Nursing Notes

Henry Fuckit (my alter ego) worked as an orderly at Groote Schuur Hospital in the late 1970s. When he applied for the position he was interviewed by Matron Sharp, who described in much detail the duties of a nurse and what would be expected of him as a nursing assistant. She also issued him with a warning.

“In order to cope with the emotionally and psychologically distressing aspects of caring for the sick a certain degree of objectivity and detachment must be maintained. This is natural and healthy. But there is the danger of losing empathy for the patient and falling into the trap of regarding the sick person as an object and not a real person. Once this happens it is easy to see the patient's behaviour as irritating, or disgusting, or pathetic, and deserving of contempt and ridicule. Should you reach this state of callous lack of compassion your own humanity will be in serious jeopardy.”

Henry’s final interview with Matron Sharp.

When he handed in his notice, the briefest of missives which started with the words 'I hereby', he had the distinct impression she had been expecting it. Her face betrayed no surprise, or any other emotion. But she took too long to read it.

'I would like to thank you…' He really shouldn't talk shit to this woman. This was a good woman. 'My three years is nearly up and I must move on. The long and winding road, you know. I've been keeping a record of my impressions.' From his breast pocket he produced a piece of foolscap folded in half and half again, and waved it in front of her. 'This is my eight-page notebook. I've filled a few of these; quite a few.' He returned it to his pocket. 'I have written them up neatly in an exercise book, something like keeping a diary. I wondered if you'd care to look at it - some of it's quite amusing. You could browse through it, look for bits that appeal to you. You might find it interesting, see the hospital through the eyes of an orderly. Of course, I'm no Samuel Pepys or James Boswell. Just bits and pieces I've jotted down during quiet moments in the ward. Thirty escritoires to choose from. I've conducted many an interview from the overbed table parked at the foot of the bed. Did you know Hemingway preferred to write standing up? I suppose it could be considered a trifle unethical; a violation of privacy, trust; contravening the Florence Nightingale Pledge, especially the bit about holding in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping. A bit rough, too. You might find some of the details just too explicit, the verbatim reportage embarrassingly exact. Just turn the pages, skim through it and pick out anything that catches your interest. You might find it tiresome, pointless, depressing. Like reading a Samuel Beckett novel, drivelling on about nothing in particular except that it's all rather desperately funny and wrist-slittingly nihilistic. Feel free to slam it shut and push it aside with a grimace of disgust. I'll fully understand if…'

'Mr Fuckit. I would like to read it. Thank you.'

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