Sheffield’s Manor

 

When I was a student nurse I had a placement with the district nurses in The Manor which was the well recognised roughest part of Sheffield .

The nurse I accompanied , was a no nonsense city woman. She drove a second hand car, called a spade a fucking spade and swore at joyriders in the street with a broad Sheffield accent 

She also told me not to look so  fucking gormless on our many visits 

Keep your wits about you she warned you look soft

I must have looked geeky….and painfully bookish

But I found her funny and  warm and big boned and I so wanted to please her, so we got on

Like a boy does with his favourite teacher.

I remember accompanying her to visit a man in the top of a block of flats who had terminal cancer. 

The man’s elderly and frail wife greeted us at the door with the comment “ Hes been a bit quiet all morning love” and I didn’t really notice my colleague quietly donning gloves and looping her stethoscope around her neck

The patient had bled to death in bed

He had bled from his mouth from a cancer of the oesophagus and unseen by his wife the blood had pooled inside his bedclothes and bed frame . 

My mentor passed me gloves and an apron silently  and asked the wife to make us a cup of tea.

My eyes grew to the size of saucers…the blood soaked the carpet black , like a pond in winter.

This was my very first traumatic death and I went on automatic pilot 

But I learned so very much that awful day

I learned to be calm in a crisis 

I learned how to break bad news with sensitivity and honesty 

I learned how to spare people’s feelings with information they didn’t need and

I learned how important it was to cry in the car afterwards and be hugged by a co worker who knew more and better than I did.

Her name was Janet and she was a district nurse in Sheffield many moons ago now

And she died last week of cancer at home , with her family and friends and a dog called Daisy around her