Tales of a working child

The side room witch

For the first time in forever, I actually looked forward to my night shift. Maybe it was the idea of taking it easy as opposed to the bustle of the day shift. Maybe it was the colleagues that make the night shift that bit more fun. I don't know. But for the first time, I wasn't absolutely dreading the night shift.

I walked down the brightly lit corridor, gazing at my blurred reflection in the waxed floors , counting my steps and trying not to trip over my own feet. In my skinny fingers, I gripped a bright orange Sainsbury's bag for life(saving the planet ) which has a box of sweet treats I bought as a pick me up for the night staff. I felt quite happy, mainly because I knew that others will be happy to see the treats.

That night, I was allocated to bay 3. I knew 4/7 of the patients so I was content with my placement. I walked into the bay all cheery eyed only to be met with a sulking colleague. She furiously tapped away at the computer on wheels as she kissed her teeth and ranted about her day. After, she storms off, without giving me a handover and left me to my own devices.

I worked with an agency nurse, who I had never met or worked with before. We introduced ourselves and she immediately started talking about the importance of team work and that she is committed to supporting me and vice versa. I breathed a sigh of relief. Usually, I am stuck with computer nurses. Computer nurses are nurses that, you guessed it, are glued to their computer all shift and use it as an excuse to get out of manual handling. I could tell that I wouldn't have to do all the hard work by myself and my mood lifted even more. We got along well with nurse and did most of the evening tasks together before she started doing medication.

The day bled into nightfall and all the lights in the bay were turnt off, to help the patients settle into a slumber. My peace was interrupted by the monotonous bell that rang throughout ward, notifying staff that someone needed assistance. I looked behind my shoulder to see that it was a lady in the side room that was calling. Despite her being my patient, I knew nothing about her and had not even been to see her all evening. I quickly entered her room, switched off the bell and introduced myself. She needed help to put on her pyjama trousers. I looked around the room, trying to locate the trousers and took in my surroundings.

The room was very messy. Her bed, which is supposed to be in the middle of the room was pulled at an angle so it lay diagonally across the room. The bed was not made, all the blankets and sheets were in a pile at the foot of the bed. The blue undersheet was stained all colour shades of brown and on top lay her tattered Bible, and rosary. I found the trousers on top of the cluttered table with food and documents sprawled across it. I held back my grimace as I touched the sticky table and moved over to help clothe her. She stood hunched over her zimmer frame, a large lady with chocolate brown skin and swollen legs. Lymphedema, I thought. She looked different now, to earlier when I peeked through the door just to see who my patient was. I realised the difference was due to her grey, raggedy, tangled and dry wig which was no longer on her head, but hanging on the edge of the cupboard. Her real hair was completely dishelved. It was jet black and crinkled with one wide streak of grey in the front of her hair. Her cornrows were barely visible over the growth of her hair which pushed upwards in every direction. She wore bright red lipstick on her plump lips and her big beady eyes made me uncomfortable.

I made small talk with her as I slathered her enlarged legs with baby oil which she claimed helps with the pain. I found out she was Jamaican and has only one child who lives abroad. She asked me where I am from, which I believed was an innocent question. But I had no idea that the conversation was about to take a dark turn.

After revealing my African origins, she proceeded to ask me

"Have you ever heard of something called OBEAH?"