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‘No problem. The trauma team is with the patient and he’s actually not that bad. So what’s going on with Matthew?’
‘Nothing!’ Matthew said and it certainly looked that way.
‘He was fine,’ Celeste explained. ‘In fact, he seems fine now, but he had a vomit a little earlier and was certainly confused and restless for a moment. He didn’t look at all well—’ She was trying to think up reasons to justify pulling a registrar out from an emergency, but Ben quickly interrupted.
‘I agree.’
He didn’t seem remotely annoyed that she had called him. Instead, he was checking Matthew’s pupils and his blood pressure for himself as Celeste explained that he had tried to climb out of bed, insisting he had to get to work.
‘How are you feeling, Matthew?’
‘Fine. Well, a bit of a headache...’
‘Okay,’ Ben said, ‘I’m just going to lay you flat and have a good look at you.’ It was Ben who never got to finish this time as Matthew started to retch again, his face more grey than pale now, and he was moaning loudly about a pain in his head.
‘How do you get urgent help around here?’ Ben asked, and it was only then that Celeste remembered that it was his first day here—he seemed so assured and competent. He was also a lot bigger than Matthew. He ignored the patient’s protests to push off the oxygen mask and attempts to climb out of bed as Celeste pressed the switch on the wall. The light flashed above the door like a strobe as one of the team came to the intercom and Celeste explained what was happening.
The trauma team was still with the multi-trauma, so it was Belinda Hamilton, the rather snooty but exceptionally good-looking senior emergency registrar who came, along with Meg and a porter to get the patient to Resus if required. Had Matthew still been on a gurney it would have been easier to wheel him straight to Resus, but time was of the essence and the observation ward was set up, like any other ward, for such an emergency, so instead Celeste wheeled over the crash trolley. Matthew was like a tethered bull now, and it was Ben doing the tethering as he rapidly explained what had occurred to his senior. But he didn’t await her verdict, just told her what was required. ‘He needs to intubated and sent for a scan,’ Ben said. ‘Can you alert the neuro surgeons?’
Celeste was busy opening packs for the intubation, her heart hammering in her chest, stunned at how quickly Matthew had deteriorated.
Though Meg had also come to assist, she didn’t take over, just guided and advised Celeste, who was setting up for the intubation. Raji, the anaesthetist, arrived just as Matthew started seizing, his body jerking violently. The whole thing was horrible. In a matter of moments Matthew’s condition had become critical—his family would have barely made it to the car park.
Raji was shooting drugs into the patient as Ben gave him the lowdown and thankfully the jerking stopped. Matthew was taking long, laboured breaths, but at least he wasn’t seizing or fighting any more, though Celeste could feel her blood pounding, surely up near Matthew’s as she wrestled to remove the bedhead to give Raji more access to the patient’s airway.
‘Here.’ Ben must have seen her struggle and removed the bedhead easily for her. Raji was a pleasure to work with, a laid-back guy who really just got on with things, checking all the drugs she had prepared and pulling up for himself the others he required. Matthew was on a cardiac monitor, the seizing had stopped, but he was gravely ill and as Celeste watched Raji intubate the patient, Meg liaised with the porters and Imaging.
‘Should we let his family know?’ Celeste asked. ‘They only just left.’
‘Let’s just worry about the patient for now,’ Belinda snapped, and Celeste felt herself redden.
‘I’ll call them as soon as I can,’ Ben said. ‘He’ll probably go straight up to Theatre from Imaging.’
It took ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most before Matthew was paralysed and intubated and on a trolley, being wheeled up to Imaging and probably then on to Theatre. All that was left from his time in the obs ward was a mountain of paperwork and a lot of chaos. The suction equipment was still on and gurgling, and would need cleaning, the oxygen tubing and masks would need replacing; the bedhead was abandoned on the other side of the room, there were packs open everywhere. The crash cart was in chaos and there were syringes and vials on its surface. Everything would need to be tidied and checked and replaced and then checked again.
‘So much for giving you a quiet afternoon!’ Meg gave her a sympathetic smile, but her pager went off, and there really was no chance of her staying to help.
Letting out a long breath, forcing herself to just get on with it, Celeste turned around and saw Fleur’s worried face.
‘Will he be okay?’ she asked worriedly.
‘I think so,’ Celeste said, and came over, her heart sinking as the proud, dignified lady burst into tears and said sorry over and over.
‘I’ve wet my pants!’
* * *
‘I’m so sorry!’ It was Celeste saying it to Fleur now. ‘It was my fault for not taking you.’
Ben was at the desk ringing the unfortunate family to tell them what had happened to Matthew, and Celeste and Fleur were in the bathroom. Fleur’s wet clothes were off and her hand was wrapped in plastic and elevated on an IV pole, with the old lady sitting in a little shower chair.
‘Let’s both stop saying sorry, shall we?’ A lot older and a lot wiser, Fleur caught Celeste’s eyes and smiled. ‘You could hardly leave the young man, could you?’
‘I know.’
‘I just don’t want my daughter to know that I’ve had an accident—she’ll be in soon, and she’ll think I’m losing my faculties.’
‘Of course you’re not!’ Celeste exclaimed. Still, she’d have been embarrassed too, so she came up with a plan. ‘Why don’t I rinse out your clothes?’ Celeste suggested. ‘They’re covered in blood anyway. I’ll tell your daughter that’s why I washed them.’
‘What about my knickers?’
‘I’ll wash them and hang them by the vent.’ A little bit ditzy at times, Celeste could also be very practical. ‘They’ll be dry by the end of my shift—no one will ever know.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Not really, Celeste thought. Anyone should do it. She still winced when nurses stuffed filthy clothes into bags for relatives, wondering how they’d like it. Still, she couldn’t change the world, only her own actions. So she filled a sink with water...
‘Cold water for blood,’ Fleur prompted, and Celeste did as she was told then set about showering her patient. Firm friends now, Celeste smiled when Fleur asked what was surely a rare favour. ‘Would you mind giving my back an good wash?’ she asked. ‘I can never reach it.’
‘Of course.’ Fleur’s back was indeed grubby from, most likely, years of neglect, as her arthritis simply wouldn’t allow her arms to reach it.
‘I bought a brush from the chemist,’ Fleur said as Celeste gave it a good scrub. ‘You know, on a long stick, but I still can’t get there.’ So Celeste took her time to wash it as thoroughly as she could, wondering how best to approach this proud lady.
‘You’ll be needing some help with your hand out of action...’
‘I will not!’ Fleur said, as Celeste wrapped her in towels. ‘I’ll manage fine with one hand.’
‘You probably will,’ Celeste said, ‘but there are so many aids, like hand-held showers, and there are brushes for your back but with curved sticks. I’m not sure of all the things that could help, but maybe we could get you assessed.’
‘I like my independence.’
‘Well, this will help you keep your independence.’ Celeste shrugged. ‘You may as well while you’re here... Have a think about it.’
Fleur was right, Ben thought. Sitting at the desk for a moment, having made a very difficult call to Matthew’s mother and not ready to head back out there, he’d overheard the conversation between the two women. Celeste was kind, very kind indeed.
It was so easy to become hard working in Emergency—he’d seen it happen to so many colleagues. It was necessary almost if you wanted to survive in this area. He had become hardened too—switched off on certain occasions, because at times it was easier to deal with a patient than a person, kinder to yourself not to think about a family and friends and futures that were being obliterated, to just get on with the job in hand, rather than look at the bigger picture. But watching Celeste wheel out a smiling Fleur, all powdered and warm and well looked after, Ben was a mite conflicted.
Because pregnancy was his thing. One of his many things if he actually stopped and thought about it, which he tried very hard not to do.
Most people had one—Belinda had just told him on the walk back from Imaging how her younger brother had almost died from a head injury. The staff hadn’t noticed his deterioration and it had been Belinda herself who had recognised the signs when she had come to visit. Yes, they all had their things. And pregnancy was Ben’s—the one thing where he just had to detach and deal with a foetus rather than a baby, look at a set of numbers instead of the person.
