Now I developed a distinct Cinderella feeling. I was not going to get to the dance

That morning I scrubbed up in real trepidation, my knees trembling with fear and anxiety.

Surely I had everything Mr Smillie could possibly need but would I know the particular instrument of his design that this impatient man might ask for during the operation?

The kindly registrar, who would also be scrubbed up, had promised to help me all he could.

We were not far into the operation when Mr Smillie decided he wanted particular retractors he claimed to have of his design that I had somehow omitted to boil up. He went on and on about this omission. “You know, without the use of these retractors of my design, for this operation,” he said irritably, “the patient may well never walk again and it will be your fault.”

Had Sister been there she would probably have said: “Sir, you will easily manage. Try these instead, there is not much difference.”

But I was struck dumb and I felt to my horror that tears were not far away.

This must not happen and I did manage to survive till the end of the operation even though he did keep on and on about the missing retractors.

Never had I so much wished that the tiled floor of the theatre would rise up and I could disappear under it.

Patient

After the upset of dealing with this operation I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that I was not cut out for work in the theatre.

Sister gave me every opportunity to scrub up and learn what had to be learned but I was the wrong nurse for the job. She was very patient.

Towards the end of my stint in theatre health wise I became run down again.

It wasn’t a healthy atmosphere in theatre with too many long hours spent in steam and dampness.

As well as hours spent in the hospital, I was working hard in order to do well in my final exams which were at the end of the year.

I had been off for a week with flu and was nowhere near better when I had to leave sickroom to return to work as they were short staffed.

Some weeks before I went off sick, a friend of mine, Nan Davidson, asked me if I would be interested in going to the up and coming nurses’ dance.

Nan belonged to Dundee and had recruited six willing young blades to come to the dance. Now she needed five willing nurses.

Attending a nurses’ dance was always a difficult thing to arrange, especially if you worked in theatre.

However, I liked Nan and knew that whatever she arranged would be fun so I agreed but, largely because of the way I was feeling, without too much enthusiasm.

Nan was junior to me in the hospital but several years older.

She had first been recruited into the services near the end of the war.

After she was demobbed, she had worked in Draffens’ tearoom where she was manageress for a while; chosen, I expect, because of the easy way she had with people, her straight back and her model figure.

Nan was cheerfulness personified. Brought up in cramped conditions, part of a big family, she could turn her hand to almost anything and one of her chief pleasures in life was to help other people.

After a while she decided to leave Draffens and enter the nursing profession.

Cheerful enthusiasm

Nan is one of the two nurses I have kept up with over the years and I still meet up with her occasionally.

At nearly 90 she still has a straight back, a cheerful enthusiasm for life and a desire to help.

She is someone who makes things happen and life is always more exciting in her company.

Actually, I owe her a debt of gratitude. Had it not been for her my life might have taken a very different course.

The time came to organise off duty. Who would get to go to the ball?

A skeleton staff had to be kept on in theatre because there was a possibility of emergencies coming in.

A coin was tossed between us. I lost. I wasn’t too bothered as I was tired and dispirited and not in the mood for dancing.

For some reason, Sister seemed to be keen that I should attend. “Look, Polly,” she said, “if nothing comes in by seven o’clock, I’ll stay on here and you can go.”

“You’ve got to come if you possibly can,” Nan had said, “or we’ll have one man too many.”

My mother also seemed determined that I should attend and had made a special journey over the water with my long yellow dress that she had helped me buy for the occasion.

At six o’clock on that fateful evening, a doctor came into the theatre.

There had been an accident. A woman with a broken leg would need an immediate operation.

I knew that this was the end of any notion of going to the ball.

By this time, with all the excitement engendered by the other nurses, I was beginning to look forward to the dance.

Now I developed a distinct Cinderella feeling. I was not going to get to the dance.

Record time

It would be, at least, after nine o’clock before we would be finished with the aftermath of cleaning up theatre.

The operation was straightforward enough. It was done in record time but it was now well after eight o’clock and theatre would have to be got ready for any other emergency there might be.

“I’m afraid you’ll not get to the dance after all,” Sister said.

The young doctor, who had assisted with the operation, asked why not.

“Well, we’ll have to clear up theatre and that takes some considerable time.”

“I’ll help you,” said the young doctor, “and nurse can go to the ball.”

I couldn’t believe what was happening. A doctor, one of the Gods, offering to clean up and Sister accepting!

I sped along the antiseptic corridors up the stairs of the Caird Building taking two steps at a time, a quick wash and whizz into my ball gown.

I rushed down to the front door where a porter kindly ordered me a taxi and I arrived at the arranged meeting place just in time. (More tomorow.)