by Helen Wells
Midge followed Cherry across the yard. “I got promises from two more girls and a boy,” Midge announced.
Cherry smiled. “Good for you. Relax, now. You don’t have to do the whole recruiting job single-handed.”
The high school and the junior high school had cooperated with the hospital in initiating the Jayvee program. Cherry did not want to deflate Midge’s enthusiasm by reminding her that all during the last weeks of school—final examinations notwithstanding—the teacher-sponsors and the Jayvee announcements on the school bulletin board had awakened a lively response. Another effective means had been that radio disk jockey’s appeal for Jayvees. It had brought in so many immediate telephoned inquiries that the hospital switchboard had lighted up as if disaster calls were coming in. Some of the doctors and nurses did think the juniors were going to be a disaster. Some of the youngsters’ parents had their doubts, too, and parents’ written permission was needed to become a Jayvee.
“Anyway, you have to remember,” Cherry said, to Midge, “that all the promises so far are only from prospective Jayvees. Some of these eager beavers will tour the hospital next Monday, and decide that hospital work is not for them. Some of them won’t even show up for the tour.”
Midge protested, but Cherry insisted.
“Another thing,” Cherry said. “Miss Vesey, our Director of Volunteers, won’t find that every applicant is the right person to work in a hospital. She says she has to discourage a number of applicants, grownups, even, because they’re either not right for hospital work, or they may be overconfident, or else they’re so shy that they’re not much help.”
“We’ll do better than that,” Midge said stoutly.
“You’ll see,” said Cherry. “Come help me carry out the iced tea.”
Mrs. Ames was sorry to learn that Dr. Fortune felt so tired, but said he could have his supper whenever he came. Charlie helped the two girls bring out the rest of the dishes, Velva and Mrs. Ames followed, and all but Dr. Dan sat down at the picnic table. He insisted on being the one to serve the beefburgers since, as Mr. Ames conceded, he had prepared them.
“Delicious!” everyone said, and Velva said, “Better’n the ones I make.” Dr. Dan was so pleased that he flushed. There was not much conversation during supper; everybody was busy eating. Charlie amiably offered to grill the second round of beefburgers, but—rather to his relief—Dr. Dan was voted master chef. The smell of charcoal smoke mingled with the fresh fragrance of flowers and grass. The sun dropped, and long shadows stretched across the yard. By the time the seven of them had enjoyed Velva’s cake, it was evening.
“Will you sing for us, Dr. Dan?” said Mrs. Ames. “I hope you brought your guitar.”
He had left it in his car, parked at the curb. “Just in case no one wanted to be pestered with my singing,” he remarked. Now he brought the guitar to the picnic table. Striking a chord, Dr. Dan looked at Cherry and said:
“What would you like?”
“‘Wabash Blues,’” said Cherry and Charlie in the same breath. The Wabash River flowed eight miles from here.
“‘My Indiana Home,’” said Velva, who came from the state of Indiana just across the Wabash.
Mrs. Ames asked for “Home on the Range.” Mr. Ames requested a spiritual. Dr. Dan sang them all, and sang them well. Neighbors strolling past paused to listen.
The moon came out. In the Ames’s house the telephone rang and Mrs. Ames went to answer it. She came back outdoors and said:
“That was your father, Midge. He said he just woke up, isn’t presentable, and isn’t ambitious enough to come over. We’ll pack up a picnic lunch for him and somebody will take it to him.”
“We’ll all go,” said Cherry.
As soon as Velva had the picnic basket ready, Cherry, Midge, Dr. Dan, and Charlie all piled into Dr. Dan’s car. First stop was the Fortunes’ cottage. Then they went for a cooling drive through Lincoln Park. Late as it was, the excitement of a big holiday still filled the town.
Dr. Dan said in a low voice to Cherry, “I’d hoped we could go off for a drive by ourselves this evening. Guess I sang for too long.”
“Never mind,” said Cherry. “The summer is just beginning.”
The rest of that first week in July was hot, even for corn growing country. After a slow, hot weekend, Cherry was glad to be back at work in the hospital on Monday morning. She came in at seven-thirty A.M., half an hour earlier than usual, to allow herself time for the Jayvee tour later that morning.
As she stood in uniform in the main corridor waiting for the elevator, an orderly who worked in Emergency came up. He was wheeling a high stretcher on which a young woman lay with knees and wrists in odd, stiff positions. The patient was dressed in night clothes and robe. She was conscious but dazed—probably with pain, Cherry thought.
The orderly motioned Cherry aside and said in a low voice:
“I’m taking this young lady to your ward, Nurse Ames. Dr. Blake saw her just now—on Emergency—rheumatoid arthritis attack—said he’ll be up on Orthopedics right away.”
“Thanks,” Cherry said, and with her lips silently formed the question, “Medication?” The orderly said, “Aspirin.” Cherry bent over the young woman to reassure her. Even with her face screwed up in pain she was pretty, with soft brown hair and velvety dark-brown eyes, and almost as small as a child. She looked up at Cherry and gasped out:
“Nurse, I don’t want to be an invalid! I’m afraid!”
“You won’t be disabled,” Cherry said. “You’re young enough to get well. And we’re going to give you all the right medication and treatment. Rest, now.”
“There’s no known cure for arthritis, my doctor said so!” The young woman’s dark eyes filled with tears. “Look, I can’t move my wrists or my knees. Swollen stiff. They hurt so! I can’t walk! I’ll—I’ll spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair—”
Cherry knew that arthritis made its sufferers pessimistic and often emotionally dependent. She said kindly but firmly, “Don’t be frightened. We’re here to help you.”
The patient had not heard a word Cherry said. She cried all the way upstairs. Cherry dismissed the orderly, and aided by the ward’s alerted night nurse, transferred the patient to a prepared bed. She tried to hide her wet face in the pillow. The other women patients, awake in their beds, watched in silence. Some of them, Cherry realized, were pretty discouraged themselves; she wished a few young Jayvees were here to distract them.
Dr. Dan Blake came in at once. He smiled at Cherry and Mrs. Page, the night nurse, as he handed them the admitting interviewer’s notes, then went over to talk softly to the new patient.
Cherry and the night nurse read together: “Wilmot, Margaret (Peggy). 1617 Lincoln Drive, Hilton. Age twenty-six. Widow, no relatives near. Brought in ambulance by Dr. Fairall who treated her two weeks ago for a severe strep throat. Dr. Fairall stated impossible to foresee that infection would move from strep throat into blood stream and into joints, causing acute rheumatoid arthritis. Sudden explosive attack early this A.M. with temperature of 103. Weakness, fatigue, recent loss of weight, now very painful swollen red wrists and knees. Patient incapacitated, alone, barely able to telephone doctor.”
“Poor thing,” Cherry murmured.
“I should say so,” the night nurse murmured back. “If you’d like me to stay on after eight o’clock, I can. I hear you’re going to be busy with teenagers this morning.”
“Thanks, but you’ve put in a long night’s work,” Cherry said to Mrs. Page. “If necessary, the juniors will have to wait, or Miss Vesey will take charge of them.”
Peggy Wilmot had stopped crying. The young doctor motioned Cherry and Ethel Page into the hall, to the nurses’ station outside the ward door, where the patients could not overhear—and worry.
“Well”—Dr. Dan Blake stopped smiling—“this new case looks plenty serious, but she will not require surgery. Of course for a definitive examination and orders, we’ll have to see what Dr. Watson says when he comes in.”
Dr. Ray Watson was the senior doctor in charge of all Orthopedic wards. “He’ll want to consult with Dr. Fairall. In the meantime,” Dr. Dan Blake said, “we’ll support those inflamed wrists and knees with splints, and give her all the comfort measures we can. Mrs. Page, please bring me four aluminum splints. Cherry—I mean, Miss Ames—I’d like you to work with me.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Cherry said. She did try, at work, to forget that they were friends after working hours.
Peggy Wilmot had fallen asleep. Cherry gently woke her so she would not be startled when Dr. Blake applied the splints. He explained to her that the lightweight “gutter” splints, open on top, would support the inflamed joints of her wrists and knees.
“First of all, Mrs. Wilmot, you must rest these inflamed joints,” he said. “Moving your wrists and knees will cause pain. The splints will immobilize them and also hold them in normal positions, so that when the inflammation subsides, you won’t be left with any deformity.”
Peggy Wilmot winced with pain as Dr. Blake adjusted the splints that Mrs. Page brought. “I won’t be deformed, will I?” she asked.
“No, you won’t,” Dr. Dan said. “Now why are you looking so worried? Don’t you trust your doctors and nurses?”
He threw Cherry a look that said, “You’ll have to reassure her and get rid of this worry of hers.” Cherry nodded. The patient’s attitude had a great deal to do with getting well.
By the time four splints were applied, with light sandbags placed against the splints to increase the corrective force, the night nurse had left and the daytime staff had come in.
The head nurse, Miss Julia Greer, came over to welcome the new patient. Confidence exuded from Miss Greer’s trim, erect figure, and kindness shone in her lined, intelligent face. Cherry never had worked with a more superlative nurse than Julia Greer; the entire hospital respected and loved this woman who had devoted a lifetime to it. Some of her strength came across to Peggy Wilmot, who smiled for the first time this morning.
And after Cherry had given her the additional aspirin Dr. Blake prescribed, and the other daytime nurse, Mary Corsi, had come over to say hello to young Mrs. Wilmot, and Cherry had washed her face, she said:
“You’re all so kind to me. I wish you’d call me Peggy.”
“Peggy it is,” said Cherry. “Now how would you like some breakfast?”
It was necessary to feed the helpless patient gently, without hurry. She ate gratefully, dependently. She reminded Cherry of a child, a small, scared child.
Morning care and breakfast for the other patients took up Cherry’s time until Dr. Ray Watson came in on his morning rounds. He came booming and stomping in, an abundantly good-humored elderly man, and the entire ward perked up.
Cherry wanted to stay to hear his prognosis and what drugs he ordered for the new patient, but Miss Julia Greer whispered to her:
“The Director of Volunteers telephoned just now that you’d better come down right away. She says there’s a small, enthusiastic mob of juniors, and that several of them are asking for you.”
“But I want to hear about Mrs. Wilmot—”
“Come back at lunchtime, my dear, and I’ll tell you. You’ve done all anyone can for her, for now. Getting help from the juniors is important, too.”
Cherry thanked her. She righted her starched cap on her dark curls, and hurried off to the brand-new Hospitality Lounge, a room especially prepared for the juniors.
A bright paper banner, lettered WELCOME JUNIORS, stretched across one wall of the Hospitality Lounge. Some fifty young people waited here. Because they were in a hospital, they were unaccustomedly quiet. Cherry noticed that the girls outnumbered the boys three or four to one. Up at the front of the room, chatting with the youngsters, were Mrs. Streeter, the Superintendent of Nurses, with Dr. Joe Fortune, and one or two white-clad nurses. Apparently Mr. Howe, the Hospital Administrator, and Dr. Keller, the Medical Superintendent, were too busy to attend, but they had given their permission for a Jayvee program, along with the high school and junior high school principals, and that was the main thing. Cherry started toward the front of the room but was quickly surrounded by boys and girls.
“Remember me, Miss Cherry? I’m Dorothy Ware—Dodo.” A bouncy, giggly, plump girl pumped Cherry’s hand. “Can I please work with you on Orthopedics, please? Midge thinks maybe I can.”
“We’ll see, Dodo,” Cherry said.
Midge was acting very important and proud because, except for two other girls, she was the only experienced Jayvee here. Cherry waved to the other two. One was lanky, droll Emma Weaver who loved to cook. The other was Carol Nichols, who seemed older than fifteen; she had a knack for drawing and she was dependable. Cherry had heard that the other few former Jayvees had gone away on vacations with their families.
A quiet, dark, studious-looking boy of about fourteen or fifteen said to Cherry, “I’m Myron Stern. This is my friend, Dave McNeil.” Dave was tall, strapping, rosy, about fifteen.
Cherry shook hands with both boys. “I’m sure the hospital will be glad to have you.”
Myron Stern looked embarrassed. “You know, at school they gave physical examinations to those of us who want to be volunteers. Seems I have a slight heart murmur. I never knew about it before. That won’t rule me out, will it? I’m perfectly well and strong, otherwise.”
His friend Dave McNeil said, “You’re good at lab work. Maybe they’ll let you help out in one of the hospital labs. How about that, Miss Ames?”
“I don’t see why not,” Cherry said. “We wouldn’t allow Myron to be a messenger, but the labs could use a clerk.” She explained that supervisors decided which assignments went to volunteers. “But don’t worry, the supervisors will try to honor your request if they possibly can.”
“Thanks, Miss Ames,” both boys said. Dave called after her, laughing, “I’d like a nice cool job in the Pharmacy’s refrigerator this summer.”
Cherry grinned and then her grin faded as a tall, beautiful, overdressed blond girl seized her hand.
“Oh, I’m so happy to meet you, Miss Cherry! I’m Lillian Jones. I do so hope the hospital will accept me! I think it would be just wonderful to serve here.” Her mascaraed eyes held a faraway gleam.
The girl was a born actress, Cherry thought in amusement, who saw herself in the role of ministering angel. Still, Lillian might just turn out to be serious about volunteer work. Cherry said something encouraging and moved on.
One person she was glad to see here was Bud Johnson. She knew this freckled, sturdily built boy from the Orthopedic wards where he had worked last summer as an orderly, and she knew Bud to be solidly dependable, like a rock. He said “Hi!” to Cherry, as one professional to another, and went on talking confidently to three girls who looked uncertain but impressed. Cherry answered “Hi,” and pushed her way ahead, past the taller, quieter seventeen- and eighteen-year-old girls, to the staff persons in white.
Cherry said good morning to Mrs. Streeter and to Midge’s father, Dr. Fortune. He was having an argument—as far as anyone so gentle would argue—with a skinny, eyeglassed woman in white who seemed to bristle. She was Mrs. Jenkins, Head Nurse of the Women’s Medical Ward, and she was asserting:
“Suppose a junior volunteer makes a mistake? I say, keep them in the linen room. Kids have no place on the wards.”
“And did an adult never make a mistake, Mrs. Jenkins?” Dr. Fortune answered. “I know some youngsters who are more reliable than some adults. All these young persons here today have good scholastic and character records. They have the idealism to want to help others.”
“Humph!” Mrs. Jenkins said. “They like the uniform better than the job.” Then she had to keep quiet, because Mrs. Streeter was calling the meeting to order.
The teenagers listened soberly as Dr. Fortune and then the Superintendent of Nurses each made a brief address. Dr. Fortune said: “Hospital work is hard work. It is literally life-and-death work. Your only reward will be the satisfaction of helping others. However, if
you are planning a career in medicine or nursing—if you like people and want to learn more about them—or if you simply want to do something really needed and important, the hospital welcomes you.”
Mrs. Streeter spoke of the shortage of nurses—so urgent that the ward nurses had barely enough time to give essential services to their patients. “Particularly,” she said, “we don’t have time to give a patient the extra attentions and individual interest he needs to encourage him to get well. Besides, there are dozens of other vital jobs—every bit as urgent as nursing—where we need your extra hands and tireless legs to keep this hospital functioning.”
There were several rules to observe. Miss Ann Vesey, the attractive, friendly young Director of Volunteers, who did not look much older than a teenager herself, explained the rules. Junior volunteers would not participate in medication and treatment of patients. All volunteers of any age would be under close professional supervision. Any person who worked in the Food Services Department or in the Pediatrics Ward or playroom with children must have chest X-rays and frequent throat cultures taken. In some states the teenagers would have to obtain working papers, but this was not true in Illinois. The hospital would train the volunteers in a general class and then on the teenagers’ specific jobs.
“Since there is so much to do, and so few of us to do it,” Miss Vesey said, “we recommend that most, if not all, of you serve in more than one department. Having two assignments will give you an interesting change of pace, and more experience, too.”
After fifty hours of service, the juniors would receive award pins, at an evening party to which they and their parents would be invited. There was a little stir of pleasure at that.
Bud Johnson raised his hand. “What hours do you want us here?”
Miss Vesey said that juniors in other hospitals found that two or three full days a week worked out well for them and for the hospitals. “That’s a seven-hour day, or you can volunteer for half days if you’d rather,” she said. “No night work.”