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Life in Emergency Ward 10
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Our serial based on the new film drama of life in a busy general hospital
Life in Emergency Ward 10
Life in Emergency Ward 10
The operating theatre became strangely quiet:
At last the professor spoke,
“I'm sorry. . . there was nothing we could do"
These were anxious days at Oxbridge
waiting for the arrival of Mrs. Pryor’s
quads. One nurse, Julie Wayne,
took constant responsibility
THE STORY SO FAR:
Dr. Stephen Russell, the new Registrar of Oxbridge Hospital, has made himself unpopular among many of the staff by his conceited and off-hand manner. Russell, however, is liked by the hospital's Resident Surgical Officer, Dr. Tom Hunter, and his pretty young wife, Anne, and the Hunters have invited Russell to stay with them.
About the time of Russell's arrival a young boy, David Phillips, is brought into the casualty department after a road accident. An examination has revealed that the boy is suffering from a serious heart complaint, and he is put in the same ward as a similar patient, elderly Mr. Cooney.
In the meantime Stephen Russell has been trying to persuade the hospital's senior surgeon, Professor Bourne-Evans, to test a new heart-lung machine for which he has designed an important modification.
And Dr. Paddy O'Meara has discovered that one of his patients, Mrs, Pryor, is expecting quads.
PROFESSOR BOURNE - EVANS toyed with a roller skate lying at the bottom of David Phillips's bed. Stephen Russell watched him as the professor said: "You're very keen on roller skating, then, my boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, we shall have to get you really fit to go and do some more, won't we, Russell?" He stared at his Registrar. "I’ll tell you what's wrong with that heart of yours, David," the professor went on. "You've got a hole in it. And that's why you sometimes get out of breath and feel dizzy when you try to keep up with other boys.
"You can’t expect your body to run along when it's got a flat tire so to speak," he continued.
David thought all this over in silence. "You mean I've actually got a hole in my heart like a puncture?" Bourne-Evans nodded.
"Cor!" said David, savouring the idea.
"Well, boy, 1 can mend that hole. "
"How? "
"By an operation. I shall have to stitch the hole together."
"And after that?" asked the boy.
"After that, you'll be able to run as far as you like. What’s more, I bet you'll grow a lot bigger, too."
The glint that came into David's eye told Professor Bourne-Evans that, so far as the boy was concerned, it couldn't be done quickly enough. That meant he had a will to live.
Sometimes it was that, and that only which had kept patients alive if things went wrong, or the shock to the system looked as if it would be too much for them.
"I’ll be seeing you again, David," he said. "Be good, now."
THE lamps in the physiology laboratory were turned off, except for the ones at the far end. There, amid heaps of shavings and piles of wrapping, three men were working together in quiet concord: Forrester, Stephen Russell, and Jack, the lab. technician.
Russell was working on a section of transparent plastic tubes, Forrester was on his knees, busily occupied with a glittering plate mounted on wheels.
For a while there was nothing more to be heard than the slight clink of screwdrivers.
"So this is the gadget which is going to revolutionize our heart-lung machine, said Forrester. "It shouldn't take us long to connect the whole thing up. Then we can find out if it's any good."
The three of them toiled away, and gradually, from being a tangle of plastic tubes and separate wires and meters, the machine began to assume its personality. A quiet piece of apparatus, of deceptive simplicity.
They plugged in and at first contented themselves with running a saline solution through, siphoning it from one basin to another.
Then they got some blood out of the refrigerator and ran that through. Jack, the technician, watched the procedure very carefully.
"You know, Mr. Russell," he said, "I think this thing of yours is going to work."
Forrester was a little more cautious, but he was showing signs of enthusiasm. Finally he cleared his throat.
"I must say, it's really quite impressive, Russell. But, of course, we shall have to make tests on the blood as it comes out the other side."
Even with Forrester's reservations, Russell felt himself glowing with pleasure. Ever since he had arrived, he felt he had been achieving nothing; but now that his machine worked, he was at least demonstrating that there had been something behind the recommendations that had led to his appointment.
"It seems to be working more or less as it should," he said. "Now the problem is to get someone to use it."
Forrester looked up sharply at him. "Obviously we can't set it to work right away; there is a lot of checking to be done, and nobody other than yourself is familiar with the thing. "
RUSSELL, realizing that his own enthusiasm was beginning to run ahead of his scientific approach, hastened to agree.
He laughed nervously, for he felt that he badly needed an ally. The memory of his last encounter with Professor Bourne-Evans, who had not been very enthusiastic over the machine, was still vivid in his mind. But he decided to take a gamble.
"Forrester, would you be my relief man on the machine? You said yourself there has to be more than just one person absolutely familiar with it."
Simon Forrester leaned back on the bench and fumbled for his cigarettes. It was slightly dangerous ground. Although he suspected that Russell was worrying too much about Professor Bourne-Evans's refusal to exhibit any enthusiasm for the project, it was still not quite certain which way the professor would jump.
It would be extremely awkward if he found himself arguing with the senior surgeon who would be working on his cases. In principle, however, the machine appeared to be perfectly sound.
"All right, I’ll do it," he agreed. "You won't regret it, I promise," said Russell, looking much happier.
"I hope not," Simon Forrester breathed devoutly.
A wave of tiredness swept over Russell and quietly he said good night and walked to the common room to collect his coat.
There was one solitary figure sitting in the common room. It was O'Meara. "Hullo, you still on duty? asked Russell.
"I am waiting," explained O'Meara, "for Mr. Kent, that blessed London consultant, to go home. I cannot take the chance of Mrs. Pryor producing her quads when he is here and I am not. . When he is up in London, it does not matter if I'm out; because I can always get here first. But when he is in the hospital, it's a neck and neck race to see who gets to her first."
"Do you think it's going to hap- pen tonight?"
"I don't know; she's been looking ominous for the last 48 hours, but absolutely nothing has happened and now it doesn't really look as though it will." Laughing, Russell pushed his arms into his raincoat.
He drove the few minutes to Tom Hunter's cottage, and parked his car on the grass verge. When he got to the door, he tried the latch and found it unlocked. He looked into the dining- room and could see Hunter slouched in the arm chair, but there was no sign of Anne.
''I'm here," came'Anne's voice. He turned, and was her standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Hullo," he smiled. She waved a wooden spoon in his general direction.
"You, my man, are very fortunate in having me for a landlady. Any normal woman would take your dinner and throw it in the dustbin, and say, 'Well, it's too bad, he ought to get home in time.' But, as a doctor's wife, I know better. Hence, I cook a dinner which will keep indefinitely, well, more or less."
"I'm Sorry, I was working."
"Well, go inside, and I'll bring it in for you."
THE lights were low, the fire was warm, and the room exuded cosiness. At the table one place only was laid. Tom was sunk in his arm chair by the fire, and the pipe in his hand had long since gone out; he was fast asleep.
"I see you have discovered Rip Van Winkle," said Anne, bustling in and setting a casserole on the table. She lifted the lid and a beautiful, aromatic savour trickled towards Stephen's nostrils. He leaned over' and sniffed.
"Mmm," he sighed, then looked up just in time to see her lean forward got prod Tom with a knitting needle.
"No, leave him alone. He's been working hard." "Well, so have you."
"Yes, but I don't have to operate in the middle of the night. Who'd be an R.S.O. !"
"Don’t ask me," said Anne with a touch of bitterness in her voice.
Stephen felt exhilarated by the . evening's work. The machine had worked and he had. won an ally. Now he wanted to celebrate.
"See here, Anne, let's go down to the pub, and I'll buy my new landlady a drink.'
"Well . . ." Anne looked at the knitting on the cushion. "All. right; it can wait." She looked at the dormant figure of her husband. "I'd better leave Tom a note, in case he wakes."
O'MEARA was confident he had Mrs. Pryor on his side. . She had told him she found Mr. Kent 'too inquisitive.'
And now he paced solemnly round the screens with Nurse Wayne to Mrs. Pryor's bed. - He hoped fervently that Kent would not return to the ward.
"Good , evening Mrs. Pryor, and how are we?"
"Very well, thank you. Did I tell you, Doctor, that I mentioned to the nurse I had a bit of a twinge about an hour back? But I think it was just something I ate." "When you say 'twinge,' Mrs. . Pryor, could you be a bit more exact?" asked O'Meara nervously.
"Oh it just felt like indigestion, Doctor."
"Nothing much? Good: well I don't think you'll have them just yet, Mrs. Pryor." "Should I talk to him about it?" She nodded in the direction of the approaching chief gynaecologist, Mr. Kent. O'Meara shot a frantic glance over his shoulder at Mr. Kent and leaned over Mrs. Pryor.
"Well, confidentially, Mrs. Pryor, I wouldn't bother him with it please, Mrs. Pryor," he implored.
Julie Wayne and Mrs. Pryor ex- changed looks which had a motherly 'isn't-he-sweet?' air about them. Mr. Kent strolled to their corner. He was a tall, thin man, with a supercilious air.
"Ah, O'Meara. Keeping an eye on our wonder girl?”
"Good evening, sir," said O'Meara, feeling a traitor for saying it. He wished that the earth would open-and swallow the energetic Mr. Kent. Kent turned his notice to Mrs. Pryor.
"And how are we this evening? Nothing yet?"
"No, I'm very well, Doctor."
"Quite sure you feel all right?"
Mrs. Pryor opened her mouth to make a rather pointed remark, but she caught Nurse Wayne's look, snapped her mouth shut, and nodded instead.
"Oh, well," said Mr. Kent. "In that case I'll leave you in the capable hands of Dr. O'Meara."
With Kent out of the way, Mrs.Pryor looked at O'Meara benignly.
"I shall be all right, Dr. O'Meara."
"Sure?" asked O'Meara, as he backed towards the screens. "Good night, then. " He grabbed Julie Wayne by the arm and pulled her into the passage.
"Well, now that our dear, delightful Mrs. Pryor has been settled for the night, and Kent has gone, how about us going down to The White Hart for a quick one? "
A BURBLE of chatter, warmth, and tobacco smoke enveloped Paddy O'Meara and Julie Wayne as they walked into The White Hart.
"Why, Dawson is here, and that's Sister Frazer with him, isn't it? You go over and say 'Hullo ' and I’ll get the drinks. What is it, the usual?" Receiving a nod, Paddy sauntered up to the bar.
"Hullo, Ted. Let's have a gin and tonic and a pint, and another of what- ever it is that Mr. Dawson and his lady are having." .
O'Meara hooked the glasses together into a slightly unstable bundle and, holding them well clear of his suit, he balanced his way carefully over to the table where Julie was sitting with the others.
"Good evening, folk, how are you? "
"We are well," said Dawson, "and, since we would all like to get it over quickly, how is the good Mrs. Pryor?"
O'Meara was about to go into a long monologue. Instead he nudged Janet Frazer's elbow.
"Hey," he stage-whispered, "look. What do we have here? Isn't that Superman, the meteoric Mr. Stephen Russell? "
Julie Wayne followed Paddy's glance only long enough to verify the fact that it was Stephen Russell, and to notice that it was Anne Hunter with him. She switched her eyes back to Janet, who was looking at them with an expression which was something other than her usual unruffled calm.
"What on earth is he doing with Mrs. Hunter?" asked Dawson.
"Buying her a drink," said Janet rather coldly. ,
"Oh you know what I mean."
"Yes, and I was ignoring it. "
"Don't be silly. Where’s Tom? The old grapevine will be working full blast in the morning, won't it, Paddy?"
"Well, I think it's very unfair," said Janet. 'She shifted her glass and twirled it round and round in a little puddle of sherry. "Tom's obviously working, and Mr. Russell has taken pity on Anne. Poor girl, she has a pretty lonely life on the whole."
"Dangerous," said Dawson.
"Nonsense, she hardly knows him."
"Relations seem pretty cordial at the moment," said O'Meara, over the top of his pint mug. A little silence descended on the four of them as they watched Anne smile up at Russell perhaps just a little too warmly.
"Someone give me a cigarette, please," commanded Janet Frazer.
O'Meara offered his case, but he was puzzled. So far as he knew, Sister Frazer didn't smoke.
NEXT day Russell gloated over 11 his heart-lung machine with a tenderness in his eyes that surprised the lab. technician.
"It ought to be ready for a full-scale run soon," he said, adding anxiously, "What do you think, Jack? I mean, there is nothing radically wrong with it, is there?"
"We'll have it ticking like a clock." Russell returned to the machine, and set to work. The minutes turned into an hour and more as the two toiled together.
The door of the laboratory opened, and Forrester came in with an armful of record cards ,and a tray of miniature glass tubes and samples, He kicked the door shut behind him, and, balancing the tray precariously, made his way across to the refrigerator.
"I’m going to have a stack of paper work to sort the details out for the old man; he wants it first thing," said Forrester.
"What is the matter with that man? I am not asking him to accept anything without proof, I only asked him to look at the machine. You'd think I was some quack with a dud patent medicine."
Forrester looked at Russell.
"If you don't mind my saying so, you're going about things the wrong way. Too much enthusiasm makes him uneasy, come on, brighten up, and let's do a run with it."
Jack clicked the switch over. The motor whirred, and the pump arms set up a clicking sound. "It's working fine," he said.
Forrester indicated the flow through the tubes.
"But will it be 100 per cent effective when the stuff is coming from a patient?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I want to find out, too," said a voice from above them. The whirr of the machine had prevented them from noticing the arrival of Professor Bourne-Evans.
Russell started. "But" sir, I thought-" .
"I know what you thought, and you, too Forrester." The professor's pipe pointed accusingly. "You thought, 'The old boy's digging his heels in.' Well, you're wrong. I've no quarrel with progress, but I won't be bulldozed into using new methods unless I'm convinced they are right for particular cases."
"What do you consider is a fair case sir? "
" I’m not prepared to answer that question until I've had time to assess your modification, and it's very difficult even to see it with you three crouching over it like Macbeth's witches." He pushed them aside unceremoniously and stood watching the machine in silence,
"Tell me, are there any problems on that thing that can't be sorted out by Friday?" he said at last.
RUSSELL straightened up, hardly able to believe his ears. "You mean you'll use it?"
"M-m, yes," said the professor.
"This is wonderful, sir, but I had no idea you need to go ahead so quickly on the Phillips boy. Of course, he is an excellent subject."
''I'm not talking about him,
" There was a little pause and then slowly the full implication of the remark seeped into Russell's brain. "Cooney! You can't mean Cooney?"
"I do. And why not?"
"But, sir, he's been in and out of heart failure for years now. He's not right for a test. He's a bad operative risk. "
"I'm not operating on Cooney for a test. I am operating on Cooney because if we don't operate he has no chance at all. We'll use the heart-lung equipment because it should increase his prospects.
"If you don't consider it reasonable to use your modification, you are at perfect liberty to say so."
Russell's face looked older by years. He knew the professor was right. The machine should work for any patient, anywhere, at any time. You can't choose who is going to be ill.
"It’ll be ready, sir."
NURSE ROBERTS took away the screens noisily, to reveal a scrubbed and combed Cooney, already wearing a bleached hospital gown instead of his pyjamas.
"Coo, Joe, what you got that on for?" said David from the next bed. "Well, I've got to have a clean suit to wear for me operation. This is my big day, don't forget. Mustn't turn up in yesterday's shirt."
Dr. Forrester came into the ward, followed by the inevitable trolley with its two white-coated orderlies.
"Good morning, Joe. How do you feel? "
"Dry, Doctor."
"Same as usual, eh?"
By this time Cooney's bulky form had been loaded on the trolley and the orderlies were ready to move. David sat up. "Good luck, Joe."
"That's very civil of you, Davy, and the same to you when it's your turn." The trolley was manoeuvred out from the two beds.
"Good-bye, Mr. Cooney," said David. "'Bye!"
Cooney's trolley rolled on its way.
Rowdon was the anaesthetist. He felt Cooney's pulse, and was joined by a nurse in a mask and gown, wheeling a trolley of instruments.
"All set, Mr. Cooney? I want you to start counting for me. "
" One, said Cooney, two, three, four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . . eight-" and a blackness descended on the mind of Joseph Cooney
"O.K., he's away," said Rowdon.
Cooney, and all the paraphernalia attached to him, were moved into the theatre. There was still a lot of work to be done before the opperation itself could start. The transfusion system had to be linked up, the anaesthetist's apparatus set in place, and, of course, pushed against the wall, waiting to be used, was the heart-lung machine.
It had been arranged that Russell and Forrester should look after the machine throughout the operation. Professor Bourne-Evans was going to work on the job right the way through.
“Is that machine of yours ready Russell?” the professor growled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good we shan’t be long now. How’s he holding up, Rowdon?”
“We-ell, he’s al right.” said Rowdon, but his tone belied his words.
“Will you start up now, please,” said the professor with the formality which he always adopted as the tension grew in the theatre.
RUSSELL pressed the switch and slowly wound over the thermostat. The professor stood back,watching and waiting.
"How is he? " he asked
"He's not good, but he's still with us," said the anaesthetist.
" Can I continue? "
" The sooner the better. "
The professor made the final opening into the heart. Delicately he inserted his gloved finger until he could feel the mitral valve. It was just as he expected; tight, almost solid, with a tiny hole, in which he should have been able to insert his finger with ease. "
"Check please, Dawson."
Dawson in turn inserted his finger, then nodded, It was a typical after result of rheumatic fever.
"I don't like it, Professor, he's slipping,"
With deliberate care the professor fitted the tiny knife to his finger-tip and parted the leaves of the valve to their proper size, Now it was done,
"I think we had better hurry along, if you please, Mr Dawson,"
Cooney was off the machine and back on to his own heart when the , anaesthetist said: "I can't hold him,"
The theatre chatter died down and there was no sound except the muttered instructions of the two surgeons and the clack of their instruments as they dropped them into the metal trays. Then all was quiet. Without looking up, the professor held out his hand "Adrenalin, please."
He thrust his hand in again, and worked furiously at the opening, Eventually he straightened' up and stretched his back, "I'm sorry," he said, "there was nothing we could do,"
Joe Cooney was a war casualty; the nights in the marshes of Italy had finally taken their toll.
NEXT WEEK Tessa Diamond and Hazel Adair tell you what happened when Simon Forrester decides that Stephen Russell needs something to take his mind away from the tragedy in the operating theatre, and of the veiled threat that could ruin Russell's career.
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