Why I think "Boobie Wednesday" is a big boob.

Twitter. I love it. I have a wealth of lovely followers, and those who I choose to follow back are the best of the best. In times of crisis, folks you have never even met are there for you, but in a totally un-weird way. If that is such a word.

One thing I HATE about twitter are some of the hashtags that go about, in particular the “boobie Wednesday” one. On Wednesdays, female tweeters are urged to change their avatar to one of them in their underwear, thereby providing cleavage pics and a message to “remember to check for lumps and bumps”. Now, I'm sure it is meant to help people and was generated with the best of intentions, but I have always disliked this idea. I have never taken part (and never will) and I personally see it as a voyeuristic pleasure for the men on twitter to make sleazy comments at the avatar they see. It happens that way on my Timeline with those who participate anyway. Urgh!!! It all seems fairly........weird. I don't mean to offend any of my followers who DO take part, but that is just how I see it.

Several months ago I was nursing in a hospital ward where a group of women who had breast cancer were staying. Most had had, or were having, mastectomies. On faffing around the bay, I overheard them swapping twitter addresses. One of them said “Oh but I don't go on twitter on Wednesdays. It's all pictures of other people's perfect boobs who haven't an idea what it is like to have had cancer or disfiguring surgery to them”. There followed a conversation about this, which made me realise that to people actually going through breast cancer, this concept is very distasteful.

Many of you know that I was diagnosed with breast cancer two days ago, a complication that has arisen from the radiotherapy I got for my first lot of Hodgkins 19 years ago. I thought I was coping fine. I am a coper in life and a positive person. Until I went on Twitter today. It's my fault, I should have remembered that it was “that” day, but I didn't. First thing I see are cleavages on my timeline with people doing the “check for lumps and bumps” thing. Suddenly I know EXACTLY how that group of patients felt. I don't have any lumps or bumps. I am feeling probably better than I have for years. But I apparently have breast cancer and am now facing surgery – complicated by the fact that I cannot have radiotherapy, as I have had it before. I am going to be “disfigured”. I am feeling that these posts on Twitter are “rubbing my face in it”, as the saying goes. I don't want to have to boycott Twitter, as so many of my followers are now good friends, and have given me so much encouragement and support – something I am going to need over the next few weeks. I simply feel there is a better way to promote checking for ALL kinds of cancer – not using sleazy avatars of apparently “perfect” chests, and “pretty” lingerie for a start. About 30% of females presenting with breast cancer are asymptomatic anyway (cancer research UK statistic) whose cancer is only spotted by screening (as in my case). Maybe it would be more appropriate for those wishing to highlight self-checks and cancers, to re-think how they "rebrand" this.

Just a thought.

Look At Us Now

As I compile my family tree,

Tapping away on my laptop PC,

I wonder what those, whose names I type,

Would think of life now, and all its hype.

In days of yore the man was provider,

And the Web they knew was spun by a spider.

Morals have changed as well, it is true,

They'd wonder what the world has come to!

These days of glamour and fast cars,

Celebrity, millionaires and scruffy pop-stars.

Televisions with super-size screens,

And almost all thinking being done by machines.

Eighty years ago, who could have known

There would be such a thing as a mobile phone?

And if you'd thought that computers were bad,

There would suddenly emerge the Apple iPad.

And you may as well forget about writing a letter,

As these days emailing is found to be better.

One goes into bookshops, to buy or just look

For a novel to download to one's brand new e-book.

The news reports crime due to family dysfunctions,

Or celebrities taking out super-injunctions.

While we all live with the greenhouse effect,

And the sad loss of manners and general respect.

Technology moves fast and sweeps us along,

But are all of these changes necessarily wrong?

Cures for diseases and a widening of knowledge,

And huge numbers of students at Uni and college.

Answers to questions, which couldn't be solved

Are nowadays nearer to being resolved.

The age of the earth, the planets in space

And the manifest wonders of the human race.

As I compile my family tree,

Tapping away on my laptop PC,

I wonder what those, whose names I type,

Would think of life now, and all its hype.

It's Simply Not Opera......

I went to the opera at the weekend. It's my idea of a perfect night out. I have never been one for pubs and clubs, and so I relish my nights of culture a lot.

Now, I will admit to being a bit of an opera snob – in music appreciation at school we were taught the rules about what you don't do at classical concerts/opera, and what you do. With this training in mind you kind of expect everyone else who is attending such a concert with you to do conform to the “cultural norms” and behave similarly. Well, I'm afraid it doesn't appear so.

Take my night out last weekend. Hubby and I had booked to see “The Barber of Seville” - a very well-known comic opera by Rossini. The evening arrived and the first dilemma hit me. What to wear? On the previous visit to such an occasion I had worn my black cocktail dress with a shawl around my shoulders, but on arriving at the theatre, I felt completely overdressed. Whilst most people were smart-ish, some folks were there in jeans (some of them very scruffy), and logo t-shirts – some of which had decidedly dodgy language on them. I know opera is trying to rid itself of its elitist “stuffy” image, but this seemed a little too far. I scurried to my seat and stayed there all evening! I thought people dressed up for nights out, especially such a traditional one as going to the opera.....they do, don't they?

With this in mind, I was in a bit of a dilemma last weekend, however “it's MY night out”, I thought, and decided to put on my sparkly cocktail dress. If I was overdressed – tough!

Well, granted the torn jeans and scruffy shoes brigade were there, but fortunately this time I didn't feel quite as obvious. I got to think about how sad it is that standards in this country have slipped to such a level that actually dressing oneself up for special occasions doesn't happen any more. Soon “putting on one's gladrags” will be a thing of the past I reckon.....

We find our seats on the lower stalls and within a few minutes the orchestra strikes up with the overture, from the almost subterranean orchestra pit, to a full house. The stage scenery is mind-blowing, and with the aid of optical illusions, the stage looks even more vast than it is. Or at least, what I can see of it. An overly tall female plonked herself and her mammoth hairdo down right in front of me, so I had to peek around her. Darn. I had paid good money for these seats and now I had a view of a back of a head. And who IS that wearing the “claggy” perfume? Phew it is strong!

Act 1 starts, as does my next irritant. For anybody reading this blog who isn't an opera “nut” then within one Act are a number of arias (songs sung by the performers). Now, if the audience had done their research (yes, there are websites about opera etiquette for the uninitiated) they wouldn't have bugged me nor the die-hard opera-goers off. What is SUPPOSED to happen is that the audience are only supposed to applaud after the overture and then at the end of each Act. NOT after every single aria. That would be like applauding after every scene change on a soap opera!!! It interferes with the flow of the performance and it just gets really really bugging. Well, this audience obviously had very cold hands as clapping they did. A lot. Sometimes even DURING the arias. The person beside me even decided to accompany their applause with a seal-like bark, which made me wonder if they were choking on their Pimms that they had smuggled in from the bar with them.

The interval. Ah yes, time to move about. The elderly person next to me asks their friend, “where's the band? Is the music pre-recorded, as I can't see the man waving the stick”. Oh dear. Time for more Pimms. Sounds like it is needed. And it seems that the woman in the claggy perfume has vanished to the bar too as the air is decidedly clearer,

temporarily.

After 15 minutes the bell rings to call people back to their seats. Back comes claggy-perfume-lady (you could tell she had returned even though we couldn't see her), and my seal-barking neighbour, voicebox no doubt lubricated by a Pimms or two. Skyscraper woman returns too, and I resume the job of looking round her to see what is happening. Act 3 starts – the final Act. Aside from the never-ceasing clapping (this was getting tiresome!) there was also another opera faux-pas. Foot stamping. My seal-barking, clapping neighbour decided to show their appreciation by almost running on the spot whilst sitting in their seat, probably causing a minor tsunami in Japan in the effort. This was soon taken up by a percentage of the audience, and I feared that the Grand Circle and the gods were going to fall on top of us! Meanwhile my seal-barking, clapping neighbour was getting quite breathless with the exertion of their foot-stamping, so much so that I was getting a little concerned for their welfare.

The performance ends amidst a cacophony of applause (have to say it was well deserved), stamping (shudder), some yelling (noooooo!) and the odd whistle (no no NOOOOO!!!). The response this opera got equalled that to the last rock concert I went to! The curtain fell, eventually, and people of all ages scuttled exitwards at a lethal rate, clutching programmes and discussing what a “jolly good show” it was – which I have to agree with.

Maybe next time I will take a cushion.........

Ward Whoppers

Ward Whoppers

I have recently decided to take a career break from the profession I worked hard at for 16 years. After working in areas as diverse as psychogeriatrics to Pharmacological research, earlier this year I decided to hang up my virtual “nurse's cap” (they did away with these items of uniform along with the shocking electric blue dresses when I finished my training) and graze on pastures new. I'm not yet sure what these pastures will be, but I know they will be something completely different from what I have done.

Looking back over the years, there have been – as with any job – good days and horrendous days. Days when patients who were at death's door improve so much that they are able to go home to continue their rehabilitation; and days when patients unexpectedly and suddenly pass away leaving devastation among both staff and families. As I have been reflecting over the years I have worked in the nursing profession, some of the funnier stories have come to mind – and I thought I would share them with you.

 When I left school I took a Gap Year before Uni, as I had changed my mind from studying English to applying for a place on a Nursing Degree, and I wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing before I started on the course. For this year, I worked in a psychogeriatric ward, where all the patients either had Alzheimers or Dementia. My job was that of a nursing assistant – and coming straight from a very strictly disciplined and elitist girls' school, it was a real eye opener. It was during this year that I saw my first naked person, and I was embarrassed in bathing people and helping them to the toilet.

Mr and Mrs

One of the patients had been a hospital matron in her day – and she liked to help the nursing staff out with little jobs. Except that this lady was suffering from dementia, and really thought she was still back in her hospital ward ordering people about. One morning I went into one of the bedrooms to open the curtains, and I was met with a lot of even more confused women (they were confused enough to start with) trying to beat some of the very confused male patients out of their beds. Apparently our matron patient had believed they were married couples and had insisted that they shared beds.

Dent-Your Pride

Our matron patient also liked to clear all the dentures off the lockers by the beds, tip them into a communal bowl, wash them and return them back to the dishes on the lockers. The problem was, she was so confused that she didn't match names to teeth, nor sets of dentures. So one morning, when I did my usual walking into the room and asking how patients were, I had a bit of a surprise when one old lady opened her mouth to answer. I thought I was talking to Mr Ed in a nightdress. The poor soul had been given two top sets of dentures from our matron patient and had been “ordered” by her to put them in, the result being that all one could see was teeth. Her neighbour in the next bed was having major difficulty talking without one set of teeth falling down, until I realised she had two bottom sets! It took a long time for a colleague and I to fetch back all the teeth, wash them thoroughly again and return them to their rightful owners.

Amateur Dram-atics

The next story was a goof up by me. By this time I was a student nurse and I was in one of my first ward placements. I think I was about 19 years old. I was working a late shift and we were trying to get the surgical patients comfortable for bed, as it was coming up to 9.30pm, and the night staff were due on. One of the staff nurses had done the drug round and got called away to give report. She turned to me as she headed to the office and said, “oh Mr So-and-so needs his nightly dram. It helps him sleep. Could you sort that for him please?” and disappeared. She had told me where the whisky was kept, so I got the bottle and then.......wait a minute.....how much IS a dram? I should make it known that I have never been a pub/club fan, and my parents never drank whisky. I knew there was such a thing as a dram, but not how much it was in volume. I walked down the ward to see if anyone else was about I could ask, but the others were either handing over to the night staff, or were busy with patients. So, I was going to have to guess. Now, at this point I should say that now I believe a dram is about 30mls. Student nurse me decided to fill a glass ¾ full of whisky....surely that is a dram? Not too much, but yet not too little. Yeah....I'm sure that's about right.....and I took this liquid nectar to its expectant recipient – an elderly man with Friar Tuck hair, and no legs. Well, the patient took the glass, seemed VERY happy with his portion, thanked me and I went out of the bedroom.

A few minutes later a call-bell from this six-bedded room was sounded and I went to answer it. On entering the room, I was met with loud raucous singing and laughing; as well as five other baffled male patients. My invalid patient had got so merry on the “dram” I had given him, he had rolled off the bed, and was rolling about the floor like a Weeble toy, singing his heart out. We had to put him in the ward sitting room, with glassfuls of water, until he sobered up. After that, he asked for me to give him his nightly “dram”, but I avoided it like the plague! The other members of staff found it highly amusing.

Verbal Diahorrea

Three years later, I am about to finish my nursing degree and I am doing my management/senior student placement in a gynaecology ward. Students in these environments are nearly always given the enemas to do, and I was always glad when more junior students to me were working my shifts.

On the occasion in question, I was working with a second year student. I had worked with her a lot, and taught her a few things – including how to give enemas and suppositories. On this shift, I was exceptionally busy; I had dressings upon dressings to do and I was also conscious that one of the women needed a pre-op suppository given to her. The student was at a loose end, so I asked her if she would be happy to do the “pre-op supp” for me – she had watched me doing it enough times after all. Or I thought she had. Yes, she said she was fine to do it, and scurried off to get the necessary item.

About ten minutes later, I was doing an amputation stump dressing, when a face peeked around the curtain. “June”, said the student. “Mrs So-and-so is refusing her pre-op medication. Could you maybe try?” I waited until the dressing I was helping with was done, and then I went to attend to Mrs So-and-so, expecting her to be a bit “Bolshy”. Quite the opposite, I had a chat with her, gave her the pre-op supp, left her to it, washed my hands and got on with my duties. A short time afterwards the student cautiously approached me. “Did you manage to get Mrs So-and-so to have her medication?” she asked. I replied, “Yes I did; and for future reference – patients don't normally agree to swallow suppositories!”

A day in the Theatre

Another tale from my student days – this time in my Operating Theatre placement. It was my second day, the awe of the hallowed static-free room where you see bits of people you don't normally see, was still pretty potent. The surgeons were some sort of gods who could perform miraculous healing surgery, and it involved a lot of standing. We had been warned at Uni that Theatre placements are notorious for staff winding up students, and had been told about the “Long Stand” trick, so we thought we were prepared for everything. On this day, I was just an observer. After the two surgeons had argued about which music should accompany the operation, the hacking began. I had been told that I was in to watch a varicose vein operation, it was apparently one of the bloodiest, and you had to be careful to dodge the blood when the vein was removed. At least, that was what I was told. So I was concentrating on waiting for the blood gush and trying not to feel faint, when the main surgeon turned to me and said, “You. Stripper!”. I looked round, not sure if he was talking to me. On blankly looking back at him he repeated, “you. Stripper”. I shyly replied that no I wasn't that cheap kind of girl. “I need a stripper NOW! Go and get me a stripper!” he bellowed, and out that operating room I ran, trying to work out WHY a surgeon would want some floozy stripping in the theatre when he was meant to be doing an operation. The operating suite was busy that day, so I made a bee-line for the Recovery room and told the staff there what the surgeon had asked for. “Oh, he is wanting a new vein stripper, my dear”, said one of the nurses, who then showed me exactly where to find them. It was a very sheepish me who crept back into the Operating Room with the words, “the stripper is now ready for you”. A lot of hilarity ensued.

A cutting question

A year or two later, I was working in a large General Hospital as a Staff Nurse. One day, during my lunch break I went down to the WRVS to buy a newspaper for one of the patients who had missed the paper trolley on its visit to the ward. On my way back to the ward, along the main corridor, I was stopped by an elderly man who seemed a bit perplexed. “Excuse me nurse”, he said. “I wonder if you could point me in the direction of the Lawnmower ward? “ (He actually was meaning the Longmore Ward – the name of which was taken from the hospital from which the patients were transferred, when it shut down; a ward that dealt with breast cancer chiefly). I told him the correct name, and he seemed relieved. “Ah, that explains things,” he said. “I couldn't understand why they had put her in Lawnmower ward when she doesn't like gardening!”

High standards

My last humorous tale occurred in Recovery, just before I left to go on maternity leave. A patient had come out of Theatre after having had a Hickman Line inserted, and it was routine that they had an xray, in Recovery, to ensure that the line was in the right place. This particular patient was a very frail, elderly man, and he was on a new-fangled profile bed, to prevent pressure sores. This bed was quite broad, so we put some extra mobile screens around it for privacy. The radiographer wheeled in the xray machine and set it all up for the man to get his film. There were no other patients in at the time, and the staff were all ushered out of the room whilst the xray was in progress; but we could watch the still sleeping man through the window in the doors.

The radiographer was all set and ready to start the xray, when all of a sudden, the bed started heading heavenwards. The patient was hooked up to drips and monitors which all started alarming as the tension on the tubing and cables got too tight. Still the bed went upwards, and the patient remained asleep. Then, suddenly, the bed started going down, down, down, down.......and just as it was about to start its ascent for the second time, we all went in to find out what was going on. In actual fact, the radiographer had accidentally knocked a “demo” button on the bed as she was leaving it, after setting up the xray!

Eventually the xray was taken, the line was fitted properly, and the man woke up – unaware that his care in recovery had been of an unusually high quality......

Then of course, there WAS that surgeon who was the double of Mr Bean, who used to scare the patients rigid on his pre-op visits, especially when he told them he would be doing their surgery.......

I'm going to miss nursing, there is no doubt about it. As it is an extremely stressful job, and is getting more so, finding the humour in the smallest things is important. I hope you have enjoyed a few of the gems I have shared with you.