by Helen Wells
The country doctor smiled back and said, “Matter of fact, a peart young ’un like you, just fresh out of Army Nurse Corps and used to all the newest, smart-alecky ways—I’ll bet you’re going to turn up your nose at some of the old fogy ways I do things.” He sighed a little and polished his spectacles. “I try to study and keep up with all the new discoveries. But with this whole stretch of countryside to keep healthy, I’ll tell you, it keeps me hoppin’. These folks can’t pay me much, so I can’t afford to buy all the grandest new equipment, neither. I do the best I humanly can, that’s all. That’s the most a man can do.”
Cherry said softly, “I guess human understanding is at least as important as a shiny new stethoscope.”
Dr. Birdwell laughed heartily. “Sis, you and me’re going to get along fine! I can see that!”
He instructed her about the pneumonia case she was to handle. Jessie Tucker must be given sulfa every four hours around the clock, exactly on the hour. She needed a light, nourishing diet, but not a special diet, particularly—“anything that appeals to her, exceptin’ eggs and greasy things. Coax her to eat, Sis.” Cherry was to keep the patient warm, using a hot-water bottle on the patient’s stomach, center of the circulatory system. “Don’t know as the Tuckers own a hot-water bottle. You’ll have to find substitutes as you go along. Say, you know,” he chuckled, “a cat is warm and soft, sittin’ on you and snoozin’. But the durn cat won’t always stay put!” If the sulfa gave Jessie Tucker headaches, Dr. Birdwell ordered an ice pack or cold compresses on her forehead. Cherry was especially to watch the patient’s temperature, and if it soared, to notify the physician at once. “And if anything goes wrong, holler for me and nurse like a house afire!”
And with these highly informal and colorful instructions, Cherry set off in Dr. Birdwell’s rickety car for the Tucker farm.
Cherry asked the doctor to make one strategic stop on the way, for ice cream.
Out of growing fields rose a white frame house, shaded by oak trees. A little farther off, by a red barn, four children played. As Dr. Birdwell’s auto chugged up, they came running, followed by an ancient dog, a tomcat, a pig which apparently had been let out of its pen, and a tame hen. One toddler was so small its legs could barely keep pace with the hen.
“Hello, kids!” the white-haired doctor called. “This is Miss Cherry, come to help your ma get well.”
Cherry grinned at the assorted children. They gazed back at her solemnly, as Dr. Birdwell named them. First came Ruth, a girl of about eight, with pigtails and a responsible scowl. Ruth was mothering the brood. Then came Sam, six, and Susie, five, a pair of devils covered with dust and bliss, busy blowing saliva bubbles. The staggering one-and-a-half-year-old, nondescript in rompers, turned out to be a boy, nicknamed Sparky. The new baby, Marietta, three months, of whom Sparky was frankly jealous, was in the care of a kindly neighbor, away from the infectious pneumonia. All the children, with their mother ill, were in various states of disrepair.
“Hi,” said Cherry, speculating how best to win over this suspicious little crowd. She foresaw that half of her nursing job here might be scrubbing, feeding, and keeping these children from falling out of trees, setting the house afire, or running off with the team of horses. Her plan to wear starchy white from head to toe faded with one glance at Sam climbing astride the pig.
“Hi,” said Cherry again, and gulped.
There was a long, hostile pause. There were glares from four round pairs of eyes.
“Hi,” Ruth grudged finally. She pointed to the tomcat. “That’s Mary Alice. The dog is Bobo. He lost part of his tail. The hen is Mrs. Jones. The pig is just pig.”
“They’re awfully nice pets,” Cherry replied. Silence closed down again like measles. Cherry looked around for Dr. Birdwell to come to her rescue. His coattails were just flapping into the house.
“How’s your mother today?”
“She’s sick.” Followed by echoes … “Sick, didn’t you know that?” “You don’t know nuthin’.”
“I’m going to help her get well, real soon.”
“Huh.” Echoed by Sam’s and Susie’s smaller grunts.
“Ahhh—Mary Alice is a pretty cat.”
More silence. Cherry went to Dr. Birdwell’s car and produced a large cardboard container.
“Who wants ice cream?”
Whoops of joy greeted this. The children scrambled around Cherry, beaming at her. The new nurse via large scoops of ice cream won a diplomatic victory.
Cherry hurried after Dr. Birdwell into the house. Every room looked, in his phrase, “like a cyclone struck it.” The only room free of joyous disorder was the darkened quiet bedroom, upstairs, where Jessie Tucker lay.
She was still young, round-faced, with brown hair streaming over her shoulders and the counterpane. She would have been pretty except for her fretful expression. When Dr. Birdwell led Cherry to her bedside, she turned her head away.
“I don’t want any strange woman around here, runnin’ my house and my childern. I don’t want any outsiders buttin’ in on this family.”
“Now, Jess,” the old doctor clucked.
Cherry felt a sting of hurt, then resentment. But quickly she put the brake on her emotions, set her mind going instead. Any intelligent nurse, she knew, made allowance for a patient’s becoming irritable or fearful or impatient. Why, those reactions were as much a symptom of illness as this woman’s paleness or the limp, exhausted way she lay propped on the pillows. Jessie Tucker might be an entirely different person when she was well and herself. So Cherry was undismayed, and said:
“I’m here to nurse you, my dear. If you want me to keep an eye on your youngsters, then tell me what to do—and I’ll carry out your orders exactly.”
The patient studied Cherry with feverish eyes. “Don’t let Sam play with the Norton boy. He’s a bad one. Keep Sam home.”
“All right, I will.”
“I’ve been lyin’ here in bed worryin’ about Sam.”
Dr. Birdwell said, “Worry’ll keep you from getting well, Jess. Stop worrying and let your nurse take charge.”
Mrs. Tucker looked somewhat mollified but still uneasy. Dr. Birdwell gave Cherry a few minor instructions, jollied the sick woman, and departed.
Now Cherry tied on an apron, washed her hands in a china basin, and turned to her patient. Four small curious faces watched from the doorway. Cherry gently sent them outdoors. She opened her kit and looked around the room for articles she would need.
“What’re you going to do to me?” Jessie Tucker demanded. “No, you don’t!”
“I have to take your pulse, temperature, and respiration—breathing rate. Then I’ll give you a nice bed bath and remake your bed. You’ll feel fresh, then, for lunch and your afternoon rest.”
“My bed’s all right. Don’t want any lunch. Oh, leave me alone!”
The new nurse found herself in the embarrassing position of being unable to get near her patient. Too, the four inquisitive faces had popped right back in the doorway, like four jacks-in-the-box. Six-year-old Sam danced into the bedroom, tugging his own hair, and sang:
“Hay foot! Straw foot! Belly full of beans!”
Ruth grabbed him. He pulled her pigtails. They tussled. Susie piped, “More ice cream! More!” Mrs. Tucker paled and trembled.
“Out with you!” Cherry said, and stampeded the small gang out of the sickroom and down the stairs. She would have shut the door but knew instinctively that the children’s mother wanted that door left open. She approached her patient with a thermometer and firmness.
“I’m not used to bein’ fussed over,” Mrs. Tucker started. But while her mouth was open, Cherry popped the thermometer in. Simultaneously she took the sick woman’s wrist, counted pulse, then counted breathing. Hastily scribbling out a chart, Cherry recorded the too-high T.P.R. “Now for the bed bath,” she bluffed, as if that were a settled matter, and looked around for a fresh pitcher of water or a sink. This farmhouse had no such conveniences.
Ther
e were, however, Ruth, Sam, and Susie, back in the doorway. Sparky and the hen peeked in between their knees. Cherry experienced exasperation, amusement, impending catastrophe and, suddenly, inspiration.
“Come out in the hall with me,” she whispered. “For a conference.”
Wide-eyed, the children gathered around her.
“Do you want your mama to get well?” Their anxious nods were pitiful. “Will you be my helpers?” Eager nods. “Sam, I appoint you Officer of the Home Guard. You stand guard around the house, understand?” The little fellow nodded importantly. “Susie, I appoint you special helper in charge of—um—the mail.” Susie did not look overjoyed, so Cherry added, “And I appoint you to tell Sparky a story at the same time—if you can manage two jobs.” Susie stood up straighter. Sparky merely patted the chicken, his friend. “Ruth, I appoint you my personal assistant. Please bring me a kettle of warm water and some towels.”
The children scurried off. At last Cherry’s work was under way.
The bed bath went off smoothly, and the patient seemed refreshed and relaxed afterwards. Cherry gave her sulfa, at the exact minute. A neighbor brought over hot food. Cherry delegated Ruth to serve it to the children. She herself rummaged in the kitchen, prepared a light, appetizing tray for the invalid, and coaxed her to eat. Then she made Mrs. Tucker comfortable for a nap, and went downstairs feeling she had earned a bite of lunch herself.
Mr. Tucker had come in from the fields, to meet the new nurse. John Tucker was a big, sunburned, raw-boned man in blue jeans, hearty and friendly. He pumped Cherry’s hand.
“Sure is a relief to have you here, miss,” he boomed. “Well, you just take over and I’ll see you at suppertime.”
Cherry blinked. A great help he was going to be! Man-fashion, he had little idea of all the chores involved in managing house, children, an invalid. “Just take over—!” Cherry shook her black curls and suddenly burst out laughing. Private duty nursing apparently meant—here at least—playing foster mother, housekeeper, cook—and nursing when and if there was any time left over.
Cherry did not bat an eyelash. She pitched in, and without feeling any loss of professional dignity, either. If Florence Nightingale at Scutari did not hesitate to act as messenger, housecleaner, nurse, treasurer, and insect exterminator, then Cherry Ames need not feel any false pride either!
Absolutely first came care of the patient. The children’s mother submitted grumblingly to more sulfa, and to a hot mustard plaster treatment, but she did submit. Cherry observed her condition closely that afternoon and charted it. She found it difficult, in this house without running water or electrical appliances and with steep stairs, to keep fresh water in the bedside pitcher—to sterilize glasses and rubber gloves after using them—to bring up orange juice at four o’clock and a supper tray at six. Eight-year-old Ruth thought of a good plan. She and Cherry rigged up a basket, tied it to a stout cord from the upper railing of the stairway, and used it as a freight elevator, with Ruth on call downstairs. It was crude but it saved Cherry many steps.
All afternoon and evening, Cherry labored to systematize her work, and failed. But she learned a valuable lesson: a private duty nurse, coming into a household already confused by illness, needs a day or two to adjust herself to a new patient and the ways of a new house-hold. “Tomorrow,” Cherry promised herself, “I’ll sit down quietly and plan out various routine duties I have to do during the day, and schedule them. I’ve done my gosh darnedest for the first day!”
She yawned and suddenly realized—now that the whole family had gone to bed—that she herself had no designated place to sleep. Oh, my! Put a cot in Mrs. Tucker’s room? Roost on the couch downstairs? No, no. Uncomfortable and no privacy. Well, where? Cherry’s heart sank. Had no one remembered to make provision for the nurse?
Ruth had. The eight-year-old, in a long white nightgown, beckoned Cherry out of the sickroom.
“I fixed up the spare chamber for you,” she whispered. “I aired the room and dusted and made the bed—all by myself!”
“Ruthie, you are a friend in need.”
“I’m your personal assistant, aren’t I?”
Sulfa to give Mrs. Tucker at midnight, at four A.M., again at eight next morning—up and down all night—Cherry decided to dress more warmly than if she were going to bed to stay there. Yet in order to feel rested in the morning, she must get this plaid cotton dress and these shoes off. In the spare bedroom, she took a quick sponge bath, donned fresh underthings, fresh stockings, and her robe. She put her slippers near by and handy. Now she lay down with the door open, the alarm clock set for midnight and the first night dose, and one ear alert. In the morning she would try to squeeze in another sponge bath, and would change her clothes again. It was a broken-up night. Yet Cherry managed to sleep, and awakened refreshed.
The next day went serenely, and so did the days that followed. Cherry rarely saw Mr. Tucker, who worked a long day at his tractor and plow. She kept a watchful eye on the children when she could, but the helpful neighbors fed them and Ruth supervised them. So Cherry spent the bulk of her time in the sickroom, after all. Jessie Tucker’s improvement was gratifying. Cherry tactfully wore away the young woman’s objections, and helped her via medicine, treatments, good food, gentle care, and her own personal encouragement. Her fever died away to a normal temperature, her lung congestion was clearing up rapidly. Dr. Birdwell came in once each day, for half an hour, and seemed well satisfied with the results of Cherry’s nursing.
The days slid by, melting into one another, calm, efficient, under control. The baby, Marietta, was sent home, adding heavily to Cherry’s chores. But Cherry still shivered when she recalled the bedlam she had had to conquer on her arrival. The actual nursing was the least of a private nurse’s problems! Cherry felt some pride in the way she had evolved order from chaos. She had achieved it apparently without being a martinet, for the whole Tucker family liked her and Sparky called her “Harry dear.”
“I want to see my mama!” Susie proclaimed, with Sam roaring and Sparky lisping the same demand.
Cherry knew that their mother wanted to see them, too, and that it would speed her recovery. So she announced visiting hours (for small fry only), and to enforce them she handed out tickets. The price of admission was good behavior. Sam wriggled in twice on one ticket, but otherwise the system worked perfectly. True, Jessie Tucker was worn out after listening to assorted gabblings about mud pies, the pig, Marietta’s faults (this from Susie), and dozens of questions. But Cherry counted her fatigue as good, healthy preparation for a nap. She did not permit the children to stay long enough really to exhaust the convalescing patient.
One of Cherry’s daily jobs was bathing three-months-old Marietta, on the kitchen table. She was an amiable baby, and this would have been no trouble, except that the whole troupe of youngsters wanted to “help.” Cherry was uncertain whether she could handle four rough-and-tumble children, hold on to a soapy, slippery baby, and have everybody emerge in one piece. But, loving children, she was willing to try.
“Sam!”
“Yes’m?” The Home Guard Officer came to attention.
“You may fetch water for the baby’s bath. You and Ruth will heat it to lukewarm. Susie! I’m going to trust you to bring the baby’s clean clothes and arrange them in exactly the right order.”
Three of them scampered off. Sparky stood unsteadily in baggy rompers, not understanding anything except that, forlornly, he was left out.
“Sparky, you talk nicely to the baby and help rub its back.”
“Yesh, Harry dear.”
Filling the tub from the water kettle was so popular that each child had to have a turn. Then each one had his own special part of the program, which he took pride in carrying out well. Susie was soap and wash-cloth bearer, and she did not drip. Sam was towel and talcum bearer. Ruth held the baby in sitting position in the tub, and helped dress her. Sparky was trusted to examine and “test” each article in the baby’s basket, putting each back in its place.
When the ceremony was all over, there were happy, satisfied remarks of, “We was a real help.” “Yes, and just think! We get to do it all over again tomorrow!” “Gee whiz, a whole day to wait.”
By the end of the week, Mrs. Tucker was sitting up in bed and asking for something to do. Cherry used ingenuity to break the monotony of convalescence. She brought crocheting, magazines, permitted neighbors to pay short calls. She herself talked to the family’s mother about hygiene and preventive health measures. For any nurse is a health missionary. Cherry also showed Ruth and, when she could catch him, Mr. Tucker, how to feed their patient, take temperature, lift her from bed to rocking chair, against the time the nurse left.
Cherry had made everything ready for the doctor’s daily visit—the patient comfortable and tidy after morning care, the room dusted and straightened, the chart of the patient’s reactions up to the minute, thermometer and fresh towels at hand. She stood up when Dr. Birdwell entered, as a mark of nurse’s professional respect for a doctor—the same medical etiquette she would have observed in a hospital.
“Good morning, good morning!” the country doctor sang out. He looked like Santa Claus in a black suit. He briefly examined the patient and said, “Jessie, you’re getting well so fast, you won’t let me make any money on you.”
Jessie Tucker smiled, and looked toward Cherry. “My nurse has been mighty good to me. To my childern too. I’m thankful to her.”
“You don’t think any more that you need a private nurse ’about as much as you need a third leg’?” Dr. Birdwell teased. “Well, I’m thankful to Miss Cherry myself. Not often I get a nurse to help me—many’s the time I make a poultice or change a dressing myself. Jess, I couldn’t ’ve saved you just with pills and visits. I’ll tell you now that it’s all over, you might’ve gone out of here in a long box, feet first, if it hadn’t been for this nurse.”
