Confessions of a Male Nurse by Michael Alexander Page A

could save him was a new heart, but after five years on the waiting list already, it seemed a very small chance indeed.
    With Mr Holdsworth’s rapidly declining health, the topic of conversation was often how much longer he would last, and whether a miracle would happen.
    ‘I feel sorry for him . . . sometimes,’ Jenny said to all the other nurses in the office, ‘but at other times, I think he doesn’t deserve our compassion, or a new heart.’
    ‘I know we’re supposed to be caring, but we’re only human,’ I said to Jenny. ‘Today I felt sorry for the poor guy, but I’m like you. I don’t always have much sympathy for him.’
    As I looked around at the other nurses in the office I could tell, by the nodding heads, that we all seemed to have similarly mixed feelings. ‘I guess it doesn’t really matter what we think now,’ Jenny continued, ‘he’s paying for his mistakes.’
    Four weeks passed. It was now only a few days until Christmas Day. The girls had been busy decorating the ward, and I nearly broke my neck balancing precariously on a patient’s bedside cabinet to put the finishing touches to the tree. I love this time of year – everyone is in such great spirits – even the patients don’t seem so sick.
    With half the ward empty we had time to sit around gossiping and reminiscing about who was the drunkest at the Christmas party – until it came time for me to check on Mr Holdsworth.
    ‘How much that time?’ he asked.
    ‘Forty milligrams,’ I replied. ‘Is it enough?’ I added.
    He had stopped clutching his chest but his face was still creased with pain.
    ‘Could you try a little more, just another ten? That should do the trick.’
    The instructions given to us by the consultant were to give Mr Holdsworth whatever it took to keep him comfortable, so I administered a further ten. With the additional dosage the last vestiges of pain left his face.
    ‘You’ve been good to an old fool like me,’ Mr Holdsworth said.
    ‘We all make mistakes,’ I replied.
    ‘It won’t be long now and I’ll pay the ultimate price.’
    My mind was blank. There was no suitable response. I chose that moment to leave the room, my Christmas spirit well and truly dampened.
    The next morning something strange happened; as I headed towards the nurses’ station I found myself taking a detour until I was standing outside Mr Holdsworth’s room. The first thing I noticed was that his name had been removed from the door; the second was the deathly silence in the room.
    I felt strangely depleted. I think that deep down, I had been believing that a Christmas miracle might happen. I quietly opened the door and there, staring me in the face, was an empty room. I headed to the office, where the nurses seemed to have gone mad.
    Jenny greeted me with a big smile. ‘Have you heard the news?’
    I didn’t know what news she was thinking. I know we all had mixed feelings about Mr Holdsworth, but it didn’t seem quite right to be so damn happy first thing in the morning when a patient has just passed away.
    ‘It’s Mr Holdsworth,’ she was almost exuberant. ‘They came for him last night. They found a donor. He’s getting a new heart.’
    Everyone in the office was so genuinely happy that he was going to have a chance at life – regardless of whatever past mistakes he had made. Without a doubt that had to be the best Christmas present ever.
    Mr Holdsworth’s transplant operation had taken place far away in a big city hospital, so Jenny had to phone the hospital every few days to get an update on how our patient was doing.
    ‘He could be discharged soon,’ Jenny informed us, three weeks after he had been taken away. ‘The doctors say he is doing really well. No sign of rejection.’
    Three months later and Mr Holdsworth was back at home and living a normal life – although, we assumed, a much more careful, healthy life. It makes sense that a near death experience makes a person wiser.
    During the two and a half