But, in fairness, there was nothing more that they could have done. They had twice, by emergency operation, rescued Mrs Ratski from certain death. After that, it was up to the nursing staff to help maintain life. And this is what we did, day by day, hour by hour.
One of the most distressing things to witness was her fear of us. Nurses do not usually inspire fear. We asked Slavek if he knew why she was afraid, and he told us that she thought she was in a prison camp where the Nazi doctors carried out forcible experiments on human beings. He tried to reassure her that she was in an English hospital because she had become very ill, and that we were making her better, but it made no difference. She was convinced that we were conducting experiments on her and pointed to her stomach.
‘Look what they have done to me. They have cut me up and pulled my insides out (she pointed to her colostomy). They have interfered with my private parts; it is too terrible to say what they have done. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. They cut my throat – you saw it. No, my son, this is a medical experiment, the work of the devil. They have no heart, no pity, no soul. They are machines doing the work of the devil.’
Mrs Ratski was tough, both physically and morally. She had lost almost all her menfolk in wars and insurrections. Political conflict had been her only experience of life, and she had kept going through it all to keep the nucleus of her family alive. During the Second World War she had been in one of the many prison camps, where she must have endured cold, starvation and cruelty. She had been surrounded by death, but somehow survived.
In hospital, she lived through two operations and began to recover; but with increased strength she became more resistant to our efforts to nurse her. She fought us whenever we came near her, even for benign things like bed making. We tried to give her drugs by mouth, but she hit us and spat at us and knocked them to the floor, so the doctors ordered that drugs be given by injection. This required three nurses – two to hold her down, one to inject. She screamed and shouted what was probably abuse at us, then hit us as soon as she could. She tore off her abdominal dressing, and the colostomy bag; she even managed to pull out the self-retaining catheter. We were at our wits end to know what to do, so paraldehyde was ordered. This was a colourless fluid with a distinctive and revolting smell, which emanated from the patient, and could be smelled for a wide area around. We nurses hated having to inject it, because such a large quantity had to be given with a wide bore needle, thrust deep into the muscle. It certainly sedated the patient, but seemed to have peculiar properties, and I wondered if it was hallucinogenic. When the effect of the drug wore off, after about six hours, patients were often wildly excitable and disorientated.
Mrs Ratski had been in hospital for five weeks, and during that time I became increasingly troubled. When the paraldehyde started, I could not contain myself any longer. I blurted out to the staff nurse, ‘Why are we giving her this stuff?’
‘Because we have to be able to control her.’
‘But it’s mind-bending! People aren’t the same after they have had it.’
‘I know, but we have to give it.’
‘Why?’
‘You are not here to ask questions, Nurse. You had better speak to Sister, if you are worried.’
‘I am worried, and it’s not just the paraldehyde that is worrying me. It’s everything.’
It took a lot of courage to speak to Sister. The nursing hierarchy in those days was such that a junior student nurse couldn’t speak to a ward sister unless spoken to first, so I asked Staff if she would intercede for me.
A couple of days later, as I was going off duty, Sister called me back.
‘I understand you are worried about giving paraldehyde to Mrs Ratski, Nurse?’
‘Yes, Sister, and lots of other things, too.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Everything, I suppose. Her treatment, the operations, the drugs, like cardiac stimulants, antibiotics –just everything…’
The severe aspect of Sister made me so nervous that I could not continue.
‘You are not criticising the treatment Mrs Ratski has received in this hospital, I trust?’ The words were delivered in such a way that they sounded more like a threat than a question.
‘Oh no, Sister,’ I said hastily, feeling foolish.
‘Good. You may go off duty, Nurse.’
A few days later, in the middle of a morning’s work, when all hands were needed to cope with the volume of duties we had to finish before lunchtime, Staff came up to me and said, ‘You are to report to Matron’s office at once. I will take over your work here.’
In those days, the matron of a hospital was a very powerful and influential figure, and most of them were quite outstanding women with remarkable minds, and great character and moral standing. A good matron knew everything that was going on in her hospital, and had her finger on every pulse. She had a prestige and authority that is quite unknown in nursing today. Many a consultant surgeon had been known to quake in his shoes if he received a message requiring him to report to Matron’s office – a junior student nurse might collapse on the spot. Miss W Aldwinkle, OBE was in the top rank.
But I was not afraid. In fact, I was relieved. I had been called to account for myself once before, in an altercation with a consultant who had pushed me, and I had gained the impression she was a wise and understanding woman. I felt I could talk to her in a way that I could not talk to the ward sister.
I approached her door and knocked. ‘Please enter,’ a voice called.
It was a large and beautiful room, in a fine Victorian building that overlooked a spacious courtyard.
‘Sit down, Nurse Lee. I understand that you are worried about the treatment given to Mrs Ratski?’
‘Yes, Matron.’
‘What exactly worries you?’
‘It is hard to put into words. What concerns me is the amount of mental and physical suffering we have put her through. But I think it’s more than that, really.’
‘We always meet suffering in hospitals.’
‘Yes, but this has been inflicted by us.’
‘She would have died if she had not come to hospital.’
‘But what is so wrong with that, Matron? My grandma died a few years ago, and no one thought it was wrong. She had a heart attack and just died. My grandad and my mother were with her. She didn’t have to go through the weeks of suffering Mrs Ratski has endured.’
Matron looked steadily at me in a way that encouraged me to continue.
‘Mrs Ratski knew that she was going to die, and she travelled all the way across Europe in order to see her son.’
‘Yes, I know the story.’
‘So why couldn’t she be left to die in peace, like my grandma did?’
I was only eighteen, and my mind was in turmoil. Vague and disconnected thoughts I barely understood myself came tumbling out.
‘What’s wrong with dying, anyway? We’re all going to die. If we are born, we must die. The road always goes in one direction. There are no alternative routes.’
Still Matron said nothing. I was getting so worked up I had to stand and walk around.
‘You don’t know what that poor old lady has been through, Matron. I do. I have been there day, after day and her suffering has been awful. Simply awful.’
‘I know the extent of her suffering.’
‘And it is all so futile. What has been the purpose?’
‘Mrs Ratski is alive.’
‘But what sort of life is this? We have turned a vigorous, healthy old lady into a pathetic invalid. She will never recover properly. And it may be that her mind has been damaged. She knew what she was doing before she came to us. Now she doesn’t.’