The HDU : High Dependency Unit is that special place between a general ward and the ICU. Patients come here when they’re critical but don’t need a ventilator or full-on ICU care.
Betty had been working in HDU for almost four years since graduating as a Pupil Assistant Nurse, and she loved the adrenaline. You never knew what you’d get: gastrointestinal bleeds, stabbing victims, head injuries, collapsed lungs — she had seen it all. She was even getting pretty good at assisting in resuscitations.
It had been a normal day so far. Three patients had just come from the Operating Theatre after emergency surgeries and were all settled in nicely. Then the phone rang at the nurses’ station. The ward clerk picked up, listened carefully, and then announced loud enough for everyone to hear: “One gun shot wound coming up!”
Instant chaos.
“Which bed?” someone shouted.
“Bed 8!” the clerk replied. And just like that, battle mode engaged.
Oxygen panel checked. Suction apparatus set up. Emergency trolley stationed. Chest tube insertion trolley rolled out. Ryle’s tube set prepped. Blood forms printed — RBS, crossmatch, biochemistry. The houseman was scribbling furiously on admission notes. Health attendants were ordered to stay put in case blood needed to be collected urgently. Everyone waited, tense, for the arrival of the gunshot patient.
Finally, the lift doors opened. Out came the trolley: an emergency attendant pushing, a lady by the side, and the patient under a blanket pulled right up to his neck.
“Weird… no police escort?” one nurse whispered.
“Gunshot cases always have police escort.”
“Maybe they’ll come later.” Something felt off. Never mind. Focus on the patient. The trolley rolled to Bed 8. Betty helped the man over to the bed. He sat up on his own.
“Okay… he can sit. Not in distress. Good sign,” Betty thought. Vitals? Normal. Pulse steady. Breathing fine. No pain on his face. She started the routine questions: allergies, current meds, medical history. All answered perfectly.
Finally, time for a visual check. Betty peeled back the blanket, expecting bandages, blood stains, something. Nothing. Patient fully clothed. No wounds. No blood. No obvious trauma. Betty frowned.
“Sir… the admission note says gun shot wound?” The man nodded, looking sheepish. “Where exactly is the gunshot wound?”
The man hesitated, glanced at his wife… and then silently pointed at his bottom. Specifically. His anus.
Betty froze. “Anus…?!” her brain screamed. “If he got shot there, he should be dead by now!” She stared at him, utterly baffled.
That’s when the wife stepped forward, took Betty gently by the arm, and whispered softly: “Nurse… it’s not police-and-thief gun shot, okay?”
Betty blinked, still stuck on “anus = dead man walking.”
“Not… police-and-thief gun shot? Then… what kind of gun shot?”
The wife leaned closer and murmured just one word: “Pressure gun.”
It took a moment for Betty to process it. Pressure gun. High-pressure water gun. Constipation DIY gone wrong.
Betty turned and walked back towards the nurses’ station in a daze. Halfway there, the absurdity hit her and before she could even open her mouth, she heard the entire station erupting into laughter.
Somewhere, someone wheezed between giggles: “New case note: ‘Rectal perforation — GSW.’”
Gun Shot Wound. Pressure Gun. Same same… but not really.
