Our Seas of Fear and Love

by Richard Shain Cohen

  “Listen to me, Luke. You calm down. Yes. You know my usual answer. I just won’t have my house in a volcano because my daughter tells you what she wants and thinks. You think she’s some dummy who can’t think for herself ? She’s a young woman now, and don’t you forget it.”

  Maureen hadn’t intended to defend Brigit, because of her own doubts, but she was willing to listen but not with her husband shouting, scaring the other girls and trying to force himself on everyone with his temper. “Maybe we can talk about this later when everyone’s calmed down.”

  Sometimes what the family failed to recognize was Maureen’s sensitivity. There was a time she had thought of leaving Luke because of his temper, but she also knew that after he lost it, everything was forgotten and the usual calm prevailed in the house with the exception of the usual girl-fighting, screaming at one another, crying, but always the love among them.

  Maureen and the girls cleared the table, while Luke sat motionless, hardly watching, calming himself. Unthinkingly, he looked at Brigit and Maureen, marveling at the resemblance of his beautiful wife and daughter. Brigit. She had both of them in her. The eldest, Anne, who was to be the nun, all of them were females to be proud of, not just because of their looks, but because of their intelligence and willingness to learn and to speak up. He started to smile. I should know better about Brigit. She has always thought she can cure people, that she was born to that, but who in heaven’s name ever thought she’d have to go east, the NORTHEAST. Ah, it’s all the Irish up there. Well, if she falls in with them. It just gets me. Whoever thought a daughter of mine would want to leave and go so far. Yup, I expect them to marry, Ellen and Marie, and leave, but marry good Southwesterners. And maybe they’ll be Irish. What difference does that make? Brigit, you make sure you’re among the Irish. Those are your roots. Suddenly it occurred to him. The Irish goddess, Brigit. She was known for doctoring and especially looking after women having babies. You win, Brigit. I’ve helped bring into this world a goddess – or back to it. You look like one sure enough. And when you play the piano, you’re so good. You’ll get to those eastern concerts, probably go to poetry readings. But the men. What does she know? I don’t know what she’s aware of. Her mother has to have talked to her. I will. Oh hell, Let her go, Luke. Otherwise, you’ll regret being mean to her and you’ll avoid that sad look and a few tears, and then a hug and a loud, ‘Daddy. I love you but’ – All the women in my life. Maureen, couldn’t you at least have had one boy? With that thought, he whispered, ‘Maureen – how lovely you are, how soft and warm to hold, so reassuring. I’m lucky.’ God, I’ll miss you, Brigit.

  So, in 1940, age eighteen, they put her on the train in El Paso. She sat by a window so she could see and wave to them, hoping not to cry. But that was useless. All of them were crying. Even Luke had tears. When he admitted it, he loved her most, and if she ever married, and he knew she would, the guy better be good.

  It was a long trip. She had to change in Chicago for a train to Boston. She knew there would be more people than she had ever seen, but the confusion of the station overwhelmed her until she found a porter wheeling some luggage and had help from him, where the track was, the waiting area for her train. She read, slept restlessly when it was possible. She was nervous, missed her family, her talks with her sisters. She was alone, and this scared her some. Everywhere she looked, there was strangeness that unsettled her. Yet, being a strong person, she talked to herself, settling herself by pretending she was with her father for protection, especially when there was a man who got on with her in Chicago. She noticed he was following her after she had seen him in the waiting room gazing at her. She clenched her fist. Her father had told her how to take care of a man who became a nuisance and who tried to touch her. The man watched her walk, looking at her legs and up to the slight sway of her hips and buttocks and then to her red hair showing below her hat. When she took her seat, he sat beside her. Her discomfort grew. She tried to ignore him by looking out the window. Waiting, he finally asked where she lived. She didn’t answer. “Well I live in Boston. You know Beacon Street?” She knew only what she had studied on the map of the city she had bought, where the hospital was, where she’d be living. “I don’t know much about the city.”

  “You mean you’ve never been there?”

  “No.”

  “Well, where I live is one of the best. You’ll have to see some of the houses on the Hill. What’s your name? We may as well get acquainted. We’ve got a long way to go.”

  She hesitated. “Is that important?” Brigit wanted to tell him to get another seat or to just leave her alone with her thoughts. She moved closer to the window and closed her eyes to keep him from bothering her. She was also concerned about being alone for the first time and being so far from everyone and everything she knew, wondering if she had made a mistake. Perhaps it would not be so bad to talk to this unknown male. She opened her eyes, looked at him, analyzing his face. It wasn’t very appealing to her. He had a large nose and round face and chin, a bit of bulge to his cheeks, not fat, but a face she did not particularly like. She wanted to see his eyes. “My name’s Brigit.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “I like that,” he lied, but she had given him more of an opening.

  “What are you going to do in Boston, Brigit?” She didn’t answer but asked his name. “Frederick. People just call me Fred. So why are you going to Boston?”

  “Curiosity about the city.” She had no intention of giving away her age by telling him why she was actually going or where she’d be. She turned away again, thinking again about the large hospital by the river and the nursing quarters. Who would she meet? What would the people be like? She had always heard that people there were cold, hardly ever talked to a stranger. Yet here was this man, Fred, trying to get to know her. Perhaps it was just as well. They did have a long way to go. Why not get to know someone? Only she wished a woman had sat beside her. Then it occurred to her again how she had noticed him looking at her. Well, she was safe on the train. She was going to enjoy herself and her freedom. If she had to lead him on that she was a tourist, she would. If he became too annoying, she’d get the conductor or move her seat. Suddenly she actually was sleepy and closed her eyes again. A little while passed. She felt his hand just above her knee. Swiftly, she bent her arm and as hard as she could pushed it into his ribs. He started to say something. Instead he turned his face from her, appearing to look about the car.

  “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “I’ll swan, liar. Either get out of here or I’m calling the conductor. Beacon Street. Yeah, I heard of Beacon Street, saw it on a map, know some people who live there. They’re not like you. Now get out of here,” raising her voice, noticing a woman across the aisle looking.

  “Is something wrong, dear?”

  “I want this man to get away from me.”

  “I’ll call the conductor.”

  He interrupted. “No need.” There was perspiration on his forehead. He rose, grabbed for his luggage and tried disappearing in another car. The woman moved next to her. “There’s always terrible men like that. What happened?”

  Brigit hesitated, “He asked annoying questions.” She thought for a moment, wondering if she should tell what happened. It embarrassed her. Perhaps the woman would think she encouraged him. A memory came to her of one of her dates in high school and the boy she liked. They had gone to a movie, had a soda, and then he drove out on the desert and down a short road and stopped. It was one of those magnificent desert nights, the very dark sky, stars so clear. In the distance she could see the black outline of the mountains. She sat against the door. He reached for her, placed his arm about her shoulder and pulled her toward him. She moved so easily, waiting for him to kiss her, urging him with a whisper, “What are you doing?” She could see his smile, and there they were, kissing, kissing, until he put his hand on her breast. Her first reaction was to pull back, but she let him keep it there. But that would be all, until his hand moved lower. She grabbed
him, told him to stop.

  “Keep your hands away. I don’t even know why I let you touch me where you did.”

  “Oh yes you do.”

  “And you know I’m not one of those girls, and don’t ever forget it. Let’s go home.”

  “Not until you kiss me once more.” She leaned toward him, liking the feel of his lips and keeping to herself that she would like to do more, that she did want him to caress her breasts, but afraid of what could happen, if she allowed him to go beneath her blouse.

  Thinking of that and sitting next to the woman, she knew she would say no more. They stayed together the rest of the way to Boston, the woman giving Brigit her phone number and address, if she ever needed anything.

  ~

  The cab took her to a drive that rose to the entrance. The building seemed so huge. Her heart raced some. Behind her were three-story red brick buildings, looking like the picture she received in the mail, and the letter telling her she would be assigned living quarters in one of those. She went in. People passed on their way in and out, some appearing quite sad, others laughing, pleased a patient was doing well or recovering. At the reception desk, she asked for the nursing school where she would have her first meeting with the head. In the office, she looked at a woman behind a desk. She wore glasses, was a stout woman who even behind her desk appeared a bit fat and round. Her eyes were kind, her voice soft, hiding the sternness necessary for her work. Brigit felt comfortable, perhaps for the first time since she left home.

  “Brigit Donovan. I’m Nurse Andrews,” as she put out her hand in welcome. On her left hand, resting on the desktop was a wedding ring. “You’ve come a long way. We chose you because of your grades, particularly in science. We also like a mixed class, girls from various parts of the country. But most are from Massachusetts. You’ll be one of the few foreigners. Does that bother you? I know you’ve never been away from home.”

  Brigit felt she liked the woman but was somewhat apprehensive, unaware of what emotions the head of the nursing school could display, what she might expect from Mrs. Andrews and the other teaching nurses and doctors. “Here is the information you need to get your books, uniforms, where you’ll live, etc. If you need anything, you let me know. And trust the nurse instructors. You can talk to them We’ve all been through what you’re about to experience.”

  Brigit relaxed. Andrews watched her and smiled, “You’ll want to settle in your quarters. I’ll get one of the women to show you the way and where you’ll be staying.” And so was the introduction of Brigit Donovan into the profession she chose.

  What she didn’t learn from her classes and books was about nurses and doctors, orderlies, technicians, the many people who worked in the hospital that she would sometimes never know but to whom she was always kind, like the cleaning staff. Some of the orderlies she would come to like, others she would despise for their behavior. If she could have heard them talk in their dressing room, perhaps she would never talk to any of them. The conversations were filled with ‘ass’, ‘good fuck’ (often just the word itself), ‘those knockers,’ an entire dictionary of words for nurses or any other female who occasionally appeared on the floor. Or there was the time she finally got to work in the OR, aiding the scrub nurses. They were wheeling a female patient from the OR, but hadn’t covered her completely. Her bare breasts lay partially full and still pointing upward. Brigit noticed an orderly standing nearby, heard a quiet whistle as she tried quickly to cover the woman. Glaring at the orderly, he merely smiled, and ran his hand across his chest. Or there was the time in the recovery room and a scrub assigned to the room taught her how to bring patients about. One day, a burly man, who had been in surgery for about two hours, started to awaken. The nurse, a short, shapely woman, leaned over him. “You fucking bitch. Get the fuck away from me.”

  Brigit, astounded, afraid for the small woman, placed her hand on the nurse’s shoulder, trying to bring her toward herself. “No, Brigit. Get used to it. It wasn’t meant for you and me.”

  “How do you know? He could be terribly belligerent, hurt you.”

  “Well it’s never happened yet and won’t. If we needed help, we could easily get it. Remember. These men and women are asleep, and what’s coming out of them is their subconscious. The women can be just as bad, believe me. Watch their fingernails and teeth.”

  It was then that the past of her inheritance emerged, but it would not help her with some of the experiences she had with surgeons in the OR to whom all nurses, everyone who helped during surgery, were inferior beings to some of those outstanding men. She never saw any female surgeons.

  There was the day she watched in fascination a neurosurgeon who operated equally as well with right and left hand, who was always kind to everyone who worked with him. There was one who insisted that she be with his private scrub, because he noticed something exceptional in her. One day he demanded her presence when by that time she was no longer in surgery. Or there was the gynecologist performing a D&C and disliked anyone looking over his shoulder, and even though Brigit was female, he demanded she stop looking. Brigit started to reply about learning, but the scrub nurse put her finger to her lips and motioned her to the nurse’s side. The nurse whispered, “He’s a fool. He knows you’re here to learn. And as if you don’t have the identical female equipment that woman lying on the table has. Yeah, but I bet you want to see inside all the way to really know what you are like in there. It’s natural. We all do it, look outside, and in.” Brigit blushed beneath her mask. The nurse started to laugh and whispered to her, “You’re red above the mask. Don’t you know better than to wear rouge in the OR?”

  ~

  So the passage of time, and she was in her second year. December 7. Horrified as were all Americans, many of the women openly cried or moaned because they had brothers, boy friends, fiancés, husbands. Some eventually left the hospital to enlist. Brigit several days later as the shock and reality of war deeply affected her and all others in the hospital, decided she would enlist in the navy when she finished school. A number of the doctors left or were called asking them if they would accept commissions. Numbers of interns and residents left as soon as 1941’s year of duty was finished.

  1942 seemed to pass too slowly for Brigit, as did 1943, but in between there were the OB and the psychiatric wards, the depression of looking after the cancer patients, so many diseases, seeing so much dying, torn bodies from accidents, or knife or gun shot wounds from burglaries, the police who brought in prisoners and stood outside the ER rooms to assure no one would escape.

  It was in the OB unit that Brigit seemed to have arrived as doctor and nurse. The head nurse was a lovely woman, hefty with a large bosom and handsome face and kind eyes that gave one a sense of the goodness and caring within the woman. Yet, she could also be rough, on the students, on the patients too, if she thought an expectant mother was overdoing the wretchedness she felt. One night when Brigit was on duty and getting instructions from the nurse, a woman in her early twenties lay in one of the small rooms. Suddenly she started screeching, yelling above her pain, perhaps thinking she could make that pain disappear. Nurse Albright went to her, told her to quiet down, that she knew it hurt. Brigit heard “I’ve had them too. I know what it’s like. Settle down.”

  Albright felt Brigit touch her back as she was bending over the woman who quieted but then started to scream again. “May I sit with her?” Albright turned toward her. “Yes, nurse. Stay here until I need you.” Albright rose, smiled at Brigit, lightly caressed her face, “Nurse, she called me nurse. Are you with me goddess Brigit? We’re going to help the poor, suffering mother to be.”

  Brigit pulled a chair alongside the woman who was now moaning. She watched the woman breathe in about to scream again. “God help me! What did I do to deserve all this pain? I wanted a baby. What for? For this? A night of love. This isn’t love,” she screamed.

  Brigit placed her hand on the woman’s arm, rubbed it up to her shoulder and down to her wrist, placed her hand on the wo
man’s swollen belly. “Take a deep breath.” The woman looked wretchedly at her and took the breath. “Good. Do it again.” The woman breathed deeply, let out her breath and murmured, “Is it always like this? Have you had one?”

  “No. I never have, but I want one some day.”

  “You want one watching and listening to me? Nurse, it hurts. It’s coming again.”

  “That’s all right,” Brigit softly told her. “You scream, but remember what I told you. Take deep breaths. Tell you what. I’ll breath with you.”

  The woman seemed calmer, and soon they took her to the delivery room. As Brigit walked beside her, Albright looked up from her desk, smiling. “You’re all right, Brigit. Think about becoming an OB nurse.”

  Between serving and learning in different areas of the hospital, there was always time for recreation and going places she had always wanted to see or visiting one of her favorites, the Museum of Fine Arts. In the summer there were the Esplanade concerts with Arthur Fiedler that she’d go to with friends from among the student nurses.

  One night, an intern who was obviously taken with Brigit’s beauty flirted with her and she with him, touching her face and hair, looking away and then, after blinking, straight at him. Her eyes mesmerized him.

  “I’m off Saturday night. Are you?”

  “I am. Why?” She was learning from her girl friends, magazines, and knew innately how to be female. She liked herself. What men who now approached her didn’t realize, however, was that she was an honest person who usually said what she thought.

  The intern asked, “Would you like to go dancing? There’s a nice night club not too far away.”

  She had never been to a nightclub, knew about them only from what she heard from her friends in the dormitory, particularly her closest friend, Lynne, who came from Boston but whose family went to Maine a lot. They often talked about the doctors, about men generally, the many college students that roamed the Boston area. Lynne said her family would take Brigit to Maine some time when they had vacation.