Night nurse

Front matter

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BOSTON MEDICAL LIBRAR

Foreword

Those who read my book, Ex-Misrress, will remember that twice I was il in a hospital — once when I had my baby, and once when I parted with my appendix. Upon this last occasion, I found a new and interesting friend in my night nurse ( who has since attended me at home during my second accouchement! )

This book is her story — based on her own experiences and the histories of other nurses she has known. Names, places, locale and circumstances have been completely altered for obvious reasons.

LIBRARY

I’ve just come off a case, and I don’t think I’ll ever be a night nurse again. I’'ll never be a nurse of any kind.

In my long career of batting from place to place, I’ve been able to hang on to my nerves pretty well. After the first hundred shocks, nothing really got under my skin. You get hardened to things. A nurse, you see, deals closely with abnormalities of all sorts. Normal people are perfectly well and healthy. As a rule. But when you get into a hospital, or into the world of sickness it’s like getting into a foreign world. Different customs, rules, conventions, habits —an entirely different outlook on life.

Healthy people seldom realize this. They don’t stop to think of it. For me, the world is divided into three parts: the sick, the well, and those who take care of the sick. The world I live in is apt to be pretty much of a chamber of horrors. A world of the neurotic. Yet, after a while, you don’t think of it that way. It just 7s, and you accept it as a matter of actual fact that must be dealt with. There it is, and there you are, and you do what you can. Which is very little, because so much depends upon the patient.

Maybe you’ve been sick, and maybe you know what I’m talking about. You’re bound to be sick sometime, one of your days. At some point, your life will be hanging in the balance, and very, very often it is utterly in the hands of your surgeon, your doctor, or your nurse. Perhaps most frequently in the hands of your night nurse—who is all you have to depend upon in the small hours of early morning when no other help is about.

The way your night nurse treats you is one story. That goes for the entire medical profession, really. The way you treat your night nurse is an entirely different story. A good sixty per cent of much of the trouble and shame comes from the way you treat your nurses and doctors. After all, we have to take you as you are. We never know when we open the door of a sick room what we're going to face. We have to take care of white and black, mean and nice, generous, suspicious, Christian, pagan, Jew, foreign, cultured, illiterate, murderers, saints, or degenerates. It’s never you that counts. It’s your lungs and heart and pulse and blood and bones and organs. That’s all we care about. Or rather, that’s all we’re supposed to care about.

Sometimes, you can’t help caring. That’s just what’s the matter with me. I’ve made the fatal mistake of taking a case to heart. It was a peculiar case. But, though I’m practically ruined now in my career, I wouldn’t have done any different, if I had to face it all over again. Not a bit different. Because I don’t care if my career is ruined. The career is ruined for me. I’ve lost my taste for it. But it makes me feel like a lost child must feel. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve always loved nursing. It’s been my life. But I swear I could never face it again. I’ve been through ten years of shocks that sent me off the handle, good and proper. I’m bursting with a great festering pent-up indignation, and I feel if I don’t talk to somebody I'll go mad. I’ve been pussying with “ethics” and “professional reticence” and silence long enough.

Now I’m going to talk.

In two weeks a case will come up in court that will probably blackball me from any hospital in the country. I don’t care. I’m going through with it. Because I’m that kind of a fool.

One night last November I was sent out on a new case. I didn’t dream it was really going to be my Waterloo!

It sounded like a cinch. Two little girls, daughters of a famous millionaire, had been at the St. George Hospital for two months suffering from malnutrition. It was feared it would develop into pernicious anemia. But they had fixed the babies up (they were only seven and eight years old ) and sent them back to their millionaire home. I had been in the hospital at the time on a diabetic case, and had known the two little Richey kids—and liked them.

The kids were sent home, practically cured, and that was supposed to be the end of that.

After my diabetic case, I was put on an alcoholic, with whom I went home after he had stepped out of it. I was with him for five nights. He was a beast. I left the case in a huff and went back to the hospital to give the Superintendent a polite piece of my mind.

She told me then of the Richey kids. Strange as it might be, they had evidently got worse since they had gone back to their millionaire home. Their twenty-four-hour nurse was being changed to a day and night nurse. It was a fine berth. Did I want to take it?

Sure I did. It sounded fine, and I liked those two little kids. I always like kids. I don’t see why they should ever get sick and have to suffer. It’s mean.

I went over to the Richey home that evening at six forty-five. I was supposed to do from 7 p.m to 7 aM. I found it was a stupendous roof apartment — simplex — the kind that is like a private house built in a big building. Stairs, and porches, and roof garden and everything. I had been in one before, when I took care of Rex Ronnald, the theatrical producer, so I didn’t gasp at the sight of its beautiful eighteen rooms.

The day nurse met me as soon as a flunky let me in the doors. She took me to the kids’ rooms. They had a suite. A huge bedroom with two little beautiful beds side by side, one all done in pink sheets, and one all done in blue sheets and blankets. They had a sitting room off it, which had the tiniest piano I had ever seen — about as high as my elbow. A bathroom, and a tiny kitchen all to themselves, and a big awninged porch.

The Richey kids were sitting up in their little beds as the day nurse brought me in.

“Oh! Oh!” cried the smallest in a very little voice. Her name was Nannette and they called her Nanny.

“Gee, it’s Miss Hart. Hello, Miss Hart, how’s your beau?”

The bigger one called that out to me, and held up her arms. So I went over to kiss her and tell her my beau was fine and I had come to make her all well again. Her name was Desney, Lord knows why.

Both kids hugged and kissed me. But I could see right away how weak they were, and I wouldn’t let them become excited. Their condition puzzled me—and frightened me a bit.

I got loose from them very quickly, and went in with the day nurse to the kids’ sitting room. I knew the day nurse quite well. Maloney, of the St. George Hospital. I had worked with her often on cases. It made me realize that the case must be important, for the Superintendent always teamed us up when something special was on foot. — Maloney and I worked together like a charm.

We talked as we began to peel off. She got out of her uniform and into her street clothes. I did vice versa. She was showing me things, right and left, in between our conversation. Where this was and where I'd find that. We talked in very low voices. From habit. Besides, we knew each other’s facial expressions.

“Those kids are gonners,” she said first off.

‘Don’t look like it,” I frowned.

“Anemia! They had an undergrad here as a twenty-four-hour nurse,” she went on in a practical monotone. “Know what she did? Gave them each a sleeping tablet so they’d sleep and she could go out. Did it regular. Sometimes twice a day. She knew about how long they’d sleep and she’d go shopping.”

“Oh, the scum!” I muttered vehemently, and glanced toward the closed door that shut off the two little kids. We could hear their voices, quite shrill and excited.

“How long was she on? Is Dr. Ranger still on the case?” I asked. Flung out both questions as I pulled my street dress over my head.

Maloney looked up from putting on black stockings over her white uniform ones.

“She was here five weeks. Yeh, Dr. Ranger is back on the case. He knows. But of course he wouldn’t say anything. They were fools to get an undergrad in the first place. He’ll bar her from St. George. That’s all.”

“Yeh? Well, if I know anything, she'll never finish training!” I flared. “The dirty bum to dope up kids like that.”

“You won’t do anything about it. What, good will it do? You only think you'll kick up dust.”

I shut up and combed my hair. Maloney was right. I wouldn’t tell. For years, I wouldn’t tell. Never, never tell.

“What does Ranger say?” I asked after I had pinned on my cap.

“Back to the same old routine. He hopes to pull them out without bringing them back to the hospital. He doesn’t say anything.”

I sighed. Of course, Dr. Ranger wouldn’t say anything. They never do. Never, never say anything....

“This house is queer” Maloney half whispered presently.

rene”. ,

“Yeh. I’ve been here three days, and haven’t seen a soul but a servant called Maxwell. A woman the kids don’t like. Sort of housekeeper, I guess. She'll bring you up your food and leave it in that ice-box there. She won’t say a word to you.”

“Where’s the kids’ mother?”

-“Gallivanting most of the time, I guess. She lives here, _ but I never see her. The kids see her once or twice a day. Maxwell takes them in to see their mother to say good-night each evening. Sometimes when the mother wakes for breakfast, too. Around noon. But I’ve never been in there and never have seen her. Maxwell takes them in separately, too. Maxwell is off to-day. The kids cry when they don’t go in to see their mother.”

I thought about this as I tied my white shoes, and folded up my street things and hung my coat on a rack. I knew the kids’ father was dead.

Maloney was all dressed and itching to go.

“Did you write out everything?” I asked.

“Yup. You'll find the list on the ice-box. The kids get warm milk as often as they wake up. Their feet are always cold. Don’t use a hot water bag unless you have to. Their poor feet are pulps from them already. Massage them. They have bad dreams. If they have terrible cramps give them paregoric. Ranger said okey, if necessary. They get hysterical....”

A few moments later, I walked down the corridor of the swell-smelling apartment and said good-by to Maloney at the door. She had a date with her oculist chap. Anxious to get away.

I went back to the kids. They had already eaten their supper. They seemed awfully glad to see me—and far from sleepy. Excited. Awfully high-strung babies. I began — to massage them —body massage. Told them stories as I worked over them. I got them and their beds all fixed up — fresh, and then began to promise things if they’d go right — to sleep.

The kids seemed thrilled at seeing me again. They were © asking millions of questions about the hospital. The St. George had evidently left a vivid impression on them. They asked after Dr. Langley, and Miss Carr, and Miss Finch, and the man who had been in the room next to © theirs with an appendix. I had to explain about an ap- — pendix.

“Well,” I said, at last, “it’s time oe got to os Is understand your Miss Maxwell is out.”

“Mrs. Maxwell,” corrected Desney quickly. “M for Maxwell.”

“D for Desney,” I answered, which was what the kid always expected you to say.

“H for Hart,” she said excitedly, It was a game. “What’s your first name, Miss Hart?”

“L for Lora,” I told her.

“Lora!”

The little one sat up in bed with a scramble.

II “Lora!” she repeated after Desney. “We had a sister once named Laura.”

“She died,” added Desney.

_ “She died terrible,” the tiny one explained, a rush of blood coming to her forehead.

“Listen,” I cut in. “My name is really...”

“She was runned over,” Desney told me, beating her hands on the pink comforter. “She was out with her governess, and she was only eight and she was runned over....”

“She was all cut up,” Nanny’s eyes got big.

She began to cry. I went over and took her in my arms, I started to talk to them. Desney didn’t cry. She never cried. Little Nanny was always crying. I told them that their sister Laura hadn’t been all cut up, but they insisted that she had. So I told them she was all mended now, and well, and pretty and in heaven. I told them what heaven was like, with crayons and paints and soap bubbles and Raggedy Anns....I promised to let them blow soap bubbles when they woke up. But they must get to sleep now.... Besides my name wasn’t Laura at all. It was Anna.

“Oh, no,” Desney shook her head firmly. “It’s Laura, or you wouldn’t have said so. I’m sure.”

“Well, I bet I spell my name different from your sister,” I assured her. “My name is spelled Lora. L-O—R—A.”

“That’s funny,” Desney decided. “I got a funny name too. I hate funny names. I hate funny names. I wish my name was Mary or Kitty....”

“Tl call you Kitty,” I offered.

“Why is your name spelled funny?” She was insistent upon the subject.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m Canadian,” I laughed.

“What’s that?” Desney wanted to know.

So I told them about Canada. I told them what a dear place Quebec was. How I had been a little girl there. I got kind of lonesome for it as I talked. I had never been able to afford going back. I was only thirteen when my widowed mother married an American and came to this country. A few years later she left me with a rooming house lady in Astoria, Long Island, and ran off with another man. My stepfather never came near me— would have nothing to do with me....I used to cry and wish I could get back to Quebec....The only happy times I’ve ever remembered were there....

But my memories were cut short as Desney broke in to tell me about another sister she had. I was surprised, because they had never spoken about her while they were in the hospital. This sister was almost fifteen years old, and her name was Juanita, and they hadn’t seen her for ages and ages, not last Christmas nor the one before that. She was in boarding school and never wrote them. They showed me an old picture of her, and she seemed a beauty. Much more so than either of these two kids could ever have been.

We heard noises not so far away, and voices. I saw a light of excitement come into Desney’s eyes at the sounds.

Bin...

“Listen,” I said. “You two have got to get to sleep or you'll never get well.”

“I don’t want to get well,” Desney objected. “I'd like to get worse and go back to the hospital. Nanny would too.”

“That’s Mummy,” cried Nanny suddenly, listening to the voices not far away. She began to cry.

_ “Yes, that’s Mummy,” Desney said excitedly. “I wonder

if she’s going on a party again. I hope she'll wear her ermine. I’d like to see her in her ermine, wouldn’t you, Nanny? I wish she’d come in. Nanny, I wish she’d come

“If you promise to go to sleep,” I stood up suddenly with an idea, “I'll take you in to say good-night to your Mummy!”

“Oh, no!”

The quick sharp objection from Desney made me shudder. I didn’t know why.

Nanny began to cry, and buried her head in her pillow. I looked at her desperately. The poor little morsel had bald patches in the thin wispy strands of her brown hair... Back in my mind I decided I’d rub them with vaseline, and massage the head....

“Why not?” I asked Desney. “Would your mother be cross if you went in to say good-night?”

Desney’s eyes got jumpy with excitement. She leaned forward, in her little bed, and crooked her finger to me. I went closer, because she obviously wanted to whisper to me.

“We mustn’t go in there,” she a me breathlessly. “Not unless Mrs, Maxwell takes us in.”

Nanny was crying worse. I started to go over to her, at Desney pulled me by the sleeve. I could see the kid was bursting with agitation. Nanny was only crying, but shis kid aa

I sat down on the edge of her pink comforter. I leaned closer. Both her hands were grasping my arms now.

“We went in the other night —ourselves,” Desney’s words strangled each other in their haste to come out. “We'll never do it again. We were screamed at and thrown right out... Nanny was so scared. So was I, but I don’t be such a baby.... You know what, Miss Hart?”

“No, what, Desney?”

“Mummy sleeps with Uncle Phil in there. She does — most all the time.”

Nanny stopped crying suddenly, and turned to listen, whimpering softly.

“Desney — you're silly —”

“No, I’m not. I’ve seen them,” the kid nodded her head vigorously. “So has Nanny. We've been home from the hospital a long time now, and we hardly ever see Uncle Phil, but we hear his voice a lot, and Mummy laughing.... But the other night we went in to say good-night to Mummy by ourselves, and we opened the door of Mummy’s room, and we saw Uncle Phil. And he had on just only his pajamas...”

“,..and he was in bed and so was Mummy...” put in Nanny, wide-eyed.

‘ 15 ty

~“,.-and he sat up and yelled at us and called us names. He called us...”

I put my hand over Desney’s mouth. I started to speak, but Nanny was ahead of me....She leaned over from her blue sheets, still whimpering.

“He started to make after us, and we turned and ranned!”

“Nanny, lie back! You'll catch cold! Lie back there.”

The kid slumped back, and began to cry worse than ever. Desney was tugging at my uniform sleeve.

“TIl tell you, Miss Hart, they were mad! Mummy hasn’t spoken to us since.... We haven’t seen her, and...”

“Listen, Desney! It was very wrong of you to go in there like that. But you’re mistaken, child. I’m,sure your Uncle Phil is...”

“I’m not wrong. I saw him!” insisted Desney.

There was no answer I could think of to the stare of the eight-year-old child’s eyes. I disengaged her hand and stood up, gathering some severity.

“That’s nothing,” Desney added breathlessly. “I’ve seen our chauffeur, too. Lots. He’s a big, big man, and he...”

“Child, what are you saying?” I cried.

Nanny began to sob in earnest. Her wails became loud and prolonged. She was all scrunched up with the pillow over her head. I went around to her, glad of something that meant action. I closed the windows, and picked Nanny up in my arms. The child was a deal. She held on to me, scratching me, though she didn’t know it, and kicking and crying...

“He comes in here lots,” Desney went on hoarsely. She was sitting bolt upright and her eyes were glued on me, and she was going to tell me or burst. I threw her a desperate glance, as I sat down with Nanny and drew a blanket around her quivering form.

“He comes in here, when nobody’s around, and he puts on that little lamp, and he...”

“What are you talking about?” I snapped, my eyes blazing.

“Our chauffeur — Nick. I get so scared. Nanny does too. When we wake up at night, sometimes, and we see him leaning over our bed, breathing a lot...and once when I woke up and saw him like that, he put his hand right over my mouth and told me not to make a noise...and once he just laughed at both of us, and went right out of the room, but he left the light on; and he told us once if we dared to tell Mrs. Maxwell...”

“Keep quiet!” I commanded sternly. “Keep quiet, Desney. Can’t you see you're upsetting Nanny dreadfully? And you'll work yourself up into a fever. Don’t you say another word. You hear?”

Nanny had indeed become uncontrollable at this recital from Desney’s dry trembling lips. I got up and walked with her out into the tiny kitchen. I knew Nanny would tire of her fit presently; she hadn’t much strength. I reached into the ice-chest and thanked fate for a small loose chunk of ice. With one hand I took it out, slammed the ice-chest door, and wrapped the ice in a towel hanging over the sink. I carried Nanny back to the nursery. Sat in a

17 chair with her, and talked to her. Crossly, for the most part. It was what would snap her out of it quickest. I rubbed her head with the ice. Her head and her burning cheeks and lips. Her kicking stopped, but her sobs went on tearing at the tiny lungs....

My head was going round and round. I couldn’t believe. ...God knows, I'd seen and heard enough horror.... But _ kids like these — worth millions— with a fine home and every comfort....A chauffeur who came in to scare and horrify them! A mother who...It made me feel wormy.

Desney was still sitting stiff upright, still watching me with big eyes.

I looked over at her and tried to find the right words.

“Do you ever sleep with a man, Miss Hart?”

The question took me down a peg.

“Listen here, Desney,” I made my voice as firm and sharp as I could. I felt Nanny snuggled close to my shoulder and it made me feel safer. “You’re talking nonsense. Just pure nonsense. You’ve had bad dreams, that’s what. I don’t know where you ever got such ideas. But it’s just bad dreams, that’s all.”

“It wasn’t dreams,” Desney shook her head firmly. “Nanny saw it too.”

“She’s been having bad dreams,” I insisted. “You've both been having bad dreams. Miss Maloney told me you both wake up with bad dreams. Isn’t that so? You know it is. Dreams are funny things. People dream of impossible and most peculiar things. Things that couldn’t happen. You must just forget dreams. They aren’t real. Sometimes they seem so real you’re sure they’ve happened. I had a dream like that once.”

“Did you?” Desney looked at me hopefully.

“T had a dream about a big rat. I sure did. A terrible big rat. And a...”

“Did the rat breathe hard?” Desney wanted to know terribly.

“No! No, of course not. What I mean was, I dreamed the rat ate up all my flowers. I have flowers in a window box in my room....” Nanny stirred. She looked at me from under swollen baby eyes. I put the ice away. “I have beautiful flowers,” I went on. “Some geraniums, and some marigold....”

“Got any sweet peas?” Desney demanded.

“Oh, sure, I love sweet peas.”

“So do I,” nodded Desney. “What else you got?”

“Tl bring you some sweet peas to-morrow night,” I told them grandly.

“You will?” Desneys eyes grew softer.

“Pink ones,” Nanny tore out of her throat.

“Umm. I like pink ones best too.” I smiled down on her. “Will you drink a little milk for me? I'll drink some too. We'll all have a party together....”

“Have you got any pansies?” Desney thought to ask.

“Oh, sure. I got the grandest pansies, with the funniest little “faces...”

“Will you bring some pansies, too?” Nanny sat up in my arms.

“Of course.” I began to wonder how much pansies would cost in November.

“Td like to have window boxes,” sighed Desney. “Nanny would, too. Wouldn’t you like to have window boxes, Nanny? With flowers to grow?”

Nanny’s swollen red-raw eyes turned toward Desney, and caught something of the interest of her older sister.

“Yes,” she decided. “I want some window boxes and some milk.”

“Good,” I decided, and carried her over to the bed. “Now you cover up and I’m going to get you some nice milk, and we'll all have some hot milk and crackers together, and we'll plan the window boxes, and we won't ever have bad dreams again....”

“Tt wasn’t dreams...” began Desney.

“Do you like salt in your milk?” I cut in on her.

“Yes, but no butter. I hate it with butter. Nanny hates it with butter too. Like we hate raw eggs. You wouldn't give us raw eggs would you, Miss Hart?”

“Could I have orchids in my window box like Mummy wears?”

“I don’t think so.” I drew the line there firmly.

“Just sweet peas and pansies.”

“And geraniums.”

“They’re red.”

“Pink sometimes, too.”

“Nanny, you grow the pansies, and I'll grow the sweet peas....”I left Desney directing her sister, both of them talking, while I went into the kitchen, and prepared a tray of the hot milk, very creamy, and saltines. I saw some applesauce in the ice-box and fixed it on two saucers in the hopes the kids might eat some.

When I came back we had the “party” together. nae drank only a little of the milk. Desney drank all of hers, but ate nothing. We heard sounds again.

“That’s Mummy. I’m sure she’s going on a party,” Desney remarked, her eyes staring at the door. “Uncle Phil is away. On business. Do you know that, Miss Hart? I don’t know when he'll be back. I hope it will be a long time. I’d rather he didn’t come back at all. I'd rather he got runned over, and all cut up....”

The sounds got louder. We kept silence, somehow, all three of us, as the children’s mother was very evidently going directly past their door and down the corridor. It was almost half-past eight, by my wrist watch.

Desney sighed profoundly as the sound of the mother’s voice faded out of hearing. I wondered if we were alone in the apartment now....

But I broke in quickly about how long it took to grow sweet peas....Just to get them both thinking of other things....

They began to grow sleepier and I put out all but one light. They couldn’t stand being in the dark. I sat quite still, holding Nanny’s hand. My wrist began to ache from the funny position..

“Miss Hart,” Dee) said. drowsily.

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you know how to sing?”

“Not much.”

“Couldn’t you sing at all?”

“Maybe. I. might.”

“Do you know how to play the piano?”

“No. I wish I did.”

“I wish I did, too,” sighed Desney and turned on her back to look straight at me.

“Go to sleep now, Desney.”

“All right....Daddy knew how to play the piano. Mummy doesn’t. But Daddy did. He used to come in and play the piano all the time for us, at nights when we were going to bed....”

“How lovely. Go to sleep now, Desney.”

“He used to play that little piano we have in there. He got it for us, and he used to call it ‘Ajax’.... Funny to name a piano, wasn’t it?”

“Very funny. You’re disturbing Nanny, I think, honey. We'd better not talk any more now. We're only allowed so many words a day, and you’ve used yours all up. Let’s go to sleep.”

“But I wish you could sing, Miss Hart.... Daddy used to sing for us every night. He sang Daffy-Down-Dilly....”

“T don’t know Daffy-Down-Dilly.”

“Don’t you know any songs at all?”

“Not many. I’m not a hand at singing, much.”

“He used to sing ‘Es bliiht ein schénes Bliimchen.’ 'That’s a German song. He loved German songs, and I do too. Nanny remembers. I remember most of the words. I could teach it to you....”

“To-morrow night —I’d love to learn it.”

“Mummy hates anything German, but I don’t, and Nanny doesn’t, either. Daddy was mostly German. He went to school in Germany, and he loved German things. I love German things, too. I could teach you....It goes...”

“Not now, Desney, darling. I’m too sleepy to learn German. You can teach me all the songs to-morrow.”

“But wouldn’t you know any songs at all, Miss Hart? Even a little one? Couldn’t you remember a single song, because I don’t need the piano, just if you could even Sg ee