Page 5 of The Night Shift
Gus resisted the temptation to look pointedly at his watch. ‘Of course, Barb,’ he said.
She beamed at him. ‘You’re a little Christmas angel,’ she said making a move towards the staff kitchen area. Gus tucked himself behind the computer screen, smiling as he heard her admonishing one of the junior nurses who was moving stealthily in his direction armed with a piece of plastic mistletoe.
‘No, Janine,’ Barbara hissed. ‘He’s busy. Leave him alone. Anyway, I’m not sure that conforms to health and safety standards– is it even wipe-clean?’
Violet
After Anjali had dropped her complaint bombshell Violet had gone for a little cry in the toilets on ward four before she pulled herself together and found Mr Zeller’s notes. She rubbed her eyes now as she scanned through them, focussing on the medical conundrum in front of her rather than the more nebulous problem of her attitude and what it might mean for the rest of her career. She often found that a clinical case could distract her in this way. The science behind the symptoms, the detective work of diagnosis– these were reliable sources of comfort for a logical brain like hers and she leaned back in the swivel chair feeling a little more content. She liked visiting ward four as a rule. The staff knew their patients well and they didn’t tend to bleep her for spurious reasons. And then she had a horrible thought; what if they didn’t bleep her because they didn’t like her? What if one of these nurses working tonight was the one who had complained? How would Violet know?
She shook her head, cross with herself. There was no point in trying to work out who the complainants were. If she was honest with herself, the list of people she had potentially offended over the past few months was probably quite lengthy, this being a recurrent and perplexing theme in her life. The more pressing issue was what she was going to do about it, and for now, that was too big a problem to get her head around. Best thing to do was simply get herself through this week of nights, focus on the job in hand, and worry about the difficult looming conversation with her boss, Dr Corbishley, some other time.
Approaching Mr Zeller’s bed, she could see a rigid person-shaped mound huddled beneath the blankets with a small yellowish face poking above, eyes screwed up in a poor imitation of sleep given the bright overhead strip lighting. She hesitated briefly. It was always a little awkward, waking patients up in order to ask them exactly the same questions they’d already been asked a few hours earlier, but it was important to make sure nothing got missed. Besides, Violet could see that he wasn’t really asleep, so she pulled up a chair and announced herself.
‘Hello, Mr Zeller. My name is Dr Winters. I’m one of the junior doctors and I need to ask you some questions if that’s okay?’ She thought she’d used the right tone to convey that her question was rhetorical but Mr Zeller clearly wasn’t paying attention to her tone, either that or she’d got it wrong again.
‘No,’ he said, his eyes springing open to give her the full force of his jaundiced glare. ‘It isnotokay. Notokayat all.’ He squeezed his eyelids firmly back together. ‘Kindly leave me alone and please turn off that overhead light. It is impossible to get a moment’s peace around here.’
He huffed and attempted to roll away from Violet. Unfortunately, he was too frail to accomplish this without a great deal of shuffling and fidgeting in tiny incremental movements, and thus the grand gesture was somewhat lost in translation. He ended up flat on his back staring up at the bright ceiling like an upended tortoise, and huffed again, as if this was further evidence of the universe conspiring against him. Violet was reminded of the time she tried to regally exit a room following an argument with a physiotherapist only to slide on the heel of her shoe and enter into some cartoon style arm-flapping, legs-flailing manoeuvre just in order to stay upright. She understood how one’s body could sometimes undermine the most pointed of gestures. She tried again.
‘Mr Zeller, I’m afraid I can’t go away and leave you alone. I have a job to do and I need to ask you these questions in order to keep you safe.’ She looked across at him. He was still staring unblinking at the ceiling.
‘The good news is that the quicker we get this over and done with, the sooner the nurses can turn your light off and you can get some sleep.’ She glanced at her watch. Although what she said was true, it was only two hours before the drugs trolley would be coming round, and unfortunately that wasn’t as much fun as it sounded. Mr Zeller definitely wouldn’t be able to sleep through the clanking of that particular contraption, or the constant checking of those in the neighbouring beds. The ceaseless noise of a medical ward was enough to make you ill all by itself.
She snuck another look at her reluctant patient. He had folded his arms and his facial expression made her think of the time a well-intentioned nursing home visitor had asked her grandmother whether she would like to join in with a nice singalong, and her grandmother had told him to eff off. She decided to go for a bit of ‘small talk’. Not that she was ever terribly successful in this particular field but she’d seen others have good results with the same approach.
‘Are you having a good Christmas?’ she asked, trying to copy the tone she’d heard the nurses using.
Mr Zeller threw her another scornful look reminiscent of Granny as he gestured to his festive surroundings which included a paper chain hanging limply from the neighbouring curtain rail and two garish cards featuring improbably clothed cartoon creatures left by the bed’s previous occupant. They were silent for a moment as Violet wondered whether to ask another conversational question or just proceed straight to the clinical information (she had already worked out that an opener of ‘Looks like you might have something terminal’was not going to be conducive to establishing a good rapport) when to her surprise Mr Zeller began to speak of his own volition.
‘Christmas is always bloody awful,’ he said, speaking quietly but firmly, as if conveying an irrefutable truth. ‘Hate it at the best of times.’
Violet felt that something was expected of her at this point in proceedings. ‘Oh?’ she said, her pen tapping against the folder.
There was a long pause. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it,’ Mr Zeller said eventually.
Violet beathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Good,’ she said before she could stop the word emerging from her mouth.
Mr Zeller barked a short laugh. ‘That’s not the party line, is it? I thought your lot were all for talking things over, endlessly examining how we’re feeling and sharing it with the world.’
‘Not me,’ said Violet. ‘To be honest, I just want to know about your medical symptoms. I’m not really interested in why you hate Christmas.’
Mr Zeller turned his head towards her, his rheumy eyes fixed on her face. ‘You’re an odd one,’ he said, again stating it as fact.
‘I am a bit,’ she admitted and shrugged. ‘But it takes one to know one.’
He half-laughed and half-coughed again. ‘D’you promise me something, Dr Winters?’ he asked.
‘Depends.’
‘If I answer your questions, will you go away and leave me alone?’
She nodded. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘Although I can’t guarantee you won’t see me again this week. That’s just a cross you’ll have to bear.’
‘Fair enough. Let’s get this over with then.’
* * *
Violet went through the standard history-taking, documenting Mr Zeller’s new symptoms and his past medical history with meticulous attention, despite the late hour and the fact that he’d already been clerked in by the A&E doctor. To be honest, she didn’t fully trust anybody’s else’s opinion and wanted to verify the details for herself.
