“A VERY PRESENT HELP—”

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 3, Issue 9, 2 March 1925, Page 61

“A VERY PRESENT HELP—”

An Auckland Mother

THE WORK OF THE PLUNKET NURSES

W/"E pause before a narrow entry facing a flight of steep and narrow stairs. On the wall is painted a hand pointing upwards, with the words "Plunket Nurse" inscribed underneath. And what a wealth of suggestion there is for us in that guiding hand! Already we feel it gently and capably uplifting us and easing us of a burden of anxiety. Above the doorway is the notice "Prams and go-carts may be left at the draper's opposite, free of charge." Free of charge! Surely not! One so seldom hears those magic words in these days of post-war prosperity. We wish a pram were ours, that we might take advantage of this unique offer but, alas! our baby is a country baby, ind prams and go-carts simply refuse to "go" on country roads, not to mention ploughed fields and stubbly paddocks. We mount those steep stairs, and, as we pause half way to rest, register an audible wish that some philanthropic person would present the Plunket Society with a suite of rooms on the ground floor. Climbing stairs is a tiring exercise, and when a mother has walked a long way. and perhaps has had a sick baby to mindnot that our baby is sick. Oh dear, no!—not sick at all. She is just—just—well, just a Iceile bit not well, but not ill. Of course not. Please, you mustn't think she is sick, for in these days of suggestion and auto-suggestion and the like, thinking she is ill will be sure to make her so, and oh! she mustn't be ill—she mustn't. You see, she hadn't a fair chance; she was a premature baby, to start with, weighing only five and a-half pounds, and mother's

milk seems not just right in quality, and so the little bowels are a bit upset, and she loses a little of her very little weight, so to be on the safe side we bring her all the long way to town to see the Plunket nurse. But she is not sick—she is not. We reach the head of the stairs and stand in a short passage, wondering what to do next. There is an electric bell-button on the wall, with the word "Emulsion" above and "Please ring" below. Are we to ring only when we want emulsion? or are we expected to ring in any case, "Emulsion" being perhaps just a slogan to cheer .us on ? We almost ring, but visions of stern thin-lipped authority suddenly appearing and forcing on us a bottle of emulsion because we "rang for it" deters us. and our lingers tremble off the button. We discover the waitingroom just as the nurse appears, and oh !thanks be! —she is human, and so kind. "Have you been here before?" she inquires. No; this is our first visit. "Oh, well, sit down for awhile. There will soon be chairs tor you in the consulting room." Consulting room! How horribly like a visit to the doctor's it sounds. We sit down and listen to the storm of infant protest which rages all round us. We are glad to note that most of the cries are loud and lusty, indicating that the owners of those lungs are not very sick. There are some pitiful wails, of course, and one is remarkably like—like —well, it is a trifle weaker than our baby's cry, but then our baby is not sick.

"PRESENTLY two women come out, one carrying a baby. She looks happy, and tells. us proudly her baby has gained 7oz. in a week. We take heart of hope as we are called into the. consulting room. It is a pretty room, and its brightness cheers us up wonderfully. Nurse takes a few particulars and notes them down: baby's weight at birth, method and hours of feeding, etc., etc. "Now undress baby right to her singlet, Mrs. B , and we'll see what she weighs." Our fingers tremble so we can hardly get the clothes off; not that we are worrying at all, but wee babies are awkward to handle, everyone knows. Perhaps Mother looks a little strained as nurse adjusts the scales. It is the. first babv. you know, and if "Five pounds two ounces."' says the nurse. "She has lost a lot, Mrs. B- ." Oh, but she couldn't have lost all that, surely. Perhaps our scales , were wrong; you know, they are only the old springbalance, and they are so uncertain. She might not have been five and a-half at first. Why. she might not have been five, even. "Very likely," says Nurse, consolingly. "Well, we'll soon pull it up again, anyway. I think she's a healthy baby, Mrs. B—, but unfortunate pre-natal conditions, and insufficient food, through inability to suckle properly, has weakened her somewhat. Dress baby again, and we'll weigh her twice more, before and after feeding, to see what quantity she takes." The final weighing is not satisfactory, either. "Only two ounces, Mrs. B —." says Nurse. "She is not getting half enough. Now, listen to me. and I'll tell you what to do." And in case we are too excited to listen, she writes down our instructions. Let me see! Have we got them all? Breast stimulation, regular hours for food and sleep, fresh air and sunlight, sterilized water, whey after each mealyes, we have them all, and promise to faithfully carry out orders. The nurse takes another babv from the weighing basket and lifts him high in her arms "Gained 10oz.," she says triumphantly. "There, Mrs. G . Why don't you feed your baby properly, instead of that horrid old barley-water stuff?" Mrs. G looks ready for tears, as she bends over her own wailing infant, and every mother in the room knows just how bitterly she regrets being unable, to suckle her wee child. The nurse proceeds with the "weighing in," and Mrs. G turns tremulously to her neighbour. "I wonder why it is," she says, with a little twisted smile, ".that so many nurses appear to foster the idea that mothers are always seeking any old excuse to put their babies on the bottle?. Apart from the fact that breast-

fed babies thrive best, just conceive of any loving mother willingly giving up the joy of feeling her baby's precious lips drawing life from her bosom." The nurse comes back to our baby and carries her away to "show her off." To us, any explanation of this distinctive mark of favour is distinctly superfluous, but the nurse offers one, candidly. "Yours is a red-headed baby," she remarks, casually, "and we don't get many carroty ones." Oh, dear! What a thing to say! And it really isn't red, either. At least, not very. The room is quiet now, save for the low crooning of mothers and the soft gurgles of satisfied babies, and we have leisure to survey the room and ponder on the importance of this little world. Dreamily we hear the roar ot tram-cars and the busy hum of the trafficking town outside, but there seems no connecting link between it and this bustling world upstairs. This is the big business of life, and nothing else matters one iota. Politics and Imperial Conferences, earthquakes and Soldiers' Mothers' League resolutions, woman's rights and wrongs, all fade into insignificance, and even husbands and fathers are but dim figures in the shadowy recesses of our inner consciousness. There is nothing else in all the world but mothers and babies and, thank God. Plunket nurses.