IN OCTOBER MURIEL joined the other sixteen probationers starting at Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital. Miss Haughton, the lady superintendent, was there to greet them and inspect their uniforms.
‘Your uniforms must be always spick and span, starched and clean. No trace of lipstick, face powder or rouge is permitted, and hair must be pinned up neatly under your nurse’s veil to avoid risk of infection.’
She spent almost an hour going through rules and regulations.
‘This is far worse than school,’ whispered a probationer named Hannah Woods loudly under her breath.
For the first six weeks they were not let near the wards and had to learn the basics, from how to make a bed, clean and disinfect a ward or room, to how to prepare good, nutritious invalid food for patients – scrambled eggs, lamb’s liver, poached chicken or fish, beef tea, chicken soup, blancmange and a disgusting dish called tripe. Muriel dearly wished she had paid some attention to Essie’s cookery over the years and made a secret vow to get Nellie to help her learn to cook. She was pretty useless, and the smell of offal made her feel sick. Many of her fellow probationers were well used to bedmaking and cleaning and Muriel realized just how cosseted and spoilt she was.
‘Miss Gifford, surely you know how to turn a neat corner in a bed!’
‘Miss Gifford, don’t you know how to clean tiles?’
‘Miss Gifford, you must learn how to carry and empty a full bedpan properly.’
Hannah grimaced and held her nose, which made Muriel get a fit of the giggles. She was glad that she wasn’t the only one as she and a few other trainees struggled to learn the basics and overcome their prejudices.
When it came, the first day on the ward was a shock. In the long, high-ceilinged rooms filled with sick people, the air at times was fetid despite the smell of disinfectant, the beds in neat rows rarely empty unless someone was in theatre or having treatment. A girl named Adele nearly burst into tears when one of the nurses asked her to give a bedbath to Mr Lonergan, an elderly patient recuperating after surgery.
‘I’ve never seen a man down there … like that …’ she cringed.
Muriel thanked heaven for having six brothers, as the basics of male anatomy were something she couldn’t avoid as she was growing up.
‘I’ll help you,’ she offered, trying to disguise her own embarrassment.
Alongside basic ward work, lectures on anatomy, physiology, hygiene, and surgical and medical nursing were held in the Dublin Metropolitan Technical School for Nurses. The training was exhausting; Muriel was on her feet for so long every day that her legs and feet ached. But her focus was on her patients, the sick, the invalids, the dying.
Sir Patrick Dun’s was a busy hospital with a fine reputation for surgery under professor of surgery Edward Hallaran Bennett and surgeons like Sir Charles Bell and Edward Taylor. Mr Woods was the head of the ear, nose and throat department, while Sir John Banks, Dr Mallet and Dr Smith were in the medical department. There was so much to learn and try to understand, and as a probationer Muriel was always conscious of being on the lowest rung of the medical ladder.
‘We are all a team,’ Dr Watson would remind them. ‘Everyone has to learn.’
Muriel liked being part of a team and developed a close friendship with her fellow probationers, all bound by a sense of camaraderie and duty to help each other no matter how awful things were on the ward. The junior doctors floated around the wards too, regularly flirting with the girls and asking them to attend the medical college and hospital socials with them. Muriel and one of the young doctors, Andrew Richardson, invariably ended up sitting talking or even dancing together and he invited her to accompany him to the hospital’s annual ball.
‘He likes you!’ warned Hannah, who was attending the event with one of his friends.
Muriel blushed – she was beginning to feel the same about him. On the rare occasions they were ever alone, they mostly talked about the hospital and work, but she supposed that was because they were both kept so busy.
She always seemed to be at someone’s beck and call. Making beds, dealing with people who were very sick, running fevers and needing total care. Often her work was menial – emptying urine bottles and bedpans, cleaning up, changing sheets and bathing patients. There was little dignity for those who were ill and she often had to mask her own reactions and dismay.
‘Nurse, can you get me something for the pain, please?’ pleaded an elderly woman, who had a racking cough. ‘I can’t stick it no more.’
Muriel, unsure of what to do, approached a doctor who was standing in the corridor writing notes on a chart.
‘Please, doctor, Mrs Scott is in a lot of pain. Could you give her something to help as she—’
The doctor kept writing and ignored her. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. She began again.
‘Miss?’ He raised his eyebrows. He had a round face with a florid complexion and pale, almost grey, eyes.
‘Gifford.’
‘I suggest you talk to the nurse on the ward if there is a problem with a patient,’ he said pompously. ‘I have rounds with Sir Charles and am too busy.’
‘Yes, doctor,’ she apologized, delighted to escape from him. She would find Nurse Roberts and ask her to take a look at Margaret Scott.
‘Mrs Scott has had her dose of morphine,’ sighed the older nurse impatiently. ‘She will have to last out until she is due her next dose.’
‘Even though she is in so much pain?’
‘Yes, Miss Gifford. You must realize that we are nurses and doctors here, not miracle-workers. Mrs Scott is fatally ill and there is nothing any of us can do about it.’
Muriel felt overwhelmed. She was powerless, and worse still she had to tell poor Margaret that she would have to wait hours for her next dose of medicine.
The old woman said nothing, tears running down her face. Pulling up a chair, Muriel sat down beside her bed, holding her hand until her patient, who was struggling to breathe, fell asleep.
‘Miss Gifford, might I remind you that there are other patients who are in need of your attention,’ interrupted the ward sister crossly. ‘Mrs Power is still waiting for a commode.’
‘I’ll fetch it,’ she said, standing up. There was no point arguing with her superior. But she knew in her heart that she had done the right thing in staying with the old lady.
Good nursing, to her mind, should always centre on caring for the needs of the sick and the elderly, her patients.