Dr Baker visited to check how his patients were. Well, they were asleep, like all good patients should be at 11 p.m. It was cruel, but I had no choice, so I turned on the light. Two of the old boys never noticed a thing and kept on sleeping, but the other two patients in the room woke with a start.
Dr Baker was keen to check the irrigation system on each of his patients. This system involved a bag of fluids, which were slowly infused up the catheter, flushed around the bladder, and back out the tubing again. The catheter in these cases had two, sometimes three separate channels to allow this to happen. Nearly all Dr Bakers patients had this in place. It wasnt until moving to London that I discovered that this practice was not the standard for everyone any more but usually reserved for the more serious cases where there is heavy bleeding.
Dr Baker always liked to give the tubing a gentle but firm, steady tug. He would then adjust the rate of the intravenous fluids as well as the irrigation fluids before wandering over to the next patient, usually without washing his hands, and having a pull on their tube.
His patients didnt know what was going on. Wouldnt you be a touch confused, waking up in a strange environment to find someone pulling on your private parts?
The last few nights had been bad enough with Dr Baker turning up at 10 p.m. to do a ward round; 11 p.m. was going too far. Dr Baker needed to be told to do his ward rounds at a more appropriate time, but I didnt have the courage to stand up to him.
Tell the charge nurse, Sheryl suggested one night at 11 p.m. when Dr Baker had just left. Shell have a word with him. Sheryl had been working on the ward for five years, and was a valued member of the team, but she wasnt ready yet, either, to confront Dr Baker herself.
When we told our charge nurse what was happening, the first thing that came out of her mouth was, Hes mad.
She told us we did not have to accompany him on ward rounds at such ridiculous times and promised to speak to him.
Still, however, the following night Dr Baker came around at 11 p.m. and no one had the courage to protest. We werent sure how he would react to a forward approach, so instead we came up with another strategy that would keep us out of harms way and prevent us from having to do the ward round.
Hes coming, quickly everyone, move.
Every nurse in the ward disappeared into the woodwork. Some hid in the sluice room, some in the treatment room, while Sheryl and I hid in the kitchen. Great plan we were hiding like a bunch of disobedient kids. The girls were even giggling like school children.
Hes coming, quickly everyone, move.
Every nurse in the ward disappeared into the woodwork. Some hid in the sluice room, some in the treatment room, while Sheryl and I hid in the kitchen. Great plan we were hiding like a bunch of disobedient kids. The girls were even giggling like school children.
In the silence of the night, the clip clop, clip clop, clip clop of Italian designer shoes could be heard restlessly pacing up and down the ward. Suddenly the kitchen door swung open we were going to be caught! However, by some miracle Dr Baker didnt bother to look behind the door. It must not have occurred to him that anyone would try to hide from him. As the door swung closed there was a collective sigh of relief.
This is bullshit, Sheryl said. Were supposed to finish at 11 p.m., and Im not wasting any more of my time.
She decided she was no longer going to avoid Dr Baker and followed him out. I wanted to stay hidden, but with a morbid sense of curiosity, I crept out to watch the confrontation. It was the least I could do to support her. I wasnt alone; all the nurses crawled out in meagre comradeship.
We have been instructed not to do rounds with you at these times, she opened, with impressive assertiveness.
Dr Baker was silent. I almost thought he was going to have a heart attack. His face didnt register anything at first. He took a step closer to Sheryl. I thought for a second that he would hit her.
You wont have a job after today, none of you will, he hissed.
Sheryl turned her back on him and walked into the office. The battle was over and Dr Baker stalked off.
The next night, no one knew what to expect: would he turn up late again? Six, seven, eight, nine oclock went by and he didnt arrive. Things didnt look promising; I felt sure he was going to do his late night rounds again. Ten oclock passed, then eleven, and still no sign. Dr Baker didnt turn up at all that night. In fact, he didnt come for the next two weeks.
The entire ward workload fell upon Lisas shoulders. She had to decide who was well enough to go home and how best to treat the complications that surely arise when so many operations are performed.
We did all we could to help her out, but she still came close to breaking down she would turn up each day looking exhausted, her shoulders slumped, her eyes puffy.
I dont know exactly how but we managed to get through all those operations without anyone dying. When the last of the operating patients was discharged, Lisa promptly quit her job. She headed to a bigger city, where she found a consultant who didnt mind having women on his team and knew how to adhere to the rules. I was pleased to discover she stayed in the surgery field, although not urology; she was one of the bravest and strongest doctors I had ever met.
III
London calling
Following in the footsteps of so many of my friends, I decided to do something that has almost become a rite of passage for young New Zealanders. I went to England. I didnt go there for the best of reasons. I didnt go to further my career, and I didnt even go for the money. I went to join my mates in the great big party city that is London.
The problem with New Zealand is its so remote, and very expensive to travel to and from. Fortunately, Kiwis can get a two-year working holiday visa to the UK. The goal is to work, travel Europe, then go home and maybe start a family. Once you have a family, you wont be going back to the UK, because very few nurses can afford the thousands of dollars it would take to travel with a family there.
I was even luckier than most of my fellow expats. My friend Chris had a room to rent in Hammersmith. Id spent six months working with Chris back in New Zealand. She was always telling me how great London was, and how she loved her job. I just hoped I would like it as much. Secretly, I was worried about being out of my depth. I felt confident that Id learnt how to be a safe, effective nurse, but I was a young nurse with little over two years experience, and Id only ever worked in one hospital. Now I was going to be working in new hospitals in a whole new city. Things were going to be very different.
Filling in
I arrived in London and called the nursing agency I was going to be working with for the duration of my stay. The woman on the other end of the phone was called Tracy, and she was to be my main contact person when it came to finding work.
From the moment I had decided to head to London, Tracys agency had led me, step by step, through everything needed to make this transition happen. They had helped with visa information, nursing council registration, they would have helped me with housing if Id needed it, and advised which hospitals suited my skills best.
Soon after arriving in the UK, I discovered that there are countless agencies based in London, importing nurses from all over the globe: Singapore, the Philippines, South Africa, Australia and Europe. They all have their own reasons for working in London, but one common link is that most of them do not want a permanent job; the money is just too low.
At that time, hospital staff rates varied from £7 to £10 an hour for a junior nurse. As an agency nurse, I would be starting on £12 an hour.
Well, do you think youre ready?
Tracy had asked this question several times in the last few days. I didnt know if I ever would be ready, but the holiday was over. Only two weeks in London and I had already gone through half of my savings.
Ive got a night shift in a minor injuries department, Tracy told me.
I was going to protest. I didnt know much about treating injuries, no matter how minor. One of the most common misconceptions about nursing apart from the fact that were all women is that we know how to treat your common cut, bruise, scrape, burn, etc. While there are nurses who are great at taking care of these things, the average nurse working in a general ward will never see them. We only see the serious stuff that makes it past the emergency room doors and into our ward. The problems I was used to dealing with were things like heart attacks, strokes, chest infections, lung diseases, and on the surgical side, abdominal, vascular and urological surgery. As you can see, its not particularly practical stuff for out-in-the-community. I hate to say it, but at this stage of my career, the average parent would know more about treating minor cuts and scrapes than me.
But Tracy had more to say.
Its in south London, not far from where you live. Theyre really short staffed. They said they dont need a specialist nurse. A ward nurse would be fine. No pressure, but south London is nice. Its quiet. Ive heard good things about this hospital. It could mean a line of work for you.
Tracy had explained that if a place liked you, they would often offer you more work. Eventually, I agreed to take the shift.
My watch read 7.40 p.m. I was 20 minutes early. It wasnt planned that way it was my lack of familiarity with the London transport system. At least Id be making a good impression. I opened the door to the minor injuries unit, ready to be greeted by grateful staff with warm smiles
Are you my lover?
An elderly woman stepped in front of me, her face drawn in a very serious expression, gazing at me, searching for an answer.