Ward. “This ward is a humdinger. This is where they make or break seniors.” 59
60
C H E R R Y A M E S , S E N I O R N U R S E
“It looks innocent enough,” Gwen objected. “There’s not a sight or sound within miles. I’ve never been any place so peaceful—on the surface. Look, what’s this?” Both girls stopped to peek in at a small room. It was the first of a series of rooms, a little like Operating Rooms with everything kept sterile but less completely equipped. Cherry’s eye fell on a baby’s scale. “Couldn’t you guess?”
“Delivery Room, where the newest generation arrives, and I win the wooden umbrella,” Gwen said triumphantly.
“You nut!” Cherry giggled. “But it’ll be nice having you and your monkey business around again.” Gwen poked her red head inquisitively into one of the empty private rooms. “It’s going to be nice, too, to have regular hours again, after all that relief duty,” she replied.
They were both wrong. They were to see very little of one another here, and hours turned out to be wildly irregular. For the expected babies paid no attention to hospital schedules.
When the girls reported to the head nurse in charge, they understood why this ward was the seniors’ Big Worry. Miss Sprague was an ageless woman with an iron face and old, pioneer attitudes. She had nursed for years, often under conditions that would have intimidated even Daniel Boone. Miss Sprague thought that any nurse with less than twenty years’ experience was unreliable (“though how are we to get experience in the M I D G E M A K E S M I S C H I E F
61
first place?” Cherry asked Gwen) and she referred quite openly to her student nurses as “those young snips.” Miss Sprague, with her tall spare figure, ramrod posture and tightly knotted hair, was permanently disgusted with youth. She was famous for sending in severe reports on her student nurses. Several seniors had been flunked out on the basis of Miss Sprague’s reports on them.
“As a matter of fact,” Cherry confided to Gwen, after they had introduced themselves to the head nurse and had been morally trampled into their places, “she might be right. Assisting at childbirth is delicate work and I for one am a little nervous about it.”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Gwen said sturdily. “After all, it’s traditionally women’s work. Way back, before we had hospitals or even many doctors in this country, midwives delivered all babies. My father says that even now midwives supervise about fifteen per cent of the births here—and heaven knows how much bigger per cent in other countries. So there.”
“But it’s a far cry from a midwife to a trained obstetrician, and a trained obstetrical nurse,” Cherry replied.
“You just can’t compare them. The difference shows in how many mothers and babies live or die in the process of getting babies born.”
“Absolutely,” Gwen agreed. Her eyes suddenly opened wide. “Gosh, it’s pretty important stuff, isn’t it?
Hmm. I don’t feel so nonchalant now myself.” 62
C H E R R Y A M E S , S E N I O R N U R S E
Cherry started to laugh. She thought of Miss Sprague and her laughter died.
Cherry’s first case started out easily enough. Young Mrs. Reed was admitted to the hospital in the afternoon, just a few hours before Cherry was to go off duty.
Cherry stayed on, because of the possible “rush element.” Mrs. Reed’s baby might put in its appearance quite suddenly, and everybody would spring into instant action.
On the other hand, Mrs. Reed’s baby might dawdle.
Cherry wished the baby would come promptly.
Mrs. Reed was a humorous, pretty young woman.
She strolled in joking and brushing off her hovering mother and her distracted young husband. “Nurse, please tell them to stop fussing and mourning so,” she asked Cherry. “Producing future citizens is a perfectly healthy, normal process.”
“Suppose she has twins,” young Mr. Reed
60
C H E R R Y A M E S , S E N I O R N U R S E
“It looks innocent enough,” Gwen objected. “There’s not a sight or sound within miles. I’ve never been any place so peaceful—on the surface. Look, what’s this?” Both girls stopped to peek in at a small room. It was the first of a series of rooms, a little like Operating Rooms with everything kept sterile but less completely equipped. Cherry’s eye fell on a baby’s scale. “Couldn’t you guess?”
“Delivery Room, where the newest generation arrives, and I win the wooden umbrella,” Gwen said triumphantly.
“You nut!” Cherry giggled. “But it’ll be nice having you and your monkey business around again.” Gwen poked her red head inquisitively into one of the empty private rooms. “It’s going to be nice, too, to have regular hours again, after all that relief duty,” she replied.
They were both wrong. They were to see very little of one another here, and hours turned out to be wildly irregular. For the expected babies paid no attention to hospital schedules.
When the girls reported to the head nurse in charge, they understood why this ward was the seniors’ Big Worry. Miss Sprague was an ageless woman with an iron face and old, pioneer attitudes. She had nursed for years, often under conditions that would have intimidated even Daniel Boone. Miss Sprague thought that any nurse with less than twenty years’ experience was unreliable (“though how are we to get experience in the M I D G E M A K E S M I S C H I E F
61
first place?” Cherry asked Gwen) and she referred quite openly to her student nurses as “those young snips.” Miss Sprague, with her tall spare figure, ramrod posture and tightly knotted hair, was permanently disgusted with youth. She was famous for sending in severe reports on her student nurses. Several seniors had been flunked out on the basis of Miss Sprague’s reports on them.
“As a matter of fact,” Cherry confided to Gwen, after they had introduced themselves to the head nurse and had been morally trampled into their places, “she might be right. Assisting at childbirth is delicate work and I for one am a little nervous about it.”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Gwen said sturdily. “After all, it’s traditionally women’s work. Way back, before we had hospitals or even many doctors in this country, midwives delivered all babies. My father says that even now midwives supervise about fifteen per cent of the births here—and heaven knows how much bigger per cent in other countries. So there.”
“But it’s a far cry from a midwife to a trained obstetrician, and a trained obstetrical nurse,” Cherry replied.
“You just can’t compare them. The difference shows in how many mothers and babies live or die in the process of getting babies born.”
“Absolutely,” Gwen agreed. Her eyes suddenly opened wide. “Gosh, it’s pretty important stuff, isn’t it?
Hmm. I don’t feel so nonchalant now myself.” 62
C H E R R Y A M E S , S E N I O R N U R S E
Cherry started to laugh. She thought of Miss Sprague and her laughter died.
Cherry’s first case started out easily enough. Young Mrs. Reed was admitted to the hospital in the afternoon, just a few hours before Cherry was to go off duty.
Cherry stayed on, because of the possible “rush element.” Mrs. Reed’s baby might put in its appearance quite suddenly, and everybody would spring into instant action.
On the other hand, Mrs. Reed’s baby might dawdle.
Cherry wished the baby would come promptly.
Mrs. Reed was a humorous, pretty young woman.
She strolled in joking and brushing off her hovering mother and her distracted young husband. “Nurse, please tell them to stop fussing and mourning so,” she asked Cherry. “Producing future citizens is a perfectly healthy, normal process.”
“Suppose she has twins,” young Mr. Reed
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