THE GENIUS IN THE HSE

Genius In The HSE

Last week I was admitted to Sligo General Hospital.  Ambulant but in some discomfort, I paced up and down the corridor all night and along the way I heard,  smelt and felt the reality of what life is like for front line staff.

Three night nurses were attending to 26 to 28 patients.  My untutored eye identified 9 patients who could not get out of bed by themselves.  My ears were pulverized by the repeated bell ringing and requests for ‘a jug of water’, ‘turn me in bed’, ‘put me to bed’, ‘may I have the commode’, ‘I didn’t make the toilet’, ‘I dropped my phone’, ‘an extra pillow please’, ‘can you get my....’, Nurse, Nurse, Nurse.

As I paced, nurses were on a brisk trot, cleaning floors, medicating, writing, making tea and toast phoned doctors and somehow maintained a civil tongue. 

Now, let’s pretend patients were children in a crèche, there would be one child care worker for three babies... that’s because babies need lifting, feeding, changing and cleaning and some TLC.  Some Genius in the HSE thinks that the same ratio applies to nurses dealing with adults and for good measure a further nineteen patients in various states of health can be catered for.

Over the past week I have seen nurses bounce in to work on their first shift back and twelve hours later, they leave looking as haggard as some of their patients.  Unbelievably the unit results for sick leave are posted on the wall for each month and even more amazing, the sick leave rate is zero.

The CT scanner broke down and The Genius was at it again, somehow, the word was not sent to the wards, Porters, Catering Staff and Patients all had to be reorganised; a simple phone call to each ward would have avoided chaos . Patients who were fasting needed food, those who had been transported needed return to sender and of course, those next on the list required cancellation.   I made enquiries and informally told my nurse that it would be at least 2 days before the scanner would be fixed.  In fact, I was able to inform them when the scanner was repaired.  The Genius never asked who I was!

Ah, but the best was yet to come, having observed and listened to patients and their families, all of whom were fulsome in their praise of front line staff , my final perambulation led me to the outside of the coffee shop where a couple were awaiting a taxi and having a cigarette.  The gentleman on crutches and his wife attending were interrupted by another Genius who told them brusquely ‘you can’t smoke here’ to which the woman responded ‘who are you’, Genius drew himself up to the full of his height and replied ‘I am a Manager here’, ‘well’ retorted the woman, ‘if you are a Manager, would you ever go in there and manage that place’.

That little Genius has spent his day reporting, assessing, compiling and computing information in the confines of an office, judging by the way his face flopped when challenged by the two smokers I’d say he wouldn’t last one hour handling the dinner trolly on the wards and he would be a snivelling wimp faced with the detritus of the bathrooms.  Management is about identifying, coping, addressing and solving issues, sometimes that means rolling your sleeves up and just joining in to hold the line. 

Tiz as easy to light a candle than to sit and curse the darkness.

THE GORGEOUS GUNNING SISTERS

In 1751 the gorgeous Gunning sisters took London society by storm.

Their mother Bridget was a direct descendent of Grainne O’Malley the infamous pirate queen of Connaught and she and her husband lived at Castlecoote House, a handsome mansion just outside Roscommon town.

The family had virtually no money but Bridget had useful family connections in society and realised she had an immense asset in the beauty of her two older daughters.

In October 1748, the Gunning sisters were invited to a ball at Dublin Castle, but they could not afford suitable dresses for the occasion. Enter Tom Sheridan; manager of Dublin’s Theatre Royal and father of the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The Gunning sisters caused sensation dressed as Lady Macbeth and Juliet and were subsequently presented to King George II.

Both sisters were painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, a work which can be seen in the main hall at Castlecoote today.

In January 1752, the golden-haired Elizabeth met the 6th Duke of Hamilton at a St. Valentine's Day masquerade ball in London. Seized by intoxicated desire, the Scottish aristocrat summoned the local parson to perform a marriage ceremony there and then. The parson refused because the Duke had neither license nor ring, so the Duke hauled Elizabeth into Mayfair Chapel, where no licence was required, swiped a ring from a bed-curtain, and they emerged as the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton. Elizabeth’s marriage was a reasonably happy one. However, this fell apart when the Duke caught a chill out hunting and died in January 1758.

Within months, Elizabeth married Jack Campbell, the 36-year-old Marques of Lorne, who became the 5th Duke of Argyll. She became a close friend of Queen Charlotte and was made a Baroness by George III. She died in London aged 57. Two of her sons became Duke of Hamilton and two of her sons became Duke of Argyll.

Maria married the 6th Earl of Coventry. She died aged 27 on 30th September 1760. Over 10,000 people viewed her coffin. She left three children, including the 7th Earl of Coventry.

BOG TROTTING WITH HARRY BRADLEY

As part of a big economy drive and a desire to contribute in some way to home comforts, I  decided that we would save turf.  This is a big deal for someone who was reared by the sea and who had only a romantic ‘John Hind’ view of saving turf. 

My parents’ generation waxed lyrical about the smell, taste of tea and soda bread and méhil with the neighbours.   There was a great story told by a friend of my parents, Mike Smith.  At school, the teacher would write a big heading on the blackboard which would be the theme for an essay.  The heading would be written in large capitals on the top third of the page and the remainder of the page laid waiting for accommodation of the story.  So, one afternoon,  the heading put on the board was ‘A Day On The Bog’.  The following day the teacher asked Mike to read his story; Mike stood to attention and in a loud voice read ‘A Day On The Bog, by Mike Smith’... Yesterday after school we went to the bog.  The day came wet and we came home.  The end.

Well, my story is not so short.  Firstly, My Reason For Living was totally against the idea, obviously he had first hand experience of what was to come.  However, whilst having coffee after dinner with our neighbour Jamsie Cox, I continued to explain my case.  My Reason For Living, showing signs of acquiescence muttered that as this was my first time to ‘rare’ turf, I should opt for a reasonable amount, ‘ok, so’, sez I, ‘what’s reasonable’ as I prepared to phone the machine man, ‘ah, I donno, maybe 40 to 50 hoppers would do ya’.  With that, Jamsie spat out his pipe and doubled with the laughter, only for him I would have placed the order.  Apparently that would be enough turf for our townland!

So , the turf was cut, and every opportunity I got, Jude (my gorgeous dog) and I went up to ‘foot’ the turf.  I learned that I was doing Kildare footings; i.e. 2 upon 2, upon, 2 upon 2 sods of turf stacked like the frame of a sky scraper in diminutive form.  The peace was wonderful but man o man, did it rain.  Eventually I tried to make small clamps of turf in areas where the ground was not so wet.  Some of those sods of turf I knew by name they were handled so often. 

Some evenings, My Reason For Living would bring me over to Dickie Beirnes’ Emporium for a well deserved gin and tonic.  Dickie offered me crates of empty bottles, ‘for what’ sez I, ‘to bring home the liquid turf in’ sez he.  Others congratulated me on the great bank of ‘spadá’ I was saving, ‘what’s spadá sez I, ‘tis so light, ‘twill fly home’.  I soldiered on.  My dog and I braved wind, rain and ridicule.  I met my neighbours coming and going.  Among them John Carty, his son James and Harry Bradley.  I would have preferred if they let me do the turf and they would play a tune, the meitheal of music would be better heat than any turf. 

Harry, like myself was a new recruit to the bog.   One evening, my father in law, a knowledgeable man, advised me that he would like to view the turf.  Like all great thinkers, he learned his craft by musing and mulling over problems from the sanctity of the church or his armchair.  It is some time since he saved turf, but he has had at least 40 more years experience than I. 

The wind howled as we squelched our way through the footings and every now and then I could hear my father in law tish, tishing.  Turning to face him, I saw with great relief that Harry too had ventured out and beckoned him over, ostensibly to meet my father in law.  Mistake.  My father in law now had an audience of two and secure in the knowledge that the other man on the bog would be in complete harmony with his expostulations he proceeded to point out the bad spread ground, spadá and culminated by saying that if he had been consulted in the first instance, there would have been no turf cut here.  Harry stood, his beeny hat down near his eyes and his fleece zipped up to his chin, his dark brown eyes inscrutable, putting his hands in his pocket he turned towards the car and said he was going to get his spade out of the boot, passing in front of me he muttered out of the side of his mouth, ‘and I won’t be coming any where near you with it’