Cilka's Journey(56)
She hopes by saying these words they will come true.
* * *
A white surgical gown, face mask and thick rubber gloves are handed to Cilka as she enters the infectious ward. As she is tied into the gown at the back, she looks around the ward, trying to process the scene. Every bed has at least one patient, some two; others lie on the floor with no mattress, covered only by a dirty sheet or blanket. She tries to steady her breathing.
The nurse helping her into the gown introduces herself as Sonya Donatova.
“It looks as if we’re going to be busy here,” Cilka says. “Please tell me what you want me to do.”
“Very happy to have you, Cilka. Come with me, we’re doing rounds. I’ll introduce you to the others later.”
“Can we not get more beds in here? No patient should have to lie on the floor.”
“We move the ones who are not going to make it onto the floor; it’s easier to clean the floor than a mattress. You’ll get the hang of it.” Something turns in Cilka’s gut. Bodies on the floor, on the ground, with no hope of living another day. So, she is back here again. Her curse.
Cilka watches as two nurses gently lift a patient from a bed and place him on the floor nearby. She overhears one of them say: “He’s on hourly time of death recording.” Once a blanket has been tucked under his frail shivering body, a note is made in his file and placed by his feet. Cilka sighs, feeling the familiar sensation of her body beginning to leave her, icing over.
She follows Sonya to a bed where a delirious, screaming woman thrashes about. Sonya dips a small towel in a nearby basin of water and attempts to place it on the woman’s face. She is smacked in the hand and upper body by the flailing limbs.
“Help me cool her down. Take one of her hands and hold tight.”
Cilka grabs one of the woman’s arms, forcing it down by her body. Sonya holds the other arm and with her free hand attempts to place the wet towel on her face and head, only partly succeeding.
“She only came in yesterday. She is young and has got to the delirious stage really quickly. If we can cool her down and break the fever, she has a chance of surviving.”
“Couldn’t we just bring some snow or ice in and apply it to her skin?”
“We could, that’s one way of cooling someone down quickly, but it could be too quick and would shock her system. No, I’m afraid we have to do it fast but not that dramatically.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“No, you made a good suggestion, it’s just not the right one. No one expects you to know what to do the minute you walk in, unless of course you have worked here before.”
She has not, but she has seen the final stages of typhoid enough times. And the aftermath.
“I came here from maternity. Does that answer your question?”
Sonya laughs. “You are definitely not expected to know anything about treating typhoid, just as I would pretend I wasn’t a nurse if someone came to me in labor—that’s scary, two people to worry about.”
The cool towel is having an effect; the patient is becoming subdued, and the manic movements associated with fever subside. Was Magda like this in her final hours? She wonders now if Gita had been distracting her with the four-leaf clovers, sparing her these horrific images.
“I think you will be all right with her on your own. Just keep wetting the towel and running it over her face and head, her arms and legs; you’re washing the sweat off and this will help cool her. I’m going to check on another one. Call out if you want help.”
As Sonya leaves, Cilka rinses the towel in the basin, noting that the water is in fact very cold—small bits of ice visible. She takes over washing the woman, talking to her in a soothing voice. This voice seems to be something that Cilka uses naturally, no matter what she is feeling—or not feeling—when she is looking after a patient. It’s a low voice, a murmur, that tells a story beyond the moment of pain. Perhaps she does it just as much for herself.
After a short while, the woman’s body changes from being drenched in sweat to being covered in goose bumps; her shivering changes, reflecting she is now cold, as she attempts to curl up in a ball. Instinctively, Cilka reaches for the blanket on the floor and wraps her up tightly. She looks around for Sonya.
“Sonya Donatova, she’s now shivering with the cold. I’ve wrapped her in a blanket. What should I do next?”
“Leave her and find another patient who needs cooling down.”
“Where do I find more towels?”
“Is there a problem with the one you’ve got?”
“No, it’s just that … well, I used it on her.”
“We don’t have the luxury of new towels for every patient, Cilka,” Sonya says with an apologetic look. “Take the towel you have to the next patient, and the basin of water. If you need more water, get it from the sink at the end of the room.”
As her day ends, Cilka has seen six patients die, and fourteen new patients brought in. On two occasions, heavily gowned and masked doctors have come into the ward, walked around and spoken to the nurses in charge. It is clear to Cilka this ward is managed by nurses only. The doctors do not get involved with medical care. They visit to get the statistics on how many enter, and how many leave, either alive or to the mortuary.
Cilka arrives back at her hut every night exhausted. Her days are spent cooling down and warming up feverish patients; moving men and women from a bed onto the floor when it is deemed they will not survive; helping to carry the deceased patients outside where they are left to be collected by others, unseen. She carries the bruises unintentionally caused by delirious patients she is trying to care for.