A while ago, while telling a friend about the job I got during the summer after I left school, he appeared shocked when I mentioned that, among other duties, I’d shaved a dead man.
The job was that of ward orderly in James St Hospital, Dublin. It was reasonably well paid and came with the bonus of working alongside a load of female student nurses. I was working in the geriatric wards and, still years away from having to shave myself, one of my duties was shaving the patients. This quickly became the cause of some anxiety, not for me, but for the poor patients.
The equipment comprised a plastic basin, a bar of soap, a shaving brush, and a razor. After my first few outings, I added a roll of loo paper. I’d soap the men’s faces, then set to work with the razor, often as the patient and I indulged in friendly banter.
The problem was the nicks. I’d be shaving away and then I’d feel it, the nick, and the patient would too, as evidenced by their flinch. A dribble of blood would begin to mingle with the lather on their cheek as I tore off some loo paper and used it to stem the flow.
A close shave: Colm Keena on the trials and tribulations of a summer job in St James’s hospital
Barns ignoble – Frank McNally on Tom Waits’s barn obsession (and why Macbeth is innocent)
Long Day’s Journey Into Night – Frank McNally on a heady month for Monaghan GAA supporters, 40 years ago
Murder most vulgar: Frank McNally on an infamous case of the 1820s
Sweeny Todd, one of the men kindly called me, referring to the fictional London barber who used to murder his customers.
One of older wards had six to eight beds on each side of a long, wide room and I have a memory of surveying my morning’s work and seeing an array of older men in striped cotton pyjamas, all with brave smiles, the shakes, and spots of bloodied loo paper stuck to their faces. I have no memory of any complaints, and a hazy view that, despite the nicks, they wished me well. Ireland, back then, was a less litigious place.
As already mentioned, one of the upsides to the job was the student nurses. I was hugely shy and both delighted and terrified to be working with them. I had lots of different jobs, including giving the men baths, helping with meals, and helping the nurses with various unskilled nursing chores.
One day, a few weeks into the job, a nurse came up to me and told me to stop what I was doing and go shave Mr X, who was in another ward. There were some visitors nearby and I motioned the nurse to one side and, speaking quietly, conveyed what I thought was important news. “Mr X is dead.” She looked at me as if there was no bottom to my stupidity. “I know he’s dead. That’s why I want you to shave him.”
I fetched my equipment and off I went. The curtains were drawn around the dead man’s bed and when I stepped inside it was just me and him. Someone had placed a ribbon around his head to hold his jaw in place until rigor mortis set in. It felt a bit weird, being there, in a tight space, with the body of a man I’d washed and fed over the previous days and weeks. But I decided to get on with it. I removed the ribbon, lathered his face, and started to shave.
Pretty soon I felt it, a nick, and I stopped. But no blood emerged. Ah, I said to myself, as the penny dropped. No blood flow. And I proceeded to give him a good close shave. Curiously enough, I felt glad of the opportunity to do him the service.
As I remember it, there was quite a good atmosphere on the wards, among both the staff and the patients. Everything I’ve seen in the years since has bolstered the idea that caring for others, and thereby not having the time to fixate on your own needs, makes humans happy.
When doing so as a team, this creates its own, special atmosphere, so that even those receiving the care are positively affected. Or so it seems to me, Sweeny Todd.
