I mentioned the other day that it was unwise to play practical jokes on, or otherwise incur the wrath of, the nurses. Nurses brought your meals, kept you clean, got you dressed, changed your sheets, soothed your pain, protected you, made sure you were warm or cool enough, sat and talked when you were homesick, and comforted you when the hurt or fear was too much. On top of that, they gave you your medicine, changed your dressings, kept track of your vitals, and did most of the stuff that made you well again.
On a medicine service like hematology, the doctors might make a lot of decisions and write the orders, but the nurses actually did most of what had to be done. Even on surgical services, nursing staff handled most of the treatment before and after the operation.
Unlike the medical staff, most of which rotated from service to service each month, the nurses usually worked on the same ward for several years. They built up strong bonds and loyalties, and if you crossed one, you crossed them all. They would close ranks like an angry herd of water buffalo, only meaner and a bit more attractive. Their vengeance might be subtle and take many forms, but you would feel their revenge.
There was, however, one class of nurse that was, for us kids, fair game: the second-year nursing student. The sisterhood extended its protection to the seniors, and even the juniors, but the sophomores had not yet proven their worth, and I think surviving us was part of the test.
All the nursing students wore a blue pinstriped uniform with the ubiquitous white stockings and shoes—I always wondered what a male student would wear, but I don’t remember ever seeing one—and you distinguished their year by the stripe on their cap. Seniors had a wide black stripe, juniors had a narrow one, and sophomores had a plain white cap. Again, I wonder how they would mark the males.
About all the sophomores could do was bring you bath water, make your bed and bring your breakfast. At bath time, they would bring a basin of almost-too-hot water, washcloth and towels and your day clothes. They’d close your curtains and leave you to get clean. The older nurses knew better than to leave the bathing up to you. Under the guise of washing your back, they’d pretty much scrub you down until you glowed and then leave you to get dressed. The white caps, however, still had a mistaken belief that young boys were inherently hygienic.
After the second-year nurses left, most of us would run the damp washcloth through our hair to make it look like we had washed, squish the soap and washcloth around a bit to make the water cloudy and sudsy, get dressed and read comic books. After 15 or 20 minutes, the student would be back. About 70% of them tried to knock. After whapping the curtain three or four times, they’d ask if you were done. That was your signal to make another splash or two with the washcloth and say you were almost done. For some reason, that helped them believe you had actually washed.
When they came back, most of them, but not all, would still try to knock. Then they’d open your curtains and take the basin of “dirty” water to the sink at the end of the ward to empty.
Now, for reasons lost in the mists of time, I had brought with me to the hospital a bag of large, reasonably realistic, plastic bugs. (I was around 7 or 8; you do those kinds of things.) One morning it came to me that it might be kind of fun to put one in my bath water. I squished the soap and washcloth around a little more vigorously than usual, and then tucked a nice, large, brown spider into the suds. About two minutes later my curtains were pulled open and a nurse asked if I was finished. A real nurse. An RN.
I kind of stammered, but since I was already dressed it was hard to say, “Oh, no. I’m still washing.” Instead, all I could get out was, “Where’s Miss Whoever?” “She had to leave, dear.” Then, the nurse picked up the basin and started walking the 20 yards or so to the sink.
This was awful. Not only did this nurse have a problematical sense of humor, but she was about six months pregnant. All I could do was watch and hope. Actually, all I could do was watch. My only hope was that I would survive until tomorrow.
About halfway to the sink, the spider must have floated into the open. There was a shriek, and both of her hands flew up into the air, which meant nothing was holding the basin. It fell straight down, as one would expect, and when it hit the floor the water kind of mushroomed up about three feet. It was spectacular. Kids were laughing, water was all over, and even the other RNs were cracking up when they saw the spider.
It began to look like I might live. She brought the spider over and set it on my bedside stand, and said, “I think this is yours.” I didn’t really like the way she was smiling. For the next couple days, I got scrubbed until I squeaked. Literally.
There’s an old saying about revenge being a dish best served cold. That may be, but it’s nothing like revenge served up with an ice-cold bedpan. Trust me on that.
Read more Guy Boss at the Missing Factor.
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