The Preston years.
Finding Sister Susie.
Finding Crazy Odge.
A curious cabinet post.
And so..”.a long time ago in a distant galaxy”….i did something rather unexpected for a then boatyard hand cum sailor/climber : at the age of 23 i started my nurse training in a traditional school of nursing in a small town called Preston in lancashire.
I qualified in 1984, i can hardly write the year 1984 without thinking ‘Orwell’ but the Orwell novel that it reminds me of is ‘The Road to Wigan Pier’ rather than 1984 itself : yes there were elements of Police state UK already with mad Maggie’s army taking down first the local mining industry and then the travellers convoy and ravers a couple of years later, so it wasn’t a great time all round. Preston was a somewhat grim and dismal place , the school of nursing was housed in what once was the Victorian era poor-house/workhouse and i lived mostly in any one of the red-brick terraced streets in the rough end of town.
I lived in the town for some 8 years during my training and then the years i spent working in the ICU at the Royal Preston Hospital, a bit like the operating theatres that it was on the same level with it was effectively in the back basement and had no windows….i spent those years not knowing what even the weather was doing outside : that or lots of night shifts in dark and wet winters, unsurprisingly in my first year as a staff nurse i got my first bite of SAD (seasonal affective disorder).
Eventually i left, went and did my ICU course and got a better job in a much livelier city but then everything changed : in 1990 i had the chance to go and sail in the Whitbread race aboard a boat that needed a ‘medic’…..and so the story begins again however , lets jump forward a few years…..
It was a tradition of one boat that i sailed a lot of ocean miles on, to run a ships newspaper. It was written in as spoof shock-horror outrage style as whoever was editing it could muster up, sort of ‘The Sun/News of the World‘ meets your worst parochial local newspaper after a collision with ‘VIZ ‘ magazine from the same era. ‘Man found in bilge‘ was an early headline if i remember it right.
It’s all so long ago that i can’t remember actual articles but suffice to say that the skipper and mate usually got some scurrilous leg-pull and anything that anyone did that was remarkably stupid usually warranted a leader. Crossing the line once or twice i think gave us a couple of sessions of ‘court appearances’ and i do remember speeding fines being handed out at one time….it being rumoured that the boat’s insurance only went up to 15 knots…..i hit about 28 during a monster surf one time !. I think that one cost me several tins of beer as that’s how we gave out fines for most misdemeanours.
There was a slightly serious side, i used to add medical content when it was necasary : the treatment for ‘gunnel-bum‘ being one of mine and i think once a close to the bone(R) reminder about Brazil, Willy’s, STD’s and condom useage !. I do remember writing those in a consciously ‘Sister Plume‘ style. I guess that most if not everyone will now not have the slightest clue what or whom i am talking about : well, Sister Plume was a made up chraracter from the Nurses comic : ‘Nursing times’. Sister Plume being an old-time old-fashioned ward sister who believed in ‘high, hot and a hell of a lot‘ enemas’s and a tidy linen cupboard……oh how times have changed !. Just before i scheduled the post for publishing, my mother messaged me to ask if the curio cabinet would contain some of those tacky little ‘a gift from’ pieces of tat that appear in ‘gift’ shops around the coast….well not unless they are in extremely bad taste….perhaps a dildo in the shape of the Blackpool tower or similar !. There is a genuine vintage enema kit on display so….
Anyway, enough smutty talk and back to Sister Plume for a moment.
One ‘for real’ version of the excellent Sister Plume whom i actually knew got so cross at the phone ringing during morning report time that she whipped her nursing scissors out of her belt and snipped through the handset cable !
Lost at sea ?, well you should be by now.
You see, i’m working on displays for the ‘curious cabinet’ , i really need to something based on my own nursing career but have a bit of fun with the whole thing at the same time. At first i just thought about hanging my statement of entry (nursing register) but it’s a poor thing and i don’t even have an old SRN badge as they were scrapped just before i qualified and i was unfeasibly pissed about that. I had a training badge and hospital badge somewhere but have no idea where either are now. I did think about photographs of course and i might be able to track down a picture of the old infirmary where i did a placement…..the hospital where i did most of it is as brutal and soul-less a public building as you can imagine. Where i work now (used to work until yesterday) is immeasurably worse…..like one of the scenes from Huxley’s ‘brave new world’.
I’ll probably have my own custom stethoscope in there and i’d like to find a really old, bell style one and maybe some of the other, older stuff that was still kicking around when i started my career. What i am working on for this first part is a display of glass….medical glass, specifically medicines, poisons and pharmacy glass as most of it is really attractive. There needs to be lots of visual puns as well : an Arsenic bottle will be there because Arsenic is an important local product. Just across the hill from here are the remnants of arsenic tunnels in the old mine workings : the principle being that the arsenic and tin bearing mineral (cassiterite) was burnt in a chamber that led into a tunnel….the arsenic tunnel. The arsenic would condense out on the granite walls and it was someone’s job to crawl through there and scrape the arsenic salt off the wall !.
Nice work if you can get it !…..one small visual artefact i have here is an all-steel miners compass and clinometer for the underground surveying of tunnels and so forth. In the garden we have a few larger bits and pieces of old mining hardware that i unearthed while i was working on the gardens here.
Tin mining and it’s highly toxic by-product arsenic were a big deal in the area of east Cornwall where i now live. To buy a property here it’s essential to do a mining search and even then the mines records only go back so far , not every tunnel, adit and gallery were mapped . There is one place in a nearby village where the garden of one council house just disappeared into a big hole one day, the house had to be taken down and the hole plugged. A regular occurrence in that village is that a company is still tasked with taking soundings of underground water levels via long bore-hole pipes under manhole covers. Apparently the water level is slowly dropping although there is said to be an entire underground lake under the village.
Did you know that one of the most polluted rivers in the world is a few miles down the road in Cornwall ?…..no i guess not, well that’s the Red river down in west Cornwall and the river bed bears no life whatsoever…..loaded with arsenic. An arsenic compound (arsphenamine) by the way was once a treatment for syphillis and once also a tonic, dispensed, carefully i hope by pharmacists. Dredging my memory a bit i think that Napoleon Bonaparte’s body showed signs of medical arsenical poisoning most-mortem.
Last week i found a completely engaging bloke in the local indoor market when i had to pass through the tin mining town of Tavistock which was once central to the tin and arsenic industry locally. He had maybe a hundred mixed glass bottles on display going back into the 18th century and everything from pharmacist’s ‘flats’ to genuine medicines and poisons bottles. We had a quick flick through his picture files on his phone and i was able to recognise and name some of the labels….an early form of digoxin (digitalis) was one that i must find as it’s closely linked to my own career in cardiothoracics, another one was ‘oil ficus which has to be oil of figs….a laxative. ‘The one that caught my eye at first was, of course, way outside my budget but i have the beginnings of a nice medical/chemical display….the second display link being that my first job after leaving school was as a very junior laboratory assistant.
The ‘pharmacia’ as i am thinking of it, needs some other visual puns so i’m on the lookout for some ‘dried frog pills’ and a ‘red pill’ or two although maybe the display should only have the blue one just to show that the red one has already been taken. One of the poisons display bottles will be cleaned out and filled with the remnants from a bottle of Mount Gay rum that came out of the bottom of my sailing bag….it must be 20 years old at least and is still potent : that ones going in either ‘poison’ or ‘not to be taken’.
I already have a title in mind for this one below….. i really do wonder what they are just about to shoot-up on. Very few will know that Heroin addiction was very common among medical professionals at one time….one consultant that i used to sail with claimed that he spent long weekends on call , totally wired with amphetamines. To be honest this one below is almost certainly a staged photograph from a teaching exercise : the kit is nice though, glass syringes, enamel kidney dishes and swabs in a dish of spirits all neatly laid out as i was taught to do it. I did make an Ebay bid on a ferocious looking glass syringe and an old enamel kidney dish but didn’t win either of them.
Party time at the nurses home !
So yes….my display is going to have some memorabilia from my own career but skewed back a few years in time. I have found , but can’t afford, an early anaesthetic device designed for using ether as the volatile agent, several cased glass syringes which i can afford one of and so on. Disturbingly i also managed to find a machine designed to deliver electro-convulsive therapy on Ebay…..ECT was still being performed at the psychiatric hospital where i did my student stint when i was there.
At it’s peak Whittingham psychiatric hospital or asylum as it was once known was the largest psychiatric hospital in the whole of Europe, possibly in the world. There weren’t many patients or inmates left when i was there and the ones that were had been there for nearly their entire lives…..totally institutionalised. Whittingham was so large that it had it’s own infirmary, church and burial ground, let alone a full bakery, butchery and huge kitchen where some of the inmates worked.
I did a quick search just to see what happened to the old psychiatric hospital at Whittingham where i spent 8 weeks of my training……and not as a patient i hasten to add. A few years back when i took a brief look at ‘urbex-ing’ while i lived in Sheffield i found a whole load of photographs of Whittingham hospital after it was closed and abandonned…..several of those pictures i have added to the slide show of Preston Royal Infirmary below as they are linked by my own nurse training…..i think several of my friends worked on one of the old infirmary wards in those pictures.
Just for a bit of nostalgia here are some mixed images of the old Preston Royal Infirmary where i did one ward placement and some from Whittingham psychiatric hospital where i did another.
The medical display should also link to my longer voyages as well because i did the first ones of those as ‘medic’ in a Whitbread race and then a cruising circumnavigation. I used to have, can’t find it today, a crew hat from that Whitbread race on which i had kept a kind of record of the odd ailments and real injuries that i treated during that race. From memory there were a couple of ‘I and D’s…(incision and drainage of abcess) a bit of suturing here and there, at least one case of hypothermia,and one badly shattered ankle which is the worst actual injury that i have ever had to deal without assistance and advice.
Many of the actual injuries and illnesses that i dealt with have found their way into the blog at some time or other, principally in the first aid series although there a couple of medical posts still awaiting completion and an edit.
Finding sister Susie though.
From my later years as mate and then briefly skipper , when we ran a ships newspaper, i always thought that it was me writing as the stern and rather old fashioned ‘Sister Plume ‘. I recently contacted my opposite number on the boat, also a nurse and she assures me that it was her writing as the strait-laced traditionalist (sister Sophie) and me writing as the modern sister Susie…..a ‘non directive, non hierarchial area management/ lead nursing facilitator’….or some such totally BS job description. Frighteningly today there is probably such a job title out there although it’s more likely to have wimmins health , LGBT rights and inclusion in the job description. Just as a side note here, when i was given the new job description for my last career job it was some 17 pages long…..i think i actually lost the will to live by page 3 !.
Today, as i edit the post prior to scheduling i note that one acute NHS trust has just fired their female and non-white ‘inclusion and diversity’ manager (£100, 000 per annum salary) for her clearly racist remarks about a while, male department manager who might be a complete knob-end , iv’e no idea…..but that he is actually a person doing a real hospital job …….oh how times have changed when we seem to need ‘diversity‘ managers rather than starched-apron ward sisters of the Sister Plume variety.*
I first met the archetype Sister Plume in the rather matronly shape of my first ward sister, i honestly can’t remember the ladies name today. She was as strict and severe as you would have expected but of course had a heart of gold had you been able to find it under the layers of starched apron, uniform and i dare say some industrial strength corsetry.
One time, about a month into that first ward placement i was working in a bay on the ward while sister was doing the medicines round from an old style wooden drugs trolley. One of the auxiliaries , today called health-care assistants, came out from behind a curtain and said something to discretely to sister. The sister locked the drugs cupboard and briefly disappeared behind the same set of curtains. A moment later she beckoned me over with a steady ‘come with me Mr Yates…always called me mister’ . It was the kind of no nonsense voice and command that would bring a stroppy registrar to heel or have a student nurse in tears. We stepped behind the curtains, sister was standing close enough that she was able to whisper very quietly that the patient had just passed away and that i was at about the right point in my career to experience that. It wasn’t a great shock, the old boy was slumped against his pillows, mouth open, eyes shut, clearly grey and very dead. If i remember it properly sister used my strength to support the body while she got the backrest down and pillows out such that we could lay the body flat.
The ward sister then ‘invited’ me into the office and what i met then was a completely different side of her…basically kind and caring enough to explain that it’s a good start to see your first dead one with someone steady. I think i was steady enough myself to ask a couple of sensible questions : what we needed to do next and such like.
I remember thinking then , or shortly after, that it was a very ‘English’ kind of death : the old boy having passed away just after his morning tea and without any sense of distress or even the slightest complaint.
Years later i was to end my then career as a cardiac intensive care nurse one night shift in the most visceral way possible in a modern hospital…..with my hands actually inside a patient’s chest, doing internal cardiac massage….in simple terms squeezing the heart , while me and the surgical registrar tried to contain the blood hosing out of the patient’s aorta….very messy, very distressing and ultimately futile.
Iv’e been thinking a lot recently about image and uniform as it relates to nursing, and after having written a short piece as a response to another youtuber : quickly written and as quickly taken down again as it didn’t think i’d put across what i was trying to say. In one section i was trying to say that the overall respect for nurses and nursing has gone down and down over the last 10 years or so and very much at the hands of the MSM (mainstream media). At one time nurses were always portrayed as angels, now it’s more likely that they are shown turning up in court for anything from drink and drugs charges to fraud , neglect and manslaughter.
Sadly it’s true that some nurse managers , modern matrons to name one variety, chose to focus on the petty and quotidean minor points of detail, who’s hair isn’t up ‘enough’ who is wearing too many body piercings and who is wearing the ‘wrong’ shoes….rather than dealing with the serious stuff such as thinking about why we can’t retain staff. I don’t want to come across as a uniform bore and, like Herreshoff, always hark back to a time that was somehow ‘better’ but in nursing it might just be true.
I remember the first day of ‘PTS’ (preliminary training school) which was the first day that the girls got their uniforms. In my white smock and with a mess of scruffy red hair i looked like a manic dentist crossed with a carrot. Of course most of their uniforms didn’t fit as the standard shape that they were made in, in different sizes, weren’t designed for the long/tall/ narrow/wide and smaller or larger busted among them. There was much hilarity and some degree of embarrassment as the class first donned the uniform and got used to the totally silly paper caps with their one blue stripe to indicate that we were first year students. When they/we all qualified they all moved into fetching light grey as staff nurses, many bought linen caps and silver belt buckles so although ‘uniform’ there were subtle individual differences.
At around the same time there were those, usually the so called nursing leaders of the time that considered the uniform old fashioned and nothing more than a parody of a Victorian parlour maid. Just after that the traditional belt and cap were removed and the new uniform may well have been the corporate dress of somewhere like MacDonalds or Tesco. I won’t say that the old style uniform was always totally functional but it was often elegant and presented the nurse in a way that the public liked and respected…generally speaking. Today, in our department we wear what look like baggy pyjamas , like surgical scrubs but not quite as functional and patients usually have to ask what individuals do…..most days i get called ‘Doctor’ unless i have specifically introduced myself as a staff nurse.
I am of course wrong, but i feel something has been lost, whatever…i look terrible in stockings !
Postscript : May 2020.
Finding Crazy Odge.
It’s very late on a very quiet night in a small Cornish village a long way away from Preston where i completed my nurse training in 1984. Whittingham hospital has been closed for many years now and i guess that most, if not all, of the patients that i met there are also long gone because most of them were in their late 60’s and 70’s even then.
Tonight, iv’e just finished reading a story and autobiography that takes me straight back to my later years as a staff nurse in the ICU at the Royal Preston Hospital ; that book having been written by someone i crossed tracks with for a while and briefly got to know…..the book being ‘Confessions of an esoteric engineer’ and it’s writer none other than Crazy Odge who built my custom bike for me. I can’t say that our man Odgie was ever a friend but he was someone i liked, respected and enjoyed being around when i had the time to go out to his little workshop , which, if i remember this right was a tiny little breeze block shed behind his granny’s house and stuffed full of bikes in build and bits of bikes. I felt then that i was a kind of impostor in Odgie’s world, even though i was as involved as i could be in the building of my own bike ; i actually did the construction in a 2nd floor flat mostly late at night, but i was i think very much the ‘straight guy’ and i think that many of Odgie’s real friends kept me a bit at arms length…..polite always but a bit wary.
Just to say that i’d been a biker since i was 18, i’d always wanted a full-on custom bike and in 1986 or so i finally had the funds to think about doing it but nowhere near the skills to do it myself ; the obvious thing being to find somebody local who could do all the stuff that i couldn’t….and that was pretty much everything except the final bolting things together which i did….and yes that really happened in my 2nd floor flat !. The bike itself was a full on hardtailed ‘chopper’ based around a Yamaha 650cc vertical twin engine and a custom built frame ; it eventually got finished and featured in Back Street Hero’s magazine and not just featured but front-covered with the lovely long legged Elaine too ! Last year a kind soul on the BSH Facebook page helped me track down an original print of that issue : June 1987. Not long after that i left Preston and the bike went into storage for a while until a mate of mine collected it and sold it for me, i being somewhere very far away at sea at the time.
The trouble with being me at that time and to some extent today is that i was then and still am today into far too many things at once : even then i was a full time ICU staff nurse but also a climber and offshore racing sailor. If anything i would have self-described as an experience junky a bit like our man Crazy Odge, except that the experiences i was seeking out were all in the great outdoors : anything from plastered to a huge exposed sea-cliff rock face outside Holyhead or giving back ‘shout for shout’ to a westerly gale deep in the southern ocean. If anything at all i’m most ‘like’ a sailorman of old, happy to live out of a kitbag as long as iv’e got a dry bunk to flop into at the end of my watch. Like most real sailors iv’e always felt that i am too one of life’s outsiders : sailors always having been out on the margins of society and like many deep ocean sailors i regard most people i know as being mere landlubbers .
Offshore races even then mostly had me running around the country , often at late notice and crewing a boat in an Irish sea race before dashing back on the Holyhead ferry and a cold and wet ride back to Preston for a shift often on the same day. I suppose i was racking up sea miles and experience but mostly what i remember of that time was hours sat on the rail of a cold and wet deck and then more hours spent on the M6 in a combination of my sailing foulies over a pair of seaboots , my old leather jacket over the top and a cold and wet ride back to a dismal flat or bedsit.
In 1989 i left Preston for good, did my ICU course in Nottingham and as quickly as i got my first charge nurse job in Sheffield i left again to fly out to New Zealand and join Creightons Naturally in the 89/90 Whitbread race : after that nothing would be the same ever again in any part of my life and i spent most of the next 5 years at sea ….18 months continuously at one time !. Although i hung on to my registration and i worked in nursing right up until last year it had become just the job that i did to make ends meet and where i really wanted to be was at sea again.
I lost interest in motorbikes simply because i had no reason to own one, nor the spare funds either and i completely lost touch with our man Odge and in fact everyone that i’d worked with in Preston. That’s not so unusual for healthcare workers especially doctors and nurses ; while many nurses particularly will settle where they trained some, like me, will move around from job to job often every few years. I had no real connections with the town either and never any reason to go back there until a couple of years ago when we drove past on the way to the lake district. It’s not even a coastline that i would consider cruising around ; it’s mostly bleak, flat and muddy a bit like the east coast except that it’s most often a lee shore as well and there are few secure anchorages.
So, it’s past midnight iv’e just put Odgie’s book down , Jax is fast asleep upstairs and i feel that i want to get back in contact with Odge or at least write a response that he might one day get to read. I enjoyed the book, enjoyed it so much that i’m going through some sections of it again before i post it to my mate in NZ as a pressie ; he’s an engineer too and in many ways a bit like Odgie and yet very different at the same time. For a short while my life and interests ran parallel with Odgies and having read his book and thought a lot about my past i realise that we are very similar while being almost totally different all at the same time ; how strange is that ?
Odgie was obviously a strange kid who lived in his own head most of the time just as i did and amazingly we even did many of the same things : we were both mad for building model kits, both tinkered with meccano and lego , both built and ran home made go-karts although we just called them a chassis….same idea and same principle though and i was most often my best mate’s ‘pusher’ at the back. We both mostly detested school and both thought of many of our teachers as stuck-up bell-ends : i was lucky in that i had at least 2 great teachers for a while (physics and woodwork oddly) more that were mediocre and a couple that i downright hated with a passion !. Like Odgie i got out of there as fast as i could but unlike Odge there was almost no part of me as a school kid that anything like i would be a couple of years later : Odgie, a few years older than me was already riding to school on his first chopper , going to concerts and listening to rebellious rock bands. Strangely i also got into Hawkwind, first band i ever saw, Tangerine Dream for a while, but not the psychedelic drugs to go with it , and later on the hard edged punk rock except for me it was the Clash, the Jam and a strange northern crew called Half man-Half biscuit !
The second session.
It’s a few days later , iv’e posted Odgie’s book off to Big Al down in New Zealand and i hope he enjoys it too : Al is another of life’s oddballs and also an excellent engineer too. Al was one of the main characters i met in my post Whitbread years and one of the few iv’e kept in contact with.
How to proceed then ?……
I was thinking that a small part of my life intersected with a small part of Odgie’s life for a brief few months while he did the construction and paint for my custom bike : i did the final assembly in an upstairs flat and once it was finished it got photographed for BSH and then went on show at one of the local custom bike shows….Manchester i think.
As i said earlier, i’m very conscious that i was an outsider in another outsiders world : the ‘straight guy’ in Odgie’s world : having read the book it was the world of the mid to late 1980’s, of custom bikes and drag bikes, of drugs and raves, loud aggressive punk bands , anger and nihilism. I wasn’t a part of that, just a brief hanger-on and looker-in of the scene that was Odgie’s shed but i enjoyed being there ; i remember being there when one of the Tv stations came to film the all black ‘survival/apocalypse’ bike that seemed years ahead of it’s time and somehow prescient of 2020 and this strange half life and arguably police state that we seem to be living in.
Odgie was obviously ‘himself’ , already doing what he would do at least for a while : me, i hadn’t yet become what i would be, i think i would understand Odge a lot more now, now that iv’e had the similar experiences of highs and lows, brief brushes with depression, thought a lot more about a lot more things and known a tiny bit about the world. Odgie is just a bit older than me, i hope he is well and doing well , i’m glad that there’s a space in the world for an ‘Odgie’ just as i’m glad that there’s a space for a ‘me’. One day i’d like to meet up with him again, maybe take him out into my world or maybe go and sit by a camp fire in the woods somewhere quiet.
I wonder what happened to the pink Triump though ?