Chapter 18 - Left Speechless
Experiencing Healthcare From the Other Side of the Bed
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Suddenly, there was a commotion in the kitchen, Trish wondered with irritation why her mum was making so much noise. She heard her name; someone was calling for her. Pulling at her bedding, she tried to sit up but was unable, her sheets were damp and tangled around her. The door to her bedroom opened, and Mary’s concerned face peered in, followed by a woman behind her, holding a small baby. Why is a Mary bringing a patient into my bedroom, Trish thought with more annoyance. A wave of cool air wafted in through the open door, and she shivered, tugging again at her damp sheets. The woman handed the baby quickly to Mary, asking her to return him to his mother, before approaching Trish’s bed, and introducing herself.
“Trish, it’s Janet, I was the nurse here before you. We met briefly when you first arrived in Telegraph Creek. I just brought back the baby you sent out to Terrace two days ago; his X-rays were clear.”
That’s right, Trish thought, that’s where I’ve seen her before. She was still wondering why she was here, though, in her bedroom, as Janet began to take a set of vital signs, and asking Trish questions like “when did you begin feeling unwell?” She moved from vital signs to a more thorough physical assessment. As Janet worked and talked, Trish recalled the onset of laryngitis. Was that yesterday? She hadn’t thought much of it; she had experienced unexplained laryngitis so many times as a nursing student. The very last thing she remembered, was going to bed, and now Janet was telling her it was the afternoon of the next day. Her throat was so sore, her voice came out as a hoarse whisper.
Janet finished her assessment and her questions and told Trish she had a large abscess in her throat, and a high fever. This probably accounted for her delirium and confusion, and certainly for her sore throat. Janet quickly helped Trish out of the wet sheets, soaked from her sweat, and into dry pajamas, before remaking the bed. The dry material next to her skin felt good, and the movement helped clear out more of the cobwebs. Janet opened the window to let some fresh air inside. She explained to Trish that she had arrived on the sked with the baby and brought him to the clinic. Finding the door locked, and seeing no sign of Trish, she went next door and alerted Mary, who unlocked the Nurse’s Station for her. Together, they found Trish in bed, sick and disoriented.
Trish needed medical attention, more than Janet could offer. Once Mary returned, Janet asked her to stay with Trish, while she went down to the Hudson’s Bay store to use the radio to report the situation to the Medical Services office in Prince Rupert.
When she returned, she updated Trish and Mary that Medical Services had contacted a doctor at the hospital in Terrace, who said Trish was to be sent there to be seen. The plane that had brought Janet and the baby to the village would return shortly for Trish. As Janet was familiar with the village, staff at Medical Services asked her to stay at the Nurse’s Station and cover Trish’s work until she returned. Trish felt bad that Janet would have an unexpected stay in Telegraph Creek, but she knew Janet was prepared. It was expected that nurses, when they traveled in and out of remote villages, always carried a bag of personal items, in the event they became stranded somewhere. In Trish’s own bag she had a few changes of clothes, and basic personal care items. She carried it with her whenever she left the village as she never knew when weather, or a mechanical problem with an aircraft could leave her stranded somewhere.
On this day, as Trish wondered if she had the energy to get to the airstrip, she was grateful to have Janet there, caring for her. Her throat hurt, she was weak, shaking even as she tried to hold a glass for a sip of water.
By the time the plane returned, Trish was dressed, had a packed overnight bag, and made her way slowly to the airstrip. She boarded the plane and slumped exhausted into a seat. Walter was not on the schedule that day, Ken, his colleague and friend was the pilot. Ken made sure Trish was comfortable and had her seatbelt on, before he settled into his seat in the cockpit and started the engine.
Jarred from sleep, Trish realized the little plane was being shaken by a patch of turbulence. She reached for something to hold onto, and as she did, she felt a twinge, and a burst of fluid in the back of her throat. Her abscess had burst. She felt immediate relief in her throat, though she desperately wanted a drink of water. By the time the plane landed in Terrace, she felt better, she thought her fever might even be subsiding.
When Trish arrived in the emergency department at the hospital in Terrace, she was relieved to see her friend Roger was the doctor on duty. She already felt quite a lot better since the abscess had ruptured and drained. She did still have a light fever, and Roger prescribed her antibiotics, being careful to avoid any that were in the penicillin family, as Trish was allergic. He also thought it best to admit her to hospital for observation.
Trish was moved into a four-bed ward that evening. As she settled in, she watched the nurses go about their evening routines with her and the other patients as she drifted in and out of sleep.
In the middle of the night Trish woke, again in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. Her fever was back, and her throat felt like it was on fire. She pushed the call button she had been provided and waited. No one came. She pressed it again, and still, no one came. Finally, a nurse came to the ward, doing regular rounds, and delivering medications to some of the patients. She placed a small cup with a tablet on Trish’s bedside table, and said, “Here is your medication,” She pushed Trish’s cup of water closer, waiting for her to take the pill. Trish peered into the small cup, she knew that tablet, she gave them out often enough in the village, it was Penbritin–a broad-spectrum penicillin–and it was certainly not what she had been prescribed. Wincing, she pushed the words out, barely more than a whisper “I’m allergic to penicillin.” Her throat was so sore again.
Resigned to the fact that Trish wasn’t about to take the medication, the nurse turned away to the next bed, leaving the pill on the Trish’s bedside table. “Well, the doctor ordered it,” she said with some irritation before consulting her list for the next patient. Trish pushed the little cup with the pill further away from her across the small table and shivered in her damp sheets.
That morning, Roger came to see her. After a terrible night and having been given medication she was allergic to, she was relieved to see him. He saw the pill on the table, and Trish did her best to explain. As she pushed out a few painful words and he understood the problem, his brow tightened. He squared his shoulders and strode out of the room.
He returned to let Trish know the Penbritin had been prescribed to another patient with the first name “Louise”, and the nurse on duty confused it with Trish’s surname, “Lewis”. It was a dangerous mistake. Had Trish not been alert enough to question it, the consequences could have been severe. The error also meant she had not yet been treated for her infection, and a second large abscess had developed overnight.
Roger was still steaming, when he suggested to Trish that she should stay at his home while she recovered from her illness. Trish was surprised as it was an unusual suggestion, but she also didn’t want to spend another night in the ward. The idea of being under the care of a friend and a competent medical professional was comforting. She agreed, and he arranged her discharge from hospital. He filled her prescription for antibiotics, then drove her to his home, where he settled her into a comfortable guest bedroom. Once she started taking the antibiotics, the infection subsided, and she recovered quite quickly. In the evenings, once she was feeling better, she enjoyed visiting with Roger. She learned that he was friends with Diane, the woman who dispatched the pilots who flew the sked. Walter often talked about “Di”, and how well she looked after her pilots, always making sure they called in, and she knew where they were if they had to overnight somewhere. Trish was beginning to appreciate how connected everything–and everyone, was in the area.
Within a week, Trish was well enough to return to Telegraph Creek on a scheduled flight. Janet was pleased to see her, as she was eager to return home to Terrace. Trish was grateful Janet had found her when she was so unwell and had made the arrangements for her care.
After her ordeal, Trish quickly got back to work, and to her daily routines. She joined her neighbours to meet the next plane and chatted with Walter. After expressing concern over her recent illness, he had a story he was keen to tell her. It was regarding the flight with Mrs. Fretwell, and the baby in the incubator.
He said the flight had started smoothly, he frequently glanced over his shoulder to check on the baby and Mrs. Fretwell. At first everything seemed fine–Mrs. Fretwell even had a broad smile on her face as she sat beside the incubator. But partway through the flight, Walter looked back again and noticed the supervisor’s smile was gone. She now looked worried and was fiddling with the incubator’s controls.
Concerned, Walter caught the eye of another passenger and gestured for him to come forward. Walter asked him what was happening back there, and the passenger told him that the incubator appeared to have stopped working. Walter realized the potential risk for the baby at their current altitude. The oxygen levels and air pressure would be low, not noticeably so for anyone who was healthy, but if the infant did have compromised lungs, as was the concern, he could be in distress. He also worried that the baby would not be warm enough, if the incubator cooled. The Otter had a very robust heater, and Walter turned it up high while he considered what else he could do. It would be uncomfortably hot for the passengers, but it should keep the infant warm.
Next, he adjusted his course to follow the Nass River into Terrace. It was a longer route than flying in a straight line, but following the river allowed him to fly at a much lower altitude, just above the treetops, where the oxygen levels and air pressure were safer for the infant. Thankfully, the baby arrived in Terrace in good condition, and Walter said he doubted Mrs. Fretwell even noticed the route or altitude change, in fact, she didn’t mention the problem with the incubator at all. It had turned out well, as the infant was in fact healthy, but Trish appreciated Walter’s interventions, they would have kept the baby safe had it been developing an infection. She also made a note to herself not to leave her supervisor in charge of a patient again, regardless of her qualifications.
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Author’s Notes
N.B.1: In 1970, as Trish was introduced to the people of Telegraph Creek and Iskut, the language of the time, “Natives”, was used. Today, the people living on the lands where Trish worked, have reclaimed their traditional identities, leaving behind the nomenclature assigned them during colonization.
The communities of Telegraph Creek and Iskut sit on the traditional territory of the Tahltan First Nations. If you would like to read more about the identity and culture of First Nations people in Canada, including insights from Indigenous authors and advisors, here is a resource from the “First Nations & Indigenous Studies” program at the University of British Columbia.
N.B.2: We often see our parents through the lens of their roles in our lives— caregivers, disciplinarians, cheerleaders. Perhaps they are our role models or mentors, but who were they before they became these things to us?
To better understand who my parents were before they were, well, my parents, I set about interviewing them about their lives before marriage and kids. I started with my mom.
Trish Lewis was 18 years old and desperate to escape a mind-numbing administrative job at a factory in Liverpool in the 1950’s. She made the impulsive decision to join a friend to interview for nurse’s aide training at Alder Hey Children’s Hospital. That decision changed the trajectory of her life and launched her into an interesting and rewarding career as a nurse.
Trish is my mom, and this is her story, as told to me in a series of interviews in 2024. The story is pieced together from Mom’s memory, photos, and documents. As we all know, memory is fallible. In the telling of this story, some names have been changed, either because they could not be recalled, or to protect the privacy of the person. The Journey is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
N.B.3: If you are enjoying this story, you may also enjoy reading my memoir, “Resilience in the Rubble: A True Tale of Aid and Survival in Kashmir”. The book shares my experience as a first-time medical aid worker in Azad Kashmir, Pakistan, after an earthquake devastated the region in 2005. It also tells the story of Nadeem Malik, a local teenager who lived through the earthquake, and his struggle to provide for his family in the aftermath.