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The Director of Nurses–She Also Serves

1945; Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; Volume: 45; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1097/00000446-194504000-00016

1538-7488

Bernice Lewke,

Health and Conflict Studies

SHE WAS ALONE in her office in Memorial Hospital one November morning. She wore a fresh, white uniform with long sleeves, a gold pin fastened to the blouse. A stiffly-starched white cap covered the back of her head, its cuff framing her face like a halo. Seated at her desk, she faced the open doorway, calm, alert, assured, facing what problems would come her way. Rays of sunshine streaming in through the windows fell upon the door, which swung into the room, and brightened the lettering, of Usually, it pleased her to read these words, for she, Faith Holden, was Director of Nurses. She had reached a prominent position in her profession. A chosen profession, that is nursing. Few people, she believed, drifted into it as into other lines of endeavor. You didn't drift in; you walked in, for during training, either you quit or nursing became a part of you. You reached the depths, you climbed the heights, a drudgery, an ecstasy, that is nursing. Soul-satisfying, nursing is real. Other professions, Faith thought, are the by-products of civilization; nursing goes down to the roots of humanity. Truly, the greatest profession for a woman. There is not much glamor in it, moving pictures to the contrary, and little glory. In general, Faith thought, patients divide into two classes, those who wish to forget their illness and those who like to think of themselves as a martyr, the victim or at least the center of a little drama. In either case, the nurse is quickly relegated to the background, forgotten. The only glory lies in one's own heart, in the knowledge of serving mankind. This morning, however, these truths were not in her mind. She glanced at the bright letters on the opened door without her usual pleasure at their implication, for she was tired from her work. Very tired. The shortage of nurses caused by the war was producing critical situations in hospitals' throughout the country and Memorial Hospital was no exception. Nurses were leaving to enter the service, a few to do public health and industrial nursing. It was a part of her duties to fill the vacancies. She had to shift the members of her staff; she had to make replacements. Even supervisors were not immune to the call to the colors. She always applauded them when they answered the country's call but, at the same time, she could not help but wish that someone had thought to freeze them in their jobs. If that had been done, Fourth Floor would not be having its third supervisor in five months. And to make matters worse, the present incumbent, with two brothers in the Navy, was no safe bet. In regard to Third Floor, she had felt secure, because the supervisor there was married and lived near-by. She was not desirous of a change. Too secure. All had been quiet and smooth-running on Third until this morning, when disaster descended. The supervisor was struck by an auto on her way to the hospital and fell, injuring her foot. At the present moment, she was in x-ray department and Faith, without undue pessimism, suspected the worst. Replacements. She hadn't slept well last night and the night before she had counted every stroke of the clock. Lately, she dreamed of making replacements and mornings, she came to work with a headache. For the first time in her life, she found herself suffering from headaches. She was tired, tired out..What she needed was a change, to get away from the awful daily grind, from having -to do the work of two or three people. She would go away, that was the solution. She intended to enlist. This desire was no impulse of the moment. Ever since the outrage at Pearl Harbor, she had wished to join in the conflict, to serve her country in an active way. It was only natural that she should do so. Her grandfathers had been surgeons in the Civil War; her father was in the United States medical corps in France. It was for her now to wear the caduceus. It was time for her to go. Jane Turner and Jean King were leaving. Amy Mortensen was somewhere with a contingent in the South Pacific. Grace Valek had gone to Africa. Her friends, her classmates, and even her former students were gone to different sections of the globe. They were wearing their country's uniforms, proud to be able to give of their knowledge and experience, their lives if necessary. She too must go. She was glad that the sun had pierced the curtain of mist and smoke that had enveloped the city for the last four days, for today was a red-letter day for the September class. They were to wear their new uniforms for the first time. First, she would hear muffled voices, a giggle or two from out in the hall. There would be a flash of starched This is Miss LEWKE'S explanation of the above article: As a member of a club belonging to the Ninth District, Illinois Federation of Women's Clubs, I was asked by the president to submit a story for the annual literary contest sponsored by the district. As a volunteer nurse's aide, I was aware of the dire need for nurses. I wanted my short story to express this need. Also, because I knew several nurses who were longing to go into service but were unable to do so, I wished to say a word for them. Combining the two purposes, I wrote the story. Like most short stories, the characters, setting, and situation are taken from life; the plot is fictional. To my delight, it won a prize. I was especially pleased because it had, therefore, to be read before an assemblage of the district as well as before members of my own club; each time it was heard by from 150 to 200 women. But my greatest joy has been the work itself. I have worked on every floor of our hospital, in every department open to nurse's aides. I cannot say which phase of the work I like best. It is all so worth while!