My Drunken Ramblings

The ride home on the tube is so long, especially after a busy shift in one of London’s busiest emergency rooms. To help pass the time I usually read whatever I can lay my hands on. This particular evening it was The Evening Standard. There was one article which caught my eye, then made me rather angry.

The further I read the more amazed I became at how utterly stupid politicians can be, but this really is no surprise. The article was about the drinking laws in Britain and the drinking habits of the average Brit. They wanted to relax the drinking laws, that is, allow pubs to stay open longer.

As if the bloody laws aren't relaxed enough already, whoever the idiot politicians are who thought this up must be have made these proposed changes under the influence of a stiff whiskey or two.

“Where do you live? What is your phone number?” I asked. Justin was only twelve years old and been found by the police lying in a pool of vomit in a park. I noted that he was well dressed in good quality, moderately expensive clothing so assumed he had a place to call home. Justin mumbled something unintelligible and I leaned closer to hear more clearly. “Justin, wake up, you need to tell us where you live.” We were pouring fluids into him through a vein to help rehydrate him. “Regges place” he mumbled. Regges place? “Who’s Regge Justin? Is he your dad?” “Regens Bark” he mumbled again. I finally understood what he meant, Regents Park. Right, we were making some progress.

“Hello, is this Mr Cornett?” I said. “Yes, how can I help?” he replied. “I’m a staff nurse at the hospital and work in the emergency room. I don’t won’t you to worry but we have your son, Justin, here with us……Yes, yes, he’s alright, he’s had a bit much to drink.” “WHAT…where did he get drink from? He doesn’t drink? Oh hell, is he ok?” I could hear a woman’s voice in the background. “What’s wrong? Is Justin ok?”

“Mr Cornett, your son is ok, but could you please come down and we will talk about it more here.” Before I hung up I could hear a woman sobbing in the background. I’ve made calls like this far too often.

When intoxicated, legless teenagers are becoming a more regular site in the emergency room; doesn't this suggest that drinking laws are relaxed enough? When intoxicated legless adults are regularly seen in emergency rooms all around Britain and New Zealand doesn't this suggest that drinking laws are too relaxed? When men, women, children and even the elderly are picked up out of the gutter in ever increasing numbers doesn't this suggest that drinking laws are relaxed enough? Exactly how relaxed does the government want its citizens to be? How relaxed is relaxed enough? Is there someone out there that has been missed, someone that has not been seen in their local emergency room already that I need to see next?

The next idea proposed by politicians was to train frontline nurses in how to help binge drinkers address their problems at an early stage, specifically in the emergency room. I pictured myself sitting down beside an intoxicated patient and discussing the finer points of being a binge drinker. They would either be asleep or telling me where to go. Is it not enough that we are already dealing with blood and gore, with violence and death, with overcrowding and chronic lack of staff? More work for fewer nurses is just what we need.

I don’t suppose many politicians have had to deal with a severely intoxicated person? Have they ever had to clean up after them while screaming at security to get them out of the department, let alone tried to alter their drinking habits. You would have more luck trying to convince someone high on cocaine that they should stop; at least they would be able to listen and respond. I suppose we could wait for them to sober up and then educate them, but then I don't want to keep a drunk in my department any longer than necessary.

During my last month working in a London emergency room I saw some prime examples of relaxed drinking like Mr Smith who had fracture his wrist and was complaining about the time waiting to be seen, he had got drunk and wrapped his fist around his wife's head. He's really a nice guy; he only hits his wife on Fridays' after coming home from the pub. Mr Smith waited a long time to be seen.

Mr Brown was unconscious; he had drunk himself into a stupor, apparently the noise from his crying baby had driven him to drink, he just needed some peace and quiet. The baby was dehydrated, cold and covered in muck. He's normally a good father, but he was having such a good time at the pub he forgot all about his child.

Mrs White had a broken nose; her husband thought it looked better on the other side of her head. I didn't know whether to feel sorry for her or not because she had got drunk at home then gone to the pub. She had tripped on some steps and now her twelve month old baby has a fractured femur.

But surely normal people wouldn't be like this? Surely normal people don't beat their wives and neglect their children?

We see more "normal" people in the emergency room with alcohol related problems than we do wife beaters or child neglecters. But it's the real bad ones that stick in your memory, plus they make for a telling story. But each weekend I see more and more "normal" people in hospital with alcohol related problems than I do the real bad ones. Something needs to be done, I just don't know what, but I do know that more relaxed or less relaxed drinking hours is certainly not the way to go. Relaxing the drinking laws may not, in the end, make any difference to the above mentioned people, but do we really want to take a chance? Can any good come of it?

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I'm not perfect. I'm far too human.

"I'm sorry" said the young man lying in front of me. "So you should be" I said and turned and walked away. The relatives of the man gave me hostile looks, but kept quiet. They may lay a complaint later, but I doubt it. Their son, brother, cousin, nephew, has caused enough grief already.

You're not going to like me for saying this. In fact it's the opposite of how nurses should be, but I can't be nice to that patient. I'm struggling to be civil, and for the most part, am managing it. How unprofessional of me, but he just killed his best friend. Fortunately the passengers of the car they crashed into survived.

He's not even a teenager anymore, so he can't use that as an excuse. He's twenty one and knows that drinking and driving kills. The guys weren't just a little drunk, they were roaringly drunk when they got into the car. His friend wasn't even wearing a seatbelt, but he, the driver, was. But it could just as easily have been the other way around, with the friend in the driver's seat and wearing the seatbelt.

My colleagues are treating him so gently, but I can't be gentle. My mum and dad were on the same stretch of road of the fatal crash only twenty minutes earlier. I keep thinking how easily it could have been them that they crashed into. The more I think the more angry it is making me, but I'll do my job, and give him the best medical care we can offer. Well, the best physical medical care, I'm not in the mood for the touchy feely stuff.

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Medicinal Pain

There comes a time when things don't work quite as they should. It usually happens when we've had an ale or four too many. In the emergency room we get too see many people not working at there best. In fact every night from thursday to sunday I can guarantee that if you come to your local hospital, you will see many people not quite in control of things. Some people get so out of control that we are forced to take extreme measures to treat them.

"Will you take Mr Jones this time?" Elena asked me. None of the women wanted to look after Mr Jones. He was a regular, perhaps five or six times a year, and every time he always ended up being rude to the staff. "How bad is he this time?" I asked. "You'll know soon enough. The ambulance should be here in five." The emergency department where I was working was a little different than some places as the ambulance crews always radioed ahead to warn us that they were bringing in a patient, and how severe their illness.

I greeted the paramedics as they wheeled Mr Jones into the department. "How bad is he this time?" I asked. "We haven't been able to wake him, so we got the story from his neighbors." The only other thing that Mr Jones liked besides drinking was gardening. "His neighbors said there was a party last night. Said it went on all night and only got quiet around five. That was when Mr Jones decided to do a bit of gardening." "He couldn't have picked a more miserable day" I observed. The sky was gry and it had been pouring with rain the whole night. "Well, his neighbors know him pretty well, and kept an eye on him. They found him lying in the cabbage patch."

At sixty two years old, Mr Jones should was a fit looking man. He had no fat, his muscles were hard and wiry, although he did have the drinkers red, bulbous nose. "Can you hear me?" I said as I gently shook him by the shoulder. No response. I squeezed his hand hard while calling out. Not so much as a flinch. I grabbed a pen and squashed his fingernail hard against it and again no response, not even a reflexive flinch of the hand. Next I tried the sternal rub, performed using a fist and my knuckles. This is sure to work, it's hardly ever failed. Sure enough he moans and his eyes briefly open and he tried to push my hands away.

Twenty minutes later Mr Jones is awake and sitting in bed sipping on a cup of tea. It may seem like a miraculous recovery, but this is pretty normal for Mr Jones. Once the cup of tea was finished, the abuse began. "Where's my gumboots?" he demanded. "At the back door. They're too muddy to bring inside." My response seems to irritate him, "They're my property. You'd no right to take them. Give me my bloody gumboots." Again I tell him they're at the back door and they can wait. "I want them now, give me my f..king gumboots." The deterioration in his language means he's nearly ready to leave. "You're welcome to go get them" I said. Mr Jones got up, walked to the back door, put on his gumboots and without a thank-you or goodbye, began the walk home.

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