ECHO 6 - Incident at Aberdalgie Rd

[Moonwatcher]

First posted SPDG September 2004

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ECHO 6 – Incident at Aberdalgie Rd.

Fried egg rolls. With big yellow, runny yokes that explode when you bite into them! That’s what The Mungo was famous for, and that’s where we’re headed for our ‘Five’ this 1970’s morning. Glasgow Royal Infirmary has it’s main canteen of course, and you’re surprised when Alan and I walk right past it on our way for our morning break. But The Mungo's the place for us and you follow us through the ground floor hospital corridors until we get to a narrow metal spiral stair leading down through a hole in the floor into the basement. This is a musty, hot world few people see. A labyrinth of claustrophobic tunnels, storerooms, pipes, conduits and service accesses. It’s creepy, and you’re glad when we reach another spiral stair that leads back up to daylight. We emerge in a very old part of the building, and you follow us into a tiny tearoom with the word ‘Refectory’ on the door. Smells of frying bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding and coffee assault your nostrils.

This is the Mungo. Only some doctors, hospital staff and ambulancemen know of it’s existence. A little sanctuary in the nerve-jangling bustle of one of Europe's busiest general hospitals. It’s usually quiet, always friendly and, above all, it has the egg rolls. We don’t tell you about the rolls. Intitiations, in any job, when the newstart is accepted into the fold and becomes 'wan eh the boays – urr lassies,' are big events and a number of crews sit at the tables watching in anticipation. Glancing around I see Des and Sammy sitting with the 'Camlachie Commando' and his mate and, lurking at the back reading his Daily Record, the 'Incredible Shrinking Man'. You're unwittingly about to follow generations of rookie ambulance personnel, dressed in smart new uniforms, pressed jackets and blue starched shirts, who've fallen foul of this terrible right of passage. Hopefully the wimmen behind the counter have been briefed, have chosen the egg with the biggest yoke and are frying it to perfection; 'sunny side up' with a fully loaded centre of runny yellow. We keep you talking during the ordering process, distracting you, making sure you dont get a hint of what's going on. It's warm in the Mungo and everyone makes a show of removing jackets, slinging them over the backs of chairs and sitting 'shirt sleeve order'. Everyone acts nonchalant, as we wait. Our rolls arrive. Your roll sits on the plate, inviting, delicious and innocent, a completely inadequate paper napkin by it's side. 'Fire in the hole!' Alan whispers as he and I pick up our rolls and bite in without hesitation or fear. Big manfull bites [unknown to you, our yokes are cooked solid!] Eager to tuck in also, you follow suit – your jaws chomping down on the soft bread roll, compressing the yoke instantly to bursting point! It erupts! A jet of glutinous yellow spurts out the edge of the roll and splatters over your pristine shirt and tie. The Mungo erupts in laughter! It takes a while, and a wet cloth from the kitchen before you cool down and begin to see the 'yoke'.

You're still wiping the front of your wet shirt as we leave the tearoom and make our way by a different route back to the casualty department. This time we're walking outside, through the narrow wynd that leads out to Castle Street between the old Royal on our left and what used to be the Blind Asylum looming over us on our right. As we step out on to the pavement you look up as I take a moment to point out to you a stone statue, high up in a corner alcove, on the building above us. It shows a figure of Jesus holding a blind child in his arms. It's reputedly the only public statue in Glasgow depicting Christ. We continue down Castle Street to the A&E entrance.

'ECHO 6 TO GLAS AM. CLEAR AT THE ROYAL. OVER.'
We're still chuckling over the egg incident. You sit in the back seat, dabbing a wad of paper towel over your shirt. But even you're smiling now. You're now an official member of the team.

'GLAS AM. ECHO 6. HOUSE OF O'REILLY. ** ABERDALGIE ROAD. PARA 2 IN LABOUR FOR THE ROTTENROW. WITHIN ONE HOUR. RECEIVED 10.07 YOUR DESPATCH 1035. OVER.'
'6 RODGER.' A labour case. A nice easy one for this time in the day. 'Labour cases normally meet you at the door and walk out to the ambulance.' I tell you confidently. As we pull out of the Royal, I fill you in on the terminology. 'This is a 'Para' meaning the lady concerned has had previous children. If this was her first child she would have been known as a 'Prim'. Para 2 means our expectant mum is about to have her third child. As a general rule 'Prims' have slow, lengthy labours. 'Paras' however are unpredictable, the higher the Para the quicker the labour. This Para 2 has been booked for uplift within one hour. Sounds routine.

As Alan takes Echo 6 up onto the newly opened M8, I reach down to the big black radio cassette player sitting on the floor between the cab seats and depress the play button. The cab is filled with the deep voice and 'chickaboom – chickaboom' guitar sound of Johnny Cash at San Quentin. As 6 heads out to Easterhouse we sing along to the man in black. I play 'air guitar' whilst Alan knocks out the beat on the steering wheel 'drums.' You dont sing, but your foot taps to the rythmn regardless.

As we pass the Cranhill slip road;

'GLAS AM. ECHO 6. GLAS AM CALLING ECHO 6. OVER.'

I've stabbed the stop button on the radio, stopping 'The Wreck of Old '97' in it's tracks and grabbed the hand mike before the controller has completed his message.

'AYE 6 RECEIVING. GO AHEAD OVER.'
'ECHO 6. APPEARS THE LADY'S WATERS HAVE BROKEN. CONTRACTIONS AT MINUTE INTERVALS. LET ME KNOW THE SITUATION AND IF YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE. OVER.

Again I explain. The term 'assistance' is a euphemism for 'Midwife' if the birth is likely to take place in the house. Or, for the 'Flying Squad' from the maternity hospital if we encounter serious problems. A Para 2 with 'broken waters' and frequent contractions indicates a high possibilty of imminent birth. The big no-no is to get caught with the birth in the ambulance. Although certain to make headline news, with your picture in the newspaper holding the little bundle of joy, an emergency childbirth in the back of an ambulance is not advisible. Better to deliver in the house with the amenties of water, electricity, heating and space to move. You digest this, nodding, as we speed towards the Easterhouse junction with blue light and headlights warning folk that we're in a wee bit of a hurry. I ask you to delve into the overhead locker in the patient saloon and bring out the 'Mat Pack.'

You stand up, holding on to a stretcher pole secured to the wall for balance, and look in the locker. To the left of the neatly folded blankets you see a compact white bundle wrapped in waterproof paper and sealed with strips of autoclave tape.

'Just in case.' I say. You sit with it on your lap.

We switch off the beacon and lights as we approach the house. The last thing the mother and her entourage need is to be scared by the sight and sound of an ambulance, lit up like a christmas tree, screaching to a halt outside the door! Let's keep things calm, keep it low key, maintain confidence and reassurance.

As we draw up outside the modern tenement close we're met by an agitated woman who runs down the path between the gardens to greet us. As we jump out she's quick to tell us;

'Ye better hurry up! Eh weans comin!'
'You a relation?' I ask.
'Naw jist eh neeburr son. She's in ere!'

She leads us into a ground floor flat. In the living room, we're greeted by a group of women. Lying on the settee is the mum to be, mid twenties, dressed in maternity clothes ready for a trip to a hospital delivery that now isn't going to happen! She seems to be between contractions, but her face, red and sweating, speaks volumes. Her lower half is covered with a blanket. She's attended by an elderly woman. The old lady, calm and in control, is crouched down at the woman's feet. She looks up at me as I approach.

'Eh contractions urr comin pretty regular son. Her watters huv broke an ah think ah kin see eh weans heid!
You get the distinct impression she's seen all this before. We value her presence.
'You her gran?' I ask.
'Aye son.' she says proudly as she starts to get to her feet and back off.
'Eh dont go!' I say 'We'll need yer help here.'
Chuffed, she smiles and settles down. Her experience at the ready.
Turning my attention to our patient I ask her name.
'Maggie,' she replies.
'Looks like yer baby's in a hurry Maggie,' I say smiling. She smiles back, but is in no real mood for jokes or small talk. She just wants it over with. She grips her gran's hand tightly.
'And where's dad?' I ask cautiously.
'Och he's in eh kitchen oot eh wae son. Best leave im in err!' says gran earnestly.
'Okay Maggie I need to take a wee look and see how far on we are here.'
She nods.
Her gran, anticipating events, lifts the blanket.

Meanwhile Alan is starting to clear the room. Of the other women in the room, one appears to be the woman's mother. Unlike gran, she's very nervous, biting her fingernails and pacing back and forward. A couple of neighbours escort her out.

The top of the baby's head is just visible when the next contraction starts. You open up the Maternity Pack and lay it out on a coffee table, taking care not to touch the sterile contents. Gran and I both tell Maggie not to push at this stage [a bit like Canute shouting at the tide!] but to pant. We dont want the head delivered too quickly, leading to possible injury to both mother and baby. Events move quickly now. The head delivers and the contraction subsides momentarily. Now we encourage Maggie to push. Push as hard as she likes! She grimaces and growls and swears. The world around us disappears as nature and training combine. The baby rotates. I lower the head downward allowing the anterior shoulder to deliver, then raise it to release the posterior shoulder. The rest of the body delivers immediately in a rush. The cord is wrapped tightly around the neck. No problem. Alan has donned gloves and has quickly opened out two small plastic clamps, dropping them onto the sterile paper of the Mat Pack. Like always we're in tune. Reading each other's thoughts. No need for words. A team. You watch, as I gently squeeze my fingers between the baby's neck and cord, opening a space. I slip one clamp under and snap it shut. I repeat the process with the other clamp. The whole thing takes seconds, but the baby's blue and not breathing yet so we cant waste time. I sever the tough cord, between the clamps, with a pair of sterile scissors from the pack, The baby is released. If the cord had not been causing a problem we would have left it in place for the midwife to attend to. Contrary to popular belief we dont hang the baby upside down and skelp it's backside. While I clear it's mouth with a mucous extractor gran flicks the soles of it's feet with her fingers to stimulate a response. This is always a tense moment... Suddenly it takes a deep breath, and you hear that wonderful sound of a first cry. We let gran wrap it up in a towel and hand it to Maggie. The tears flow, as mother, gran and baby cry, the latter 'pinking up' nicely. Another 'Scotlands Person' has been born.

‘Midwife’s oan her wae. Bae here in hauf an oor,’ Alan tells us as he returns from the ambulance. Things seem okay. Maggie's cradling her new born. There’s no sign of any serious post partum haemorrhage and the midwife will attend to the delivery of the afterbirth. Gran keeps an eye on Maggie. You listen to the conversation as we discuss what to do if serious bleeding occurs. 'Aye son, ah know how tae rub up a contraction!' She says with pride, referring to the need to rub Maggie's abdomen vigorously over the area of the womb to cause it to contract and close off if necessary.
As I snap off the surgical gloves, Alan beckons us to follow him to the small kitchenette. It’s obvious, from his expression, that something funny awaits us.
‘Come an see this!’ he chortles as we walk down the hallway.
Even before we reach the kitchen door, we can see steam wafting out. On entering, it’s as though we’ve entered a sauna. We wave our hands in front of us in a futile attempt to clear the clouds of steam that obscures our view. Eventually, with window and door open, we take in the scene. Dad is standing in front of the cooker, dripping wet. Each of the four electric rings is glowing red and supports a pot of some shape or size. Each is filled to the brim with boiling water, bubbling, spurting and sizzling on the rings, each giving off enough steam to power the ‘Flying Scotsman’. As if this isn’t enough, on either side of the cooker, on all available worktop space, stand steaming bowls, containers and more pots. Even the electric kettle is steaming away! The poor sowel at the centre of this is frantically decanting all this water back and forth [at considerable risk to himself] in an effort to keep it all boiling at one time! The scene of Mickey Mouse in wizard’s costume from the Sorcerer’s Apprentice invades our minds! So much steam is being produced that the wallpaper is literally peeling off the kitchen walls.

We stand in hysterical laughter as he looks at us expectantly and asks, water dripping from the tip of his nose, ‘Urr yiz ready furr eh watter yit?’
‘Aye! But hiv ye goat enough teabags mate!?’ says Alan unsypathetically.
A popular misconception about births is the need for copious amounts of hot water. In this case it was used as an excuse by the wimmen to keep him occupied and out of the way! Not knowing any better, having watched too many western films, and anxious to be doing something useful he carried out his task to the extreme.

We rescue him from the kitchenette and lead him in to see his newborn, while a couple of neighbours start making use of some of the water to get tea and coffee on the go.

‘ECHO 6 TO GLAS AM OVER.’
‘GLAS AM. ECHO 6. GO AHEAD OVER.’
‘THAT’S US CLEAR AT ABERDALGIE. MIDWIFE'S ARRIVED. MOTHER AND BABY DOING WELL AND BEING KEPT AT HOME. WE’RE CLEAR HERE. OVER.’
‘RODGER 6. TREBLE NINE JUST IN. HEAD OUT TO…’

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Echo 6 is based on actual events. Some details may have been changed, either for the sake of privacy or because memory has failed in the years since these events took place.

[CatrionaL]

A good read