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Morning shift again, Rebecca and Simon, Barbara Ritchie in overall charge of this ward, and the adjacent one, that held eighteen female comatose patients. It was one of the biggest hospitals in New York and accepted the largest number of charity patients. Rebecca and Simon were working at the other end of the ward, washing the men, one by one, shaving most, changing urine bags, the usual routine. It was a large workload, but it was all the staff they had.
They looked up at a crash, and a perfectly normal sounding, “Bugger!” John was getting up from the floor, clinging to the railings of his bed, which he’d apparently climbed over. They abandoned the swarthy man they’d been tending, and hurried to him. The tube was on the floor again, and the urine bag was leaking all over the floor as well.
John was looking around, peering blindly. He smiled at Rebecca and Simon as they approached, and asked, “Can I have a shower now?” Simon grabbed a chair from the next door patient, whose wife occasionally visited. John was pressed into a chair, but looked at Rebecca, and repeated, “Please Rebecca, I need a shower.”
Rebecca looked at Simon, who shrugged. “Stay here, I’ll get it ready.”
Rebecca asked John his name and address while he looked about. His eyes fell on the next door bed and he said sadly, “His bottom hurts. You should turn him on his side more.”
Rebecca repeated her question, and he replied, puzzled, “You know my name. I’m John.”
“John Doe?” Rebecca asked, and John nodded.
They put him in a wheelchair to take him to the bathroom, where he vanished into the toilet, closing the door. They waited, hoping he wouldn’t fall. But they already knew that things were easier if they didn’t try and restrain him. His shower was skimpy, and he was staggering when he emerged. Speedily, they took him back to bed, and he managed to climb in before closing his eyes, looking a lot more contented.
Simon touched his face. “He needs a shave,” he commented. John passed two hands over his cheeks, and his face was smooth. His nurses stared at each other, mouths agape. How had he done that? It was definite, and they told each other again and again. Yes, he’d definitely needed a shave. Yes, he put his hands to his cheeks, and he no longer needed a shave.
Senior Nurse Ritchie laughed at them when they told her. But they insisted, and she came and touched his cheek. Maybe John didn’t like her, because he muttered something and turned his head away. “Prove it then!” she finally told them. “Restrain him for a few days, so his beard grows a bit more, then we’ll take the restraints off and we’ll see what happens.” They tried to explain that John panicked when restrained, but Barbara Ritchie was one of those supervisors who saw any hint of an opposing opinion as a threat, and she instantly made it an order instead of a request.
Rebecca and Simon had no choice, though Rebecca hated herself when next her patient woke and thrashed around in the bed, trying desperately to escape.
There was a very bad couple of days for John then. He struggled and fought, and when his strength ran out, he begged piteously for release, addressing his nurses by name. And when he was refused, no matter what reassurances they tried to offer, he sobbed in despair. But even so, his intervals of consciousness were only about ten minutes at a time, a few times a day.
Barbara Ritchie relented after two days, and although the beard growth was not a great deal, it was still discernible, and was obvious to the touch. There was an audience. The manager of the hospital was curious when Barbara mentioned the odd phenomenon that two of her nurses claimed to have seen. The resident doctor wanted to watch as well, but an emergency arose in another ward, and he couldn’t be there.
Simon removed the restraints, and Rebecca told her sleeping patient that he was not tied up any more, and he needed a shave. He made no move. Rebecca picked up his hand, and touched it to his cheek. He frowned, and both hands came up, and the cheeks were smooth.
This time, there were four witnesses who felt his cheeks to confirm, but his eyes were open now, and he was looking around anxiously, repeatedly raising his hands to make sure that they really were free.
“Rebecca?” he queried, knowing which of the shapes she was.
She was reassuring. He wasn’t panicking as he wasn’t tied, but he was acutely unhappy. He didn’t know what was wrong, but there were too many people, and they were all looking at him. He turned his head away and closed his eyes as if to hide. They knew he wasn’t sleeping, as there was an anxious frown on his face. Simon held a hand and tried to reassure, but he never took as much notice of the man as he did the woman, and he only opened his eyes when Rebecca touched him on the shoulder and told him to stop worrying. Everything was all right.
He stayed awake longer that time, but he only relaxed when he was left alone. And then he was again plucking at the tape that held the nasogastric tube. Simon took a few quick strides to his side, and explained again that the tube was to feed him. John looked for Rebecca, but Rebecca was busy elsewhere, and he looked back at Simon. “I’d like a feed,” he said. “I’d like ice-cream please.”
Simon laughed, and called to Rebecca. “He wants ice-cream.”
Rebecca looked up from her unpleasant job, and said, “Well, why don’t we take out the tube and give him some ice-cream, then?”
They took out the tube, and they gave him some ice-cream, and he thanked them politely before closing his eyes. He opened them again though, and his voice was rather high pitched, frightened, as he said, “Are you going to tie me up again?”
Simon touched him gently on the shoulder. “I doubt we’ll need to do that ever again.”
John Doe was getting better. John Doe was a mystery and no-one understood how he could shave merely by touching his hands to his cheeks. His carers were bitterly disappointed when he was efficiently whisked away in the middle of the night, and they were not even told where he’d been taken.
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