By the way, Miss Sweeney, I assume you’re immune?
The young woman didn’t seem to know the word.
To the flu, the grippe. Since you’ve walked into a fever ward without a mask—
Oh, I’ve had the grippe.
But this year’s one, the bad one, I specified.
Got over it ages ago. Now, what do you want doing, Nurse Power?
It was a relief to be asked that. Let’s start by making up Mrs. Noonan’s bed.
I checked the base layers were all smooth, the wire-spring mattress in its canvas cover sitting just so on the boards, the hair mattress in its cotton one on top. A ruddy tan waterproof mackintosh base fitted tight, then an underblanket, then a sheet.
Aromatic with whiskey fumes, Ita Noonan tried to climb on.
Just another minute, I said as I blocked her gently with my arm.
I got a fresh drawsheet, under and upper sheets, and blankets from the bedding cupboard. I said, We pull every layer smooth and crisp, see, so there’ll be no wrinkles to hurt Mrs. Noonan’s skin.
Bridie Sweeney nodded.
As I helped Ita Noonan in, she heaved a breath and cried, Such malarkey!
The newcomer asked, What is?
I shook my head.
Her face froze. Sorry—am I not allowed to talk to them?
I smiled. I only meant, don’t worry if Mrs. Noonan makes odd remarks. I tapped my scalp and said, A high temperature can rattle the pot.
I wound one shawl around the sick woman’s shoulders and draped another over the back of her head to keep draughts off.
Ita Noonan swatted at the air with her sipping cup. Awful yahoos, left my delph in smithereens!
Did they now? Bridie Sweeney fixed the pillows.
The young woman had a nice bedside manner, I decided; that couldn’t be taught.
I pushed the ball of soiled bedding down into the laundry bucket and jerked my thumb towards the passage. This goes down the chute—the one marked Laundry, not Incinerator.
Bridie Sweeney hurried out with the bucket.
Delia Garrett asked, Did that girl just walk in here off the street?
Well, if Sister Luke recommended her…
A snort.
We’re so short-staffed that I’ll gladly accept any help, Mrs. Garrett.
She muttered into her magazine, I never said you shouldn’t.
When Bridie Sweeney came back in, I took her through the distinctions between various gauze dressings (squares, balls, six-foot strips in tins), flax-tow swabs, single-use cloths, ligatures, and catgut.
The actual guts of cats?
Sheep, actually. I don’t know why it’s called that, I admitted.
She beamed around her. So these ladies are here for you to cure their grippe?
I let out a breath. I only wish I knew how to do that, but there’s no cure as such. The thing has to run its course.
For how long?
Days or weeks. (I was trying not to think of those it killed with little warning, in the street or on their own floorboards.) Or it can linger for months, I admitted. To be perfectly frank, it’s a toss-up. All we can do is keep them warm and rested, fed and watered, so they can put what force they have into beating this flu.
My young helper seemed fascinated. She said under her breath, Why’s Mrs. Noonan that colour?
Ah, here was something simple I could teach. I told her, They go dark in the face if they’re not getting quite enough oxygen into their blood. It’s called cyanosis, after cyan—the shade of blue.
She’s not blue, though, said Bridie Sweeney. More like scarlet.
Well, I said, it starts with a light red you might mistake for a healthy flush. If the patient gets worse, her cheeks go rather mahogany. (I thought of the turning of the leaves in autumn.) In a more severe case, the brown might be followed by lavender in the lips. Cheeks and ears and even fingertips can become quite blue as the patient’s starved of air.
Horrible!
I remembered to turn to the other patient and say, Don’t worry, Mrs. Garrett, you’re not in the least cyanotic.
She gave a little shudder at the idea.
Bridie Sweeney asked, Is blue as far as it goes?
I shook my head. I’ve seen it darken to violet, purple, until they’re quite black in the face.
(Nurse Cavanagh’s fallen Anonymous this morning, as dark as cinders by the time she ran up to him in the street.)
It’s like a secret code, Bridie Sweeney said with pleasure. Red to brown to blue to black.
Actually, in our training, we made…
I wondered if she’d know the word mnemonic. Or alliterative.
…little reminders to commit medical facts to memory, I told her.
Like what?
Well…the four Ts that can cause postpartum haemorrhage—bleeding after birth—are tissue, tone, trauma, thrombocytopenia.
You know an awful lot, Nurse Power.
I gave the young woman a tour of the other shelves and cupboards. If I hand you a metal instrument that’s been used, you can take for granted that I want it sterilised, Miss Sweeney. Lower it into this pot of boiling water with these tongs here and leave it for ten minutes by your watch.
Sorry, I haven’t—
There’s a clock on the wall over there. Then lay out a fresh cloth from this brown-paper packet and use the tongs to set the instrument on the cloth. Anything you haven’t time to boil can be disinfected in this basin of strong carbolic solution instead.
Right.
But was she grasping the importance of what I was saying?
When each item has air-dried, I went on, you move it with the tongs to a sterile tray up on this shelf, where everything’s sterile—thoroughly clean, ready for a doctor. Never touch any of them unless I tell you to, understood?
Bridie Sweeney nodded.
Delia Garrett let out a series of coughs that turned into whoops.
I went over to check her pulse. How’s your stomach now, Mrs. Garrett?
A little steadier, I suppose, she conceded. I blame what happened on that nasty castor oil.
I very much doubted the dose I’d given her could have liquefied her at both ends.
It’s ludicrous keeping me shut up here for a touch of flu! My babies pop out the week they’re due and not before, and I spend no more than half a day in bed, no fuss. Why’s this chit gawping at me?
Bridie Sweeney’s hand shot up to cover her grin. Sorry, I didn’t know you were…
Delia Garrett glared, hands on her belly. You thought this was pure fat?
I pointed out, It says Maternity/Fever on the door, Miss Sweeney.
She muttered, I didn’t know what that meant.
I was taken aback by her ignorance.
Well, I said. Now I’ll show you how to wash your hands.
Amusedly: I think I know that much.
I asked a little sharply, You’ve heard of childbed fever?
Of course.
It can come on a woman anytime from the third day after birth, and it used to kill them at a terrible rate. Our only modern defence is asepsis—that means keeping germs from getting into patients. So now do you see how cleaning one’s hands thoroughly could save a life?
Bridie Sweeney nodded, abashed.
I told her, Roll your sleeves all the way up so you don’t wet them.
She seemed hesitant. When she bared her right forearm, it had a melted look. She saw me notice and she muttered, A pot of soup.
That must have hurt.
Bridie Sweeney shrugged, a monkeyish little movement.
I hoped she wasn’t the clumsy sort. She didn’t seem so. Her hands were reddish, which told me she was used to hard work.
First we pour out boiling water from this kettle, Miss Sweeney, and add cold from the jug.
She immersed her hands in the basin. Lovely and warm!
Take this boiled nailbrush and scrub your hands well, especially the nails and the skin around them.
I waited for her
to do that.
Then rinse them in fresh water to get all the soap off. Finally, soak them in a third basin of water…with a full capful of this carbolic here.
I poured it out for her and added, Antiseptics such as carbolic can actually be dangerous—
—if you swallow them or splash them in your eyes, I know, she said eagerly.
I corrected her: If one relies on them lazily instead of taking care to scrub really well.
Bridie Sweeney nodded, hands dripping.
I gestured to a stack of clean cloths so she wouldn’t try to dry them on her apron.
No one had been back to collect the breakfast trays yet. I said, I wonder could you take these to the kitchen?
She asked, Where’s the—
In the basement, two floors down.
When she was gone I checked temperatures, pulses, respirations. No change. That was reassuring in Delia Garrett’s case, worrying in Ita Noonan’s. The whiskey might be providing some comfort, but that was all.
Thanks, I said when Bridie Sweeney came back in. It’s a real help, having another pair of hands.
She looked down at her knuckles and scratched their reddened, swollen backs.
Chilblains?
She nodded, sheepish. Driving me wild.
Thin girls were susceptible, for some reason. I said, Here, this should soothe the itching.
I got the medicated balm down off the shelf but she made no move to take it, so I scooped a fingerful from the jar, reached for her hands, and rubbed it well into the scarlet patches. On the back of the left one, there was a raised, red circle—ringworm, the brand of poverty I saw on so many patients. But it was fading, so no longer contagious.
Bridie Sweeney breathed in a giggling way, as if what I was doing tickled. The scent of eucalyptus filled the room. Apart from her fingers, the rest of her was so white, almost blue.
I told her, Don’t let your hands get cold or wet in the winter. Always wear warm gloves when you’re out.
I’m not often out.
Delia Garrett coughed pointedly. Whenever you two are finished titivating, I’m gasping for a cup of tea.
I directed Bridie Sweeney to the kettle and took down the caddy and pot from the shelf. Patients can have as much tea as they like.
She said, Very good. With sugar, Mrs. Garrett?
Two spoons. And milk. Or, no, actually—that condensed stuff is so horrid, black will do.
I told Bridie Sweeney, Offer arrowroot biscuits with tea if the patient has any appetite.
Unlike plump-armed Delia Garrett, our poorer mothers came in here with too little flesh on their bones, and in Maternity our policy was to feed them up as much as possible before their time of trial.
Bridie Sweeney was a skinnymalinks herself, but the tough, wiry kind that food went through like water, I supposed. And you can make us each a cup while you’re at it, Miss Sweeney.
I seized my chance to nip out. But at the door, I turned and said, I hope you know enough to know that you know nothing?
Bridie Sweeney stared—then nodded, head bobbing, a flower on its stem.
I told her, I was taught that being a good nurse means knowing when to call a doctor. So being a good runner means knowing when to call a nurse. If these ladies need a cup of water or another blanket or a clean handkerchief, give it to them, but if they’re in any distress at all, run out to the lavatory and fetch me.
She made a small, comical salute.
I won’t be two ticks, I said and dashed off.
What would Sister Finnigan say about my leaving the ward in the hands of this greenhorn? Well, I was doing my best. So were we all.
After the lavatory, I found myself thirsty for a glimpse of the outside world, so I went to the window and stared down at the sparse passers-by. The rain had cleared up but the day had a damp cling to it. A lady in full-length furs—an odd getup when it wasn’t even November yet—stepped down from a cab and glided in the gates with a large leather bag in one hand and a cumbersome wooden case in the other. She shook back her lavish hood, baring two old-fashioned coils of hair. Well, I supposed the porter would explain the visitor ban to her.
Back in the ward, Bridie Sweeney was draining her tea, crumbs in the corner of her mouth. Delicious!
I didn’t think she was being sarcastic. I raised my own cup to my lips and tasted ashy sweepings off some faraway floor.
Ita Noonan was muttering, It’s all bockedy, banjaxed.
Bridie Sweeney came over to murmur in my ear, Is she by any chance an alco?
No, no, Dr. Prendergast ordered that whiskey for her flu.
She nodded and tapped her temple. Will her pot stay rattled permanently now?
I assured her that delirium was only temporary.
So…she’ll get better?
I found myself crossing my fingers so tightly it hurt. A silly habit, I knew. I told Bridie Sweeney in a low voice: These mothers are often stronger than they look. Once her fever breaks…I’d lay money she’ll get through this and have her twelfth in January.
Her twelfth?
The young woman’s tone was so appalled, I didn’t mention that only seven of the Noonan children were alive. I said instead, Do you know that saying, She doesn’t love him unless she gives him twelve?
She grimaced. I couldn’t stand that.
With a small shiver, I admitted, Me neither. Well, they’ll put up no statues to the pair of us.
That made Bridie Sweeney snort with laughter.
The day had darkened again, and rain was fretfully spattering against the slanted glass. Trickles ran down from the partly open window.
Delia Garrett asked, Can we have that shut so we don’t get drenched?
Sorry, I said, but air is vital, especially for respiratory complaints.
She buried her head under the pillow.
I set Bridie Sweeney to catching the drips with a cloth before they got near the beds. Then I sent her off to the supply room for ice from the electric refrigerator. It’s a big box of a machine, I explained, and the cubes should be behind a little door at the top. If there’s none left, go up one floor and ask.
I checked temperatures, pulses, respirations. I changed my patients’ handkerchiefs and adjusted their pillows; I propped up Ita Noonan so she was in the semi-upright position that seemed to ease her breathing a little.
By that time Bridie Sweeney was back with a basinful of ice, so I left her in charge while I brought each woman in turn to the lavatory.
She seemed gentle and trustworthy enough for a little patient care, so I got her to show me she remembered how to wash her hands—she didn’t forget a single step—and then I set her to sponging Ita Noonan’s face and neck with ice water. Let me know once she’s finished her whiskey, won’t you?
Delia Garrett coughed in a bored way. Can I have some of that instead of this awful tea?
Alcohol was a helpful relaxant in pregnancy, but…Sorry, I told her, only if the doctor says so.
(Not that my patients had a doctor supervising their treatment at the moment. When did this Lynn person mean to show her face?)
Would you like a hot lemonade instead, Mrs. Garrett, or some barley water?
Ugh!
On the other side of the room, Ita Noonan yanked Bridie Sweeney’s hands down onto her own belly.
Dread seized me. What is it, Mrs. Noonan?
My young helper was having to kneel on the cot so she wouldn’t fall. She stared down at the mound under her palms. Ita Noonan was clutching her wrists and humming, but as if she were excited rather than in pain.
Astonishment filled the redhead’s face. It’s moving. Banging away in her insides!
Delia Garrett said with mild scorn, What did you expect?
I told Bridie Sweeney, Every unborn baby swims and somersaults.
Get away! As if it’s alive?
I frowned. Could she be pulling my leg? Well, of course it’s alive, Miss Sweeney. I corrected myself: Alive inside its mother, part of her.
&nbs
p; I thought it only came to life once it was out.
I stared, thinking what a conjuring trick that would be—God making Adam of mud and blowing his spirit into him all in a moment. But I knew I shouldn’t be surprised; some patients came in here ready to give birth with almost as little grasp of the state of things.
I took Jellett’s Midwifery down from the shelf and lifted the delicate onionskin to show Bridie Sweeney the frontispiece captioned The full-term uterus.
Her eyes widened. Janey mac!
It took me a second or two to deduce that she thought this was a drawing of a woman who’d been sliced in half. No, no, it’s a cutaway—sketched as if we can see right through her. You notice how the baby’s all curled up?
And upside down!
I smiled. Much happier that way too, I imagine. You’re learning a lot for one day, aren’t you, Miss Sweeney.
She murmured, It’s a little acrobat.
But fast asleep most of the time.
Delia Garrett broke in to say, My second one wasn’t. Clarissa kicked like a mule night, noon, and morning. But this one’s a good girl, aren’t you?
She rubbed her bump with a rueful fondness.
Bridie Sweeney suggested, Or a good boy, maybe?
Delia Garrett shook her head. I don’t care for boys, and besides, my mother-in-law can always tell by how I’m carrying. Show me that picture?
When I passed her Jellett’s Midwifery, Delia Garrett grimaced at the frontispiece but with a certain pride. Look how her innards are squeezed aside! No wonder my stomach’s been dicky.
I put the book back on the shelf. Almost eleven already; time to change the poultice Sister Luke had put on Ita Noonan. I heated the linseed over a spirit lamp. It had to be thick enough that a spoon would stand up in the mixture. I opened the tapes of her nightdress, unwound the bandage around her chest, and peeled back the old caked crust. Her face was looking drawn and yellowish. I wiped her reddened collarbones clean with flax-tow swabs and soapy water while Bridie Sweeney stood close, handing over supplies as I asked for them.
Ita Noonan wheezed, Come here till I tell you.
I leaned in towards the dark odour of her breath while I took her pulse. But the woman said nothing more. Her heart rate was rather faster than it was earlier, but the pulse force felt a little weaker.
The Pull of the Stars Page 5