The Daily Mail man

I looked after a young and beautiful lady in a  recovery room in a big trauma hospital in London. As she came around she did her outmost in trying to expose the Daily Mail man I thought I’d hidden well…

 

The hair was big and curly in chestnut red and her arm was in a plaster cast with only the fingers sticking out.

The young woman had been in some sort of trouble and had sustained an arm fracture. A drunk fall, an accident, incident or violent situation? I don’t know. Victim or offender? They often blend.

Now the operation was over and she was in recovery. I looked at the fingertips, peeking out of the cast like scared small men from a children’s story. Without thinking, my hand stretched out to touch and feel. They were pink and warm. Gently, I pressed down at a few and let go again. They blanched and refilled quickly, just as they should.

“-This is a twenty-five-year-old woman…” The anaesthetist started the handover. She went through the minimal medical background, the procedure, the anaesthetic and finished with: “And she had one bag of fluid”, nodding towards the saline bag that was laying beside the patient’s thigh on the trolley. As I hung it up on a drip-stand I heard the doctor say something about a tag and a piercing.

In the recovery room, a tag on a patient would be a solid plastic bracelet that is firmly attached to the ankle on the instruction by a court of law. To get such, you’ll have to have done something bad, but not too bad. It keeps an eye on you and makes sure you don’t run around at night, getting into more trouble.

But for now, I couldn’t care less about tags and piercings. The patient was still unconscious, the doctor had gone back to theatre and it was my job to make sure she was safe and sound. So I did what thousands of other recovery nurses do every day. Through observing and assessing several signs and ques from A to D, I determined that the patient’s airway, breathing and circulation were all performing satisfactorily. Made sure that she was hemodynamically stable.

Then, happy with my patient, I pulled the blanket over her properly, tucked her in some and located and put aside the two taped-together sick bowls that functioned as a property container and that no doubt contained the mentioned piercing.

The body started to move. First a little bit, then some more. A foot changing position, a wriggle of an arm. Neck stretching. Then a squeaky faint voice:
“My piercing!”

Happy, hollow or horny. People’s states as they wake up from anaesthetics differ. As do their first words. “Oh, wow”, “Oh, fuck!” or “Is it done? Really?”

Some are arrogant, like when drunk, and as they sober up they usually become over-polite and apologetic. They don’t really remember, but they kind of know and they get deeply regretful. Some get flirty and start chatting you up or just lose themselves in your eyes with a stoned smile while drooling saliva onto the pillow with an open mouth. Some, often women between 16 and 45, start crying for no obvious reason. This one said:

“My piercing!”
“Oh hello! How are you? Your piercing is here! Are you alright?” My face and voice smiled welcomingly.
“Let’s just have my piercing!” The weak voice quickly became less weak and it made clear there was no time for any bullshit.
“Sure, let’s wait five minutes, shall we? It’s here, safe and sound”, I held up the sick-bowl container to reassure her. “Don’t worry! You’re just waking up. Do you feel alright?”
“CAN I HAVE MY PIERCING?!” I surrendered.
“But of course; Here’s your piercing!” I held the carton bowl open for her to see. It contained two small pieces; One thin half inch long silver stick and a small silver ball, a stud, the size of a matchstick head. The girl had been awake for less than a minute after a two-hour long anaesthetic. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the tiny precious metal pieces with one hand while feeling her tongue with the other.

“I need a mirror!” She looked beyond me as if a mirror would come flying at her request.
“Well, there’s no mirror here.” (And I didn’t have a smartphone.) Slight hesitation, disappointment and then with renewed strength and direction:
“Can I have my property, please?” The English language is rich and diverse. Words like “please” and “sorry” and phrases like “excuse me” can be said in asking ways, friendly confirming ways, apologetic ways or more hostile, demanding and aggressive ways. The please here, belonged firmly to the latter category. Before waiting for a reply, she added:
“It fucking hurts!” And after that statement, the stud, the one the size of a matchstick head, went flying over the bedside rails and hit the floor where it rolled away and disappeared out of sight.

“Fuck! Where the fuck is it? The hole is fucking closing up!” She had a point; Tongues are muscles and as such they close up far quicker than tissue cartilage like we have in the ears.
“Where is it?” She was leaning over the rails, looking anxiously down. Me, I was already down the floor.

There are moments in life when all male pride and dignity vanishes. On the floor, on all fours, bum out, looking, sniffing for this lost stud, all while the darling lady above me overlooked matters, was such a moment. A colleague came over with bemused worry on his face.

“You guys alright?”
“On top of the world!” said I from the bottom of the floor. “Wanna help finding this stud?”
“How big is it?
“Like a matchstick head.”

Eight limbs and two bums out on the floor, looking for an obnoxious woman’s lost stud, while she was directing us with helpful hints and a pointing hand from above.
“What about over there?” “Maybe under here?”

The woman cursed all gods and devils. And the NHS (“they fucking cancelled my operation before!”), but the piercing remained absent. Then she said:
“You haven’t looked hard enough as I still haven’t got it in my hand”.
I stood up from the floor.
“What?”
“ You haven’t looked hard enough as I still haven’t got it in my hand.” It was calm, articulate and nasty. She was now completely with it, most of the anaesthetic drugs were gone and she didn’t have a psychiatric diagnose, nor was she a junkie.

There’s a small and usually well-hidden Daily Mail man within me that tends to be thoroughly controlled and tied down through a socialism-infused Scandinavian upbringing and an unhealthy dose of Guardian reading. He was now banging loudly on the door and wanted out.

I opened my mouth. What’s fucking wrong with you? The words were ready to bounce off the tip of my tongue, but I closed the mouth before they did and instead just stood there, looking at her. The big hair seemed full of life where it had flowed out over the pillow like rivers of autumn. She was young and pretty and her face serious. There was an ever so tiny, almost invisible, smirk at the side of her mouth. She had tried to tempt me, it had been a request for me to, in turn, get nasty and join the game. The game of war.

I dropped my glance and as I stood there, breathing and collecting myself, I suddenly saw the stud on the floor. It was resting, close by one of the bed wheels, oblivious to all commotion it had caused. Without a word, I put it in a bowl and handed it over to the young woman. She couldn’t resist a smile as she looked at the dear lost friend that had come back again, but soon she got back to normal:

“Sterilise it, please!” It was the same kind of please as before. Still quiet, I put a couple of alcohol wipes in the bowl and handed it over. She started cleaning the piercing.

“I need a mirror and it fucking hurts!”
“ You’re in pain.” I managed a neutral voice and spoke matter-of-factly. “I can give you painkillers, but it is strong intravenous painkillers and then you’ll have to stay here for longer. Or we can go down to the day-ward where your property is and you can get the mirror and some tablets. What’s your choice?”

She chose the property and we were down on the floor below in less than two minutes. The NHS can move fast when it wants to and I really wanted to. This young lady had the darkest energy I’d felt since working two days in a London prison. Ever been inside a London prison? Stay out; it’s revolting. She wanted to suck me into her hopeless compulsive reality and she’d almost managed to. The Daily Mail man was still shouting.

Down in the day-ward, a very young female member of staff, she looked like twelve, in delicate make up and spotless uniform, topped with a perfectly arranged Hijab that made her look more like an air stewardess trainee or a Muslim girl scout than a healthcare assistant, welcomed us and helped the patient over to the reclining chair. Someone got the property bag out of the locker. I escaped to the nurses’ station and as I stood there, waiting to hand over, I could hear the woman’s voice:

“Sandwich? You’re giving me a fucking sandwich? I was promised hot food!” I glanced over, she was all waving hands and open mouth. The very young staff member with the perfectly arranged Hijab quickly hurried away with a look of confused embarrassment on her face. I’ve seen that look before. On Indian children looking on as ravers go wild on techno parties. On Thai waitresses trying not to look as if they are looking, at western couples laying entangled in a drunk heap with their hands down each other’s pants. She ran up to an older nurse, almost grabbed hold of a piece of her colleague’s uniform for help and comfort, and with the voice of Minnie Mouse she asked: “The new lady says she was promised hot food, what do I do now?”

Poor girl.

Well; girls.

David Ingemarsson 2018