My first job as a newly qualified Enrolled nurse in 1980 aged 20, was in female orthopaedics on night shift – 8 shifts on and 6 off.

Ward 2, a Florence Nightingale ward – as most were then – where you turned the kitchen light on at 3am to see the cockroaches scurry away beneath the fridge. Where the sluice was ice cold and you rushed through what needed to be done, because as well as the smell of human waste, there was an eeriness, a feeling of being watched.

Fractured neck of femurs of the osteoporotic older ladies, traumatic injuries from road traffic accidents of all ages. We used traction to stabilise prior to surgery and the metalwork on the beds reaching up to the ceiling, with ropes and pulleys isn’t seen anymore – progress has almost replaced and improved that antiquated and somewhat barbaric practice.

Patients with multiple fractures who sometimes developed fat embolisms and who became confused, disorientated and in agitated states tried to get out of their traction – one young lady tried to set fire to the pulleys. In those days smoking was allowed in the dayroom and patients often had matches or lighters on their bedside tables. All hands on deck – call out the ward junior doctor, who may have had as much as 30 minutes sleep – to calm and sedate and perhaps to restrain.

There were three staff members on a night shift. A staff Nurse, often in charge of 30 or more patients, an Enrolled Nurse (me) and a much loved, often older auxiliary nurse – the most important cog in that oily and yet squeaky wheel. Lovely Bridget – I’ll never forget her.

Every morning 5 am on the dot we sat at the nurses’ station drinking tea and eating toast and jam to prepare for the morning drug round of bedpans, obs and bed baths. The constant calls of ‘nurse’, ‘nurse, ‘nurse….

Matron, later called number 7’s and nursing officers, would often drop by during the night and you needed to be on your toes, to know your patients. Which ones were you concerned about? Who had been to theatre? What were their obs? How many beds were available for admissions? We wore nursing uniforms of starched caps, dresses, aprons, collars and cuffs. Matron would quickly let you know if your uniform wasn’t up to standard, your cap may have slipped, take off your cardigan and stand up to show respect.

The corridors, bright in contrast to the dark ward where the patients were sleeping, where you walked to collect patients from theatre or to transfer to other wards, were steeped in stories of heroic lifesaving, of hard work, of stress of success and of unfortunate traumatic death.

The ghosts of ruptured aortas, motorcycle accidents, inoperable cancers, of those unable to face another shift, followed you. And their stories told on tea breaks in the canteen. The joys and the despair – every emotion in one shift, left you exhausted.
We worked hard, and we played hard, and it took its toll. I felt burnt out within two years and left, disillusioned and lost, my dream shattered…

But after a year or so I knew my heart and soul was meant to be in nursing, so I picked myself up and returned to work in almost every ward and theatre of that big old hospital… I’ll never forget it, the ghosts that haunted it, the stories we told the mischief we got up to in quiet times… The fun, the laughter and the drama…

I could write a book… I should hire a ghost writer.