IN HOSPITAL

Evening Star, Issue 25394, 27 January 1945, Page 8

IN HOSPITAL

ONE NIGHT IN DOMINION WARD | SIGHTS, SOUNDS, AND CHARACTERS '.DRYING TO SLEEP. .[By R.T.H.] # I've made up my mind that I am going to have a good sleep to-night. Since coming out into this big ward from the "special" I've been too intrigued by the new surroundings to sleep much. So many curious noises—of sleeping men, snores, oaths, groans, and other suppressed sounds made by men in pain. One bad sleeper, like myself, has christened it the "Jungle"; another calls is the " Teddy Pears' Picnic." But to-night I intend to ignore all these distracting sounds and just sleep. Many of the patients regularly take a sleeping draught or tablet to ensure sleep; but so far I have steadfastly set my face against that practice, and so without any artificial inducement or aid I intend to sleep to-night. Eight o'clock. The light has faded in a last crimson glory through the branches of the oak trees outside the western windows of the ward. Through the windows of the adjacent wing on the east I can see the golden glory of the moon rising at its full. But long before she mounts the parapet of the building 1 and shines into this room I shall be asleep. A flying wrack of mist scuds southward, alternately obscuring and revealing the moon, the effect being that of a giant light switched on and off. Silence gradually settles on the ward, save for the swift, soft-footed tread of the probationer as she goes to the " end "for a last belated "bottle" or "pan" and returns. _ I settle comfortably on my air cushion and decide to lie straight on my back for a. start. By the measured breathing around me, many of the patients must already be asleep. So off I must go, too.

A rattle of hottles on a tray, and I know that nurse is coming around with the sleeping "dope" for those who need it. A soft, dim light from her torch saves the fuller ward light that would awaken the sleepers. Her shadow flickers in grotesque shapes on the ceiling as she carefully apportions the mixture to each recipient. She moves quietly along, studies each patient, and gives a " dope " where desired. Some have to take it every night to secure a modicum of rest from their pain. Others take it more or less from habit. These she gently admonishes! that they should try to sleep without it. She is at my bedside now. "Not asleep yet?" she asks. ''.How do you feel, boy?" " 'Fine, nuree!" ' < "Want anything?" " No, thanks, nurse. I'm just going off s to sleep right away." " That's right. Good-night." And she passes on. The clock strikes 9, and I try counting up to 100. A lighted match flares about No. 23, and I raise myself to find the " Walrus " busily engaged in lighting his smelly old pipe. . The "Walrus," so-called on account of his sweeping moustache and generally-drooping features. .This lighting up is quite a ritual, and it 'takes place three or four times during the night. The one and only boy in the ward has added the name " Lighthouse," as well as " Walrus." The match is held for the duration of its lighted life and periodicaly applied to the pipe until at last it burns the fingers of the " Walrus." Whether this is a Scottish desire to get all he can out of the match or a. real inability to get his pipe drawing in a lesser time we can never decide. In any case I am generally awake or uwakened by these iluminations,*but tonight I hope to witness only this first one, for I mean to sleep. The old "Walrus", is a rough diamond —rather brusque and churlish with the nurses. He tells me he is 79 years otf age, and that he was an inmate of this-hospital 50 years ago. Ho is a baker by trade, and hopes to get a job here in Dunedin as soon as he fets over this bout of asthma which as laid him by the heels. It will be hard to get, he says, on account of the machines now in use. He is what is known as a real old " dough puncher." Burnt to his finger tips, the match dies out at last. The pipe emits gfeat clouds of smoke. The " Walrus" . turns in the darkness and addresses a stage whisper to Bill in the neighbouring bed. More whispering, and the soft click of a locker being opened. The chink of bottle on glass and a light chuckle. Then silence, (to-day was visitors' day, and quite \a little coterie came to see the " Walrus," leaving tokens of their friendliness in the best of spirits). The nurse pads softly into the ward and shines her torch on the "Walrus's" bed.. He is calmly smoking. She retires; " A narrow squeak, Bill," chortles the " Walrus, as I turn on my left side, and will myself to go to sleep. 1 I am rudely interrupted by the clatter of a falling "pan." Old "Pop" in No. 1 has missed the chair with it. The nurse runs in and'rights matters, but quite, a "number have jbeen awakened, and muttered oaths I and "Put him out" are heard from all quarters. Then matches flare as a few awakened or sleepless ones decide on a soothing cigarette. The incident' has "pepped up " old Pop, who starts to talk, as he always does, after his sleeping draught. He calls up his family by name, swears at his sheep dogs, jand finally comes walking down the strip ; — whether awake or asleep, we could not decide. Nurse shepherds him bacik to bed, where he continues his tirade land his one-voiced conversation, waxing in volume as lie becomes argumentative.

" Shut up, you old fool,'' comes from a dozen quarters, but this only spurs Pop to further efforts. Finally, nurse trundles him out, bed and all, into the clinic, where his sweetness is" wasted on the desert air," so to speak. £oor old Pop 1 His old heart is showing signs of wear. He told me to-day he would be all right " only for his legs." j He is over 70 years old. A wild Irishman, as ,. game as Ned Kelly. . . . But (this isn't going to sleep. I try lying on my back again, A deep musical voice breaks out in a snatch of talk, and by it I know that old Mr Day, under! his " dope," has found a much-needed sleep. He always says a few meaningless words when his draught has tiken effect. For the last few days he hasn't been so bright—listless and sleepy, temp, taken four times a day. He'tells me that he has lost all sense of taste whatsoever. His wrists are badly swollen, making his hands gripless and! full, of pain. All the ministrations of the masseuse do not seem to improve jthem much. But I expect to see him letter to-morrow. His eyes looked brighter when I -bade him " good-night."j. . . I wish I could sleep like Mickey J next to me, but my brain will keep going round like a squirrel in a cage. . . . I try lying on my right side for a change. T can now see the moon. It has risen to the top of the flying wrack oj mist. I seem to remember I promised myself to be asleep long before this happened, | but I would have missed something

good. In and out along the clouds' serrated edge the moon dances, now fully exposed, anon partially or wholly obscured. Into my mind comes the verse of a poem I learned at school, ' The Cloud.' Perhaps if I try to repeat it over I will go to sleep in the process: The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor ' -.' eyes , ■ And burning plumes outspread, . Leaps on the back of my sailing wrack When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag Which an earthquake . rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit, In the light of his golden wings.

That was Shelley's picture of the sunrise over clouds, but this is the moonrise, and the gold is really silver. I watch it for a time entranced. A stealthy figure passes between it and me. I recognise the bald head of old Mr Weaver. He should not be out of. bed. He staggers along to the " end " and disappears through the swing doors. But nurse has discovered his empty bed, and the wheel chair whizzes down the aisle to the "end," and he is conveyed back, and with many dire threats safely placed in bed again ... I think I shall turn my back on the moon and so get off to sleep. Perhaps I ani a bit moon-struck! Else why do I keep on drivelling like this? The ear-splitting exhaust of a care-lessly-ridden motor bike on the adjacent highway prevents me effectually. Others, too, have been aroused out of sleep. ... " Damn that " is the mildest epithet wrung from sufferers. I wonder if these "hogs of the road " ever pause to consider the iar and shock which their crude, thoughtless driving brings to the sick in hospital. If they could hear the curses wrung from those whose much-needed and scrappy rest they disturb, I am sure they would feel what curs they really are. We have three or four such interruptions every night, and at all hours. Tim, awakened, has broken out in a fit of racking coughing, and sleep, for him, is now a thing impossible. He has been in hospital for eight months, he tells me. Arthritis of the spine was his trouble, and he is "told he is o.ne of the unlucky ones on whom the " injection " remedy ias had a bad, unexpected effect. So for months now and to come he will have to bear the cruel pain of the remedies being tried to>countract the dire effect, of the gold injections in his body. ' Tim is one of the bright; spots of the ward, though he assures me that a dozen times, if the means had been at his hands, he would gladly have ( finished the whole business. This is the type of sufferer that these motor cyclists are allowed to torture without let or hindrance in the trying watches of the night when pain of mind or body_ is always hardest to bear. Eighty-six yearsf ago Tim's father emigrated from 'that gallant country, Poland, and carved out a home for himself in this new country. He worked on the early public works of this Dominion and reared a large family who became good New Zealand citizens and soldiers. On the battlefields of Flanders, in the last Great War. Tim contracted this physical disability, which he is now fighting so gallantly. . . . Although of differing religious persuasions, he and I have found common ground for good/.comradely talks. I cannot admire his love of parents and home life, his sane outlook on the problems of today, and his fidelity to his Ohurch, From its teachings during boyhood and manhood he has gathered a simple faith that must stand him in good stead in his sickness. I feel a bit ashamed of my own impatience in sickness when I remember the months of struggle and pain and his none-too-sure outlook for the months to be. . . . Half-past 10 strikes. The night nurse is taking ovei from the evening ... and I am still awakel "■•"" Nurse Norris is the night nurse, and as the reflected light from her torch falls on my open eyes 6he queries-: " Not asleep yet, boy? '' •"" ■ " Just going," I reply. " Everything is nurse."

Together they pass by Mickey, in the next bed, and so around the ward. Gosh! How Mickey can sleep! I wish I had the-gift. He is gently snoring now. Certainly, he takes a "dope" every night,.but even so he often sleeps all day and can drop into slumber when he chooses. He, and I have become good pals. When I was not allowed up he attended to all my wants and regaled me with stories from his boyhood days. He gets around" the ward, helping everywhere. In fact, he seems to have gotten up a temperature and high pulse through over-domg it. So he in turn has been ordered to lie up, and I try to attend to his wants. He is rather worried, or, as he put it. " gallied," about himself, and I try to cheer him up—read his chart for him, as he can't make " head or tail " of it. He is longing to get out to his wife and little girl again. But the doctors are not satisfied that this is wise. He was told to-night that an operation was necessary to make him right, and he is rathei like a scared boy. I know that in a fighthe is no coward, for he has stood up with naked fists to a man much bigger than himself. ~»How the unknown seems to frighten the bravest of us! Mickey is a Catholic and I am a Protestant, but to-night I tried to remind him of, the great central truth of his Church and mine; that an all-wise and loving Father watches over the ; humblest and worst of His creation and holds our lives in the hollow of'His hands; that a simple prayer such as he had learned as a Christian Brothers scholar was still a comfort and a power that changed th'ings. (A nice, one, I am, to be preaching!) (But Mickey, with tears in his eyes, thanked me.and seemed a bit I shall be out of hospital, while Mickey' will be facing his ordeal; but I won't forget his simple kindness and a really high conception of what is right between man and man, often haltingly expressed tome. I'm glad he is sleeping well. I wish I could. I'll try my right side again. Hip into the air cushion, and so to sleep! A silent form slips past the end of my bed—Bill the sailor. He's having a thin time of it with his strained back muscles. It will be a disappointment not being able to sail with his ship when it leaves in a couple of days' time. Massage and ray treatment have so far failed to give him relief. Old Tom, in No. 15, calls him as he passes his .bed. and in a " pig's " whisper asks for a, cup of water and a "bottle." Tom is supposed to be on a "restricted liquid" diet, but he seems to spend a great part of the night in eating fruit. and drinking. All the night visitors.to the "end" are asked to bring hiin drinks of water. He is quite a character in his way, but rather overpowering and churlish to the nurses, who only refuse his requests for his ultimate good. And how he loves an audience! The other night, when we mostly wanted to. go to sleep, he held forth for half an hour on the rignts or otherwise of the Maoris to the mutton bird islands. Now. I ask vou. He was quite " peeved" when someone . audibly asked the nurse to "turn > off that, gramophone." He is at. his brightest when the students surround his bed listening to his heart, taking his pulse or blood pressure. Sailor Bill returns with the " doings," and Old Tom is satisfied for the time being. I turn to the opposite side, and surely I'm off this time. No 1 Not yet. Another shadowy form | comes down the-ward, guiding his halt-

ing footsteps by gripping' each' bed-end in turn. As he passes mine I identify old Mr Winterbottom by the lump on . top of his bald head. He should have gone out on Saturday, but wing to a misunderstanding he had no clothes, and is now stranded for the week-end. As he reaches the end bed, No. 14, he gives it an extra pull to get himself ■-. around the corner. " Leave my d ■ hed alone!" comes in a sotto voice from its occupant,. Mr Sawyer. (He. tells me that everybody uses his bed as a swinging post when going to the " end.") Mr Sawyer is another returned soldier who lost a leg in the war. In spite of this handicap, he took up land and successfully worked his small farm, milking nine or .10 cows and doing all. the other farm work, but a fall cracked the kneecap_ of his injured limb, and he had to give up the farm. He came in here a very sick man. Enteric fever, another legacy of the war, has now attacked his stomach and he is having what he calls "one hell of a time." He cannot retain any of bis food, and expected to get out this week and return for an operation in two months' time. To-day he is a disappointed man, because the doctors have, told him he must remain here for further observation and more X-rays. No wonder he resents the awakening pull-on his bed to-night. Mr Winterbottom—cold, stern man as he is—evidently senses the position, for he carefully avoids Mr Sawyer's bed in returning, and no doubt Mr Sawyer drops off to sleep. Twelve o'clock, and I turn wearily to have another try at slumber. I must just have been on dreamland's border when excited voices at the next bed. No. 20. brought me back wide awake. Willie Williamson was arguing in hectic language ivith a night porter. Most of the patients are awake and listening. Then I remembered what Willie had said to me to-day. He . . doesn't speak to any of the other pa-' •■ ' tients, and only to me in a guarded whisper behind his hand* He is a Scotsman and a returned soldier of the hard-bitten type. He informed me that he was suffering from T. 8.,. and that he could tell the doctors more about.it than they could tell him. He' came up here from another ward, and a glimpse at his chart told one he had , heen,very ill indeed. He takes violent likes and dislikes tor.the nurses, and if not taken notice of seems to be jealous. The nurses he likes he rewards with little poems, and those he dislikes he goes " gunning " for. Nurse Morris is one of the latter, and he evidently • had some plan of battle, because he told' me to watch for fun to-night. Just what form it was to take I did not di»cover, but it had to do with a " nervy " i patient who spent his waking niglrts in walking round the ward and, according to Willie; disturbing his rest by talking and joking with the night nurses. It appeals that this " nervy" patient asked her to run his bed out on to the balcony for fresh air, which she did.

Willie promptly asked that his bed be run out on the balcony also, as he, if anybody, needed fresh air. Owing to lack of room, nurse had to refuse his request. Willie thereupon broke loose -' with the crimson language that woke me as I' was dropping off to sleep, and the. porter was summoned to deal with' him. The porter could not quieten Willie, and I heard Willie demand his clothes that he might " leave the show there arid then." The sister was summoned, and he hopped out of bed and down the ward to meet her. and, as he told me next day, ".told nurse off in no uncertain and"not.too polite language." Willie came back to bed very ex- ; cited. (I learned afterwards that he had at one time been a mental patient.) Soon a young doctor came on the scene. As I listened to thai interne speak to Willie and calm him down I could not but admire his tact and his handling of a dangerous man. Willie became quiet, and a strong"" shot ■" in his forearm completed the good work. He waSsafe till morning. Quietness settled on the ward once again, and only a, glowing cigarette end here and therej proclaimed the fact that some were still awake. Aga'in I compose my6elf for sleep. • * One o'clock strikes. „ Mine eyes are heavy with sleep. As I turn again to find a t good position for sleep, the soft light of the torch reflected on to my face from the white of the sister's uniform, I can just see her smiling face above it and muster a grin in return, i "This man has always got a smile," she says to Nurse Morris, who' is beside her. Then, patting my arm, she says, . ".Now go to sleep, boy." With such a benediction who could resist? . 'I sleep at last. [All names in this sketch arc fictitious.] ' '