Poetry For the Nursing Station

NIGHT DUTY ON WARD J

Oh, the pleasant murmur of a snoring man asleep,
Resonant in slumber while the nurses vigil keep!
Nothing pleases more the Supervisor on her rounds
Than the gentle cadence of the patients' purring sounds!

Every night new problems rise to keep the men awake:
A crummy bed, a hacking cough, a little stomach ache;
A new admission (who is deaf), who shouts for all to hear;
The rustles of the nurses' skirts-all catch the restless ear.

We rub their backs with alcohol and powder for a start,
Then give them blankets all around to warm each chilly heart;
We raise the windows just enough to give them all fresh air,
And then that they will go to sleep we breathe a little prayer.

But some must have their sedatives, and one a mustard paste,
And one a cupful of hot milk with sugar just to taste;
Another needs a linseed poultice to his aching hand,
And two or three need dressings ere they leave for slumber land.

Then one complains of sleeplessness and ringing in his ears;
A young man thinks he sees a mouse, an old man voices hears;
A thin one spills his glass of water (by mistake) in bed;
A bald one wants a flannel blanket wrapped around his head..

A youth insists his toenails must be cut ere he can sleep;
Another tossed and tumbled all his bedding in a heap;
And sometimes drainage tubes will plug, and wounds will start to bleed
And doctors must be summoned then to meet each greater need.

So with a chuckle and a smile the nurses give good heed
As one by one demands are met, complaints are remedied--
Until at last to their relief requests are made no more,
And peace and quiet settle down and men begin to snore.

Oh, the pleasant murmur of a snoring man asleep,
Resonant in slumber while the nurses vigil keep!
Truly satisfaction no accomplishment brings more
To the two night nurses, than to hear their patients snore!

©Lorna Whitelaw, 1939
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Note: this was 1939. How times have changed!
Or not? See next poem.

IT'S MY BODY, BUDDY!

Oh, Doc, I know your practice is the finest in this town.
They say you have more patients than any man aroun'.
I don't begrudge your practisin', your studyin' and such,
And your snoopin' and your probin' don't bother me too much;

But when you tap and prod me and pound me front and back
And poke me in the belly, then give my knees a whack,
Don't tell me not to question these curious goin's on -
It's my body, buddy, you're practisin' on!

Now Doc, I wouldn't question your knowledge, skill and all;
I've read those fine diplomas a-hangin'on your wall;
But I don't have much patience or appetite when sick -
That drink of chalk you gave me I thought was much too thick.

And when that nurse comes at me with a needle and a jar,
I want to know what's cookin', and where the exits are.
She says it's not my business to know what's goin' on,
But it's my body, buddy, she's practisin' on!

Well, Doc, I hope you're learnin' the things you need to know,
And findin' out the innards I have before I go;
You took my X-rate picture, and I tried to whisper "Cheese",
But it turned out pretty bony from the shoulders to the knees.

Once more I'll let you practise and listen while I cough,
But tell me 'fore you drug me just what you're pullin' off.
And then at the post mortem, remember, when I'm gone,
It's my body, buddy, you're practisin' on!

©Lorna Anderson, 1972
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RAY AND BILL

Each in his bed, side by side, there they lie:
A lad who will live and a lad who will die.
Oh, what can I say to the lad who will live?
To the one who is dying, what have I to give?

Raymond in bed scarcely smiles all the day--
Young and ambitious-oh, what can I say?
Never to walk again! What can I give?
For Ray is the lad who is going to live.

Billy in bed is lighthearted and gay,
Not guessing his malady-what can I say?
What now can I give? Not much longer have I,
For Bill is the lad who is going to die.

Raymond is living I cannot tell where.
Billy, he died in the hospital there.
May God follow Raymond until his last breath;
Warn me by the memory of Billy's swift death!

©Lorna Whitelaw, 1940
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