Keys to the Drug Cupboard and other Catastrophes: A Nurse's Memoir​

By Joan Wilkinson

It is impossible not to laugh out loud at Joan's recollection of her early life in the UK, her clumsy and hilarious recruitment as an Enrolled Nurse in the early 1970s and her antics throughout her early nursing and Army career. Joan also shares her pain at being a victim of domestic violence, enduring the a

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781637676639

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 Joan Wilkinson

Paperback: 978-1-63767-662-2

Hardcover: 978-1-63767-664-6

eBook: 978-1-63767-663-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021924782

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Joan Wilkinson retains all rights to this publication once published.

This book may contain stories of Aboriginals and Torres Strait Islanders and traditions that may offend. It is not my intention to cause offence.

This is a true memoir and is solely the memory of the Author, Joan Wilkinson. Some places and names have been changed to protect their identities. Permission of the characters used has been sought. Photographs are the copyright of Joan Wilkinson.

Memories can be different from person to person. This book documents how the Author Joan Wilkinson remembers the incidents portrayed.

Ordering Information:

BookTrail Agency

8838 Sleepy Hollow Rd.

Kansas City, MO 64114

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

I lovingly dedicate this book to the precious memory of my son Anthony James Wilkinson 1983-1985

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Commonly used Abbreviations used throughout the book

Chapter 1:     Family Life in the Uk and Migration to Australia

Chapter 2:     Early Nursing

Chapter 3:     Joining the Army

Chapter 4:     Queensland

Chapter 5:     Deployment & Overseas Adventures

Chapter 6:     Love, Death & Other Tragedies

Chapter 7:     Home Nursing

Chapter 8:     Unspeakable Loss

Chapter 9:     Tragedy in Indonesia

Chapter 10:   My Life with PTSD

Chapter 11:   Life now

Iroquois Helicopter, Bougainville

Preface

I have written this memoir at the insistence of friends, family and various acquaintances because they thought I have had an exciting life, and I suppose I have. As I started writing, I recalled my childhood, my haphazard entry into nursing, my early adult life events and my work with the Army.

One of my most defining life events occurred on the 2nd of April, 2005, on Nias Island, Indonesia. A helicopter, Sea King 2 that had 11 personnel aboard, crashed. I was serving with the Australian Army as a nurse and deployed for humanitarian support to the island of Nias following a severe earthquake. I was one of the first on the scene following the accident. I have continued with PTSD following this tragedy.

When I started this book, I began to process a tragic event that significantly shaped the second half of my adult life. From that naughty young nurse to who I am today, I barely recognise myself. I hope you enjoy my reflections as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

Acknowledgements

This book would still be waiting to be completed without the help of Christine Smitham. Christine pushed me to achieve and set deadlines for me. Without her help with editing and her attention to detail, this would not have been completed.

My son John for his legal advice. He would be sad if he did not get a mention.

My husband Geoff for his patience and coffee making skills.

My nemisis Catherine Elizabeth Wilkinson.

My Army mates and nursing friends, students and passed patients whose lives have enriched mine.

To Scarlet Grey and Saffron Brown of BookTrail Publishing, many thanks for your patience and a lot of hand holding during this process. I thought you would quit on me as I kept changing my mind emailing yet further edits! This is my first book and you have stayed the distance and for that I am thankful.

Commonly used Abbreviations used throughout the book

ADF - Australian Defence Force

RSM- Regimental Sergeant Major

CSM - Company Sergeant Major

CAPT- Captain

LT –Lieutenant

OC Officer- commanding

WO2 -Warrant Officer Class Two

WO1 -Warrant Officer Class 1

CPL- Corporal Soldier

Digger -Private Soldier

RAANC- Royal Australian Nursing Corps

RAAMC- Royal Australian Medical Corps

No Duff – Military term for genuine casualties

RN – Registered Nurse

Sister – previous terminology for a Registered Nurse

EN – Enrolled Nurse

PT – Patient

Thomas Pack – Medical backpack full of life support equipment

DDA’s – Dangerous drugs of addiction

Morgue- Mortuary

Barouche – Trolley for patient transfer

Doubles- Two escorts at a time

Expat –Relating to somebody who is living abroad ‘expatriate’

Sheikha – Princess

Sheikh – Prince

Animal Souk – Market to purchase live animals

Fabric Souk – Market dedicated to the purchasing of material

Gold Souk – Market of gold sellers and artisans

UAE- United Arab Emirates

MOH -Ministry of Health

The Ville - Bougainville

Heuys – Iroquois Helicopters

OP Sumatra Phase Two – The name given to the operation after Earth Quake. (NIAS)

The Lands – Relating to the spiritual homelands of the Aboriginal people and Torres Strait Islanders

PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Chapter 1

Family Life in the Uk and Migration to Australia

My father was a strict man, very much Edwardian in his thinking. He was not violent nor a drinker. He was good with money and had a dry sense of humour! My father was an honest soul who died from a brain tumour at the age of 52. I remember all too well the tragic circumstances we found ourselves in. Mum thought she was the family’s guiding light; she was wrong. Mum had a wicked temper and would take it out regularly on the poor innocent cooker; she could clean an oven at twenty paces! Dad was authoritarian, but he loved his children, his grandson, fishing and gardening.

My father, John Alfred Croft (Jack)

My brother Alan was 3 years my senior and mum’s favourite. My parents’ bedroom had a fireplace, and so did my brother’s room, but my room didn’t. It was a typical room very common at this time in the UK, the smallest bedroom in the house that had a box covering the stairs. I had a curtain strung across the box as a sort of wardrobe. When I was ill, my mother put me in Alan’s room because she could light the fire to keep me warm. But I think she moved me into Alan’s room, so the doctor thought it was my room!

Until 1969 we lived in Manchester, well I say Manchester; it was Failsworth. The weather was predominately wet all year round. If we had a summer, we dared not blink. Winters were cold, and frost was on the inside of our windows most mornings during those long dark days. I would watch, mesmerised at the light patterns the frost left on my small roomed window. We did not have central heating, but we went to bed with a hot water bottle and socks.

A young Joan outside 91 Kew Road Failsworth

At 91 Kew Road, our house was atypical of the deco period built in the 1930s. It was painted a rich black and white and was red brick. Mum always had to be tasteful in all she did: no flashy colours or common patterns for us.

My uncle worked at a wallpaper mill which gave my mother ideas for decorating. We would come in from school and wonder whose house we were in. So many wallpaper changes made me giddy, and my dad refused to do any. My mum papered and papered to her heart’s content. It was as if she had something to prove; she had to have the latest of everything before anybody else. People thought her a snob, standoffish even. I can’t remember my mother ever having any real friends she socialised with. I know she was only in her thirties at this time. She was always well dressed, hair correctly configured and solid with hair lacquer so stiff you could shred your hands if you touched it, unless it was the weekend, then it was in rollers for Monday and work. Even in her later years, her house was immaculate.

One could say my relationship with my mother was, at best tenuous. She was never one for saying how she felt towards her children. I don’t remember her hugging me or gently kissing me goodnight. I am not a demonstrative woman – maybe this is why. I can remember, however, my dad telling me a goodnight story he had made up all about Gerry Booth and Len Fairclough from the 60’s hit TV show Coronation Street.

My father built a conservatory onto the back of the house and made a huge dog kennel in the garden. I used the dog kennel to nurse poor dead featherless birds that had fallen out of their nests. I showed an early interest in nursing even if none of my wounded birds survived. I held elaborate funerals for them, the coffin being a matchbox with a cross scribbled in crayon on them.

Rex, our dog, was an English shorthaired pointer. He was undoubtedly a gentle giant of a dog. My mother fed Rex topside steak, not rough cuts of meat made into a stew for the dog; no, we got that. Dad worked for Edwards Butchers as a driver. He would travel all over the country to pick up meat from the slaughterhouses and then deliver it to Edwards Butchers for processing. Naturally, we got beef cheaper than the consumers of a butchers shop; however, Dad would take the money for the meat from mum’s housekeeping. Dad was annoyed that mum fed the dog the better meat than him and us children. Dad worked very hard, there was no overtime despite the many hours he put in, and while both my parents worked (mum part-time), money was tight.

Our house was immaculate and tidy as mum always anticipated what unplanned visitors would think about her home. She was also very fashion conscious with up to the minute decorating trends. We started with the original 1930s open fireplace typical of the period, but this had to go as it was ‘dusty’ and not ‘modern’. So we had a very sixties fireplace to replace the old one, with pale blue tiles surrounding a three-bar electric heater. Not very cosy, I can tell you. I would much rather sit in front of an open fire and gaze into the burning embers even today. (I am, however, my mother’s daughter, as I have an imitation electric open fire look-alike in my lounge. It looks like the real thing without the mess!)

My father dug a fishpond in our back garden at Kew Road, though to be fair, the first couple of attempts failed. My dad had lined the pond with plastic, and when my young cousin visited, he decided that a garden gnome needed a swim which tore the plastic lining. My cousin could disappear and reappear in seconds, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. Not once but twice did this happen!

My father had caught the fish from the local canal. Unfortunately, my cousin’s antics left the pond fish flapping in a hole in the ground. My father decided concrete was the only solution to this problem. Mercifully the fish survived, and my cousin migrated to Australia.

Life in the sixties is hard for me to remember in detail. I had a best friend named Hazel, whose father was a police sergeant. He was a fearful man, straight-talking and no-nonsense. We would get a warning when going out to play to behave. I remember us stealing flowers from Failsworth Cemetery; we did not know how bad it was until I presented my mother with a wreath. ‘Where did you get this from?’ she asked, her mood darker than the Failsworth clouds hovering overhead. Answering quietly, I said, ‘found it’. ‘Don’t lie to me, she retorted. ‘You stole it and wait until your father gets home!’

Dad, who was away at the time on meat deliveries, said simply when he did get home, ‘Hello Joanie, your mother told me I had to have a word with you. As the flowers were fresh, I could only assume the body beneath the earth was new. I have never stolen from a cemetery since. I doubt Hazel ever told her dad. I feel he would have made us return our sacrilegious bounty.

I know this time was hard going for my parents. My brother was at grammar school, and I was still in junior school. Both my parents worked, as did my aunts and uncles. Many of mum’s sisters and brothers lived within walking distance from us, and there was always somebody around if we needed anything.

My father only had one brother who unfortunately died in a motorbike accident. I believe he was just 21.

Grandad Croft, my dad’s father, lived in a house in Altrincham. He had married for the second time after Nanna Crofts’ death. I do not remember my Nanna Croft. I have fondest memories of my grandad Wylie but have no memory of my Nana Wylie as she passed away when I was only a baby. My Grandad