Z Personal Reasons

Personal Reasons
"I don't want to be a nurse any more!"
I have handed in my resignation citing 'personal reasons' as the cause
of such drastic action. That isn't the truth, however. I have been
unable to have a 'private' life at all. Work has been my life - and
after that sleep, because I have been too exhausted to 'live.'
Now I am sick and tired of bed baths, bed pans, and complaints. I am
sick of feeling as worthless as a menial slave. I am sick of the
constant demands of those whom I have nursed.
In short - I want out.
"Won't you re-consider, Nurse Jones?"
That was my ward sister's reaction when I told her that I was leaving.
It was also the reaction of the Registrar, several doctors and every
single one of the nurses side by side with whom I had worked for the
past five years.
"No." I replied to each of them.
It was sixteen days before my leaving date. I had been crossing off
each day for twelve days already and now I was almost half way.
It was a lovely spring day, and for once the orthopaedic ward where I
worked looked almost inviting as the morning sun slanted through the
long windows. It was my job to wake each of the patients and begin the
laborious task of giving them a bed bath and dealing with their toilet
needs.
Ugh!
It wasn't an ideal way to spend a beautiful morning - and I suppose
that I was harbouring some resentment as I clattered the metal bowls
loudly on the trolley.
It irked me that none of them seemed to notice the racket I was
making, as they continued to slumber peacefully. Then I noticed that
one of them was awake, and that he was lying on his back staring at me
with interest. I peered curiously at him and he grinned before rolling
his startling blue eyes upwards to indicate the sign that hung above
his bed.
'NIL BY MOUTH.'
In spite of my bad mood I found that I was smiling back at him, my
heart softened by his boyish good looks and the warmth of his
smile.
"They sent me up last night from Casualty," he informed me. I bent
down to look at the chart that was suspended at the foot of the
bed.
"Private Alan Atkins." I turned the name over in my mind and wondered
what on earth a soldier was doing here in a civilian hospital. He must
have read my expression of astonishment correctly because he
said,
"I'm on leave."
"But it says here that you were shot." I was confused. Soldiers on
leave weren't shot in action.
"Yes," he agreed. "I suppose that a soldier is never really on leave."
He winced with pain and I wondered at the cheerfulness of his tone.
From his chart I could see that he was going to have an operation that
morning to remove a bullet that had lodged in his spine. That was
serious! Did he know the danger that he was facing, I wondered? Did he
realise that he might be left dead or paralysed?
But if he did realise it, then there was no hint of it in his dancing
eyes, which appraised me now from the tops of my shoes to the cap on my
head. Clearly he liked what he saw, too - because his smile
broadened.
"I've always had a soft spot for nurses," he explained. "Especially
pretty ones like you." I was taken unawares and the words were out of
my mouth before I could stop them.
"Well - I won't be a nurse for much longer. I'm leaving in sixteen
days."
His face fell and the dancing light in his eyes suddenly dimmed.
"That's a terrible waste," he said.
I turned away, strangely ashamed of my decision to leave and wishing
that I hadn't mentioned it to the soldier. Irrationally I felt that my
decision to give it up was a betrayal. As I moved toward my first
patient his words still buzzed around my head.
Twenty minutes later it was his turn to receive my attentions and I
wheeled the trolley to the side of his bed and drew the curtains. A
flicker of fear passed through those blue eyes and I realised that he
was more afraid of me seeing him naked than he had been of facing the
bullet that could have ended his life.
"I can probably manage to wash myself," he said with bravado.
"Don't be silly," I retorted tartly. "You can't even sit up. And don't
bother trying!" I exclaimed in horror as he tried to raise his body
from the bed. Defeated, he relaxed and his eyes became haunted as he
struggled to accept the inevitable.
All at once I knew that he did realise the seriousness of his
condition. And I knew that the knowledge that he might never again be
able to perform the simplest of tasks was unbearable to him. I had
always managed to stay unemotional in my work - distanced from the pain
and suffering of my patients. But now I felt a huge lump form in my
throat. Perhaps, I thought, I could make him feel a little better.
Perhaps I could restore some of his dignity?
Without lifting the counterpane, I reached beneath it, deftly removed
his pyjama bottoms and place a damp, soapy sponge in his hand.
"You can probably manage the bottom bits," I suggested, pleased to see
the relief that flooded his strong and handsome features.
"Thanks Nurse." His cheeky grin returned. "Now, when I'm up and about
again I won't complain if you&;#8230;."
"Enough of that, you cheeky beggar!" I protested - but I was smiling
and he took no offence.
"What time is the operation scheduled?" he asked. I checked his
chart.
"Ten o'clock."
He fell silent and I knew that he was thinking of the consequences of
the ordeal that he was about to face. And as I combed his hair, I too
was thinking of it. For the first time in my career I felt physically
sick at the idea of a patient failing to pull through an
operation.
As I tidied up our eyes met and held. I saw fear and desolation in his
and he saw reassurance and hope in mine. I gasped at the rawness of the
emotion that cut through my heart and I turned away hurriedly so that
he wouldn't notice. But as I drew back the curtain he said,
"Nurse Jones? Would you do me a favour?" I turned back to him and
nodded.
"Would you help me write a letter to my parents?" I swallowed hard and
nodded again, relieved that he hadn't said 'to my wife.' Again he
uncannily read my thoughts.
"No - I'm not married," he said. "Like you." He had noticed the
absence of a wedding ring. A sigh of relief passed between us.
"Perhaps, when I'm on my feet again we can&;#8230;.." He didn't
finish the sentence but I nodded anyway, knowing instinctively what he
had been about to say. As we smiled at each other in mutual
understanding the words that remained unspoken hung in the air.
"I'll fetch a pen and pad." I was glad to escape because I thought
that I would burst into an unprofessional paroxysm of weeping.
When I returned he began to dictate a sweet, loving letter that any
parent would have been overjoyed to receive from a beloved son. He
spoke of his love for them and of how grateful he was for all that they
had done to help him. They would grieve, he said, but they should also
try to celebrate his life.
When he had finished I saw that the pages of the note pad were stained
with my tears.
"I'd like to add a PS," he said at last. I gulped, nodded and held the
pen expectantly over the page.
"There is something important that I would like you to do. The nurse
who has helped me to write this letter is giving up nursing and you
must dissuade her. She has found her true vocation in nursing and to
give it up would only serve to deprive people like me of the finest
care and devotion possible. If I had lived, she would probably have
become your daughter-in-law, for now that I've found her I think that
only my death could part us. Be her friend and tell her what I was
like. She is kind and beautiful and soon you will love her as I
do."
Somehow I wrote down the words. And somehow I managed to stop my hands
trembling as I gave Private Atkins his pre-med. And somehow I survived
the two hours that he was in surgery.
I was at his bedside when he woke up, and as he opened his eyes I took
his hands in mine.
"Alan?" I whispered. "Your parents don't have to read the letter
because you're going to be all right." There was laughter in my voice
and as he gazed happily and sleepily back at me I knew that he
recognised that I was telling the truth when I said,
"You'll be walking out of here within a few weeks - and if you still
have a soft spot for nurses, then I'll still be here."
The cheeky grin appeared for a moment.
"You might have to find a nursing post nearer to where I'll be
stationed."
"No problem," I replied. And that was the truth. It was what I
wanted.
END
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