Calgary General Hospital - In Cap and Uniform Yearbook (Calgary, Alberta Canada)

Page 53 text:

5th Row—I). McLeod, J. Cowan, K. Newbery, M. King, W. Gray. M. Martin. 4th Row—R. Demetrovits, M. O’Neil, J. Howatson. R. Gremm, 1). Pearson, G. Laing, A. Tomlinson. 3rd Row—C. Hicks, H. Hood, H. Gray, M. Bothwell, V. Blair, I. Olson, V. Remackel, B. Murray. 2nd Row—M. Sisson, E. Miller, S. MacKay, A. Finell, N. McPherson, C. Doull, M. Reed, M. Deyell. 1st Row—E. Simpson, M. Milnes, H. Pierce, V. Ridgway, D. Freeman, A. Freebairn, M. Box, M. Inne§.

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50 ' IN CAP AND UNIFORM ' WE HAVE A PROFESSION Called of God to use these hands, These minds, these bodies, as He commands. Divine this calling—to serve mankind, To give without asking—to leave self behind. It’s a gallant challenge we must throw out to life, And undaunted hearts we must bring to the strife. Never acknowledging nagging fear— We’ve a joyous faith and a vision clear. Life, eternal miracle—we usher it in; Death, grim victor—must pass us to win. Hearts are sore where the Reaper stalks, And we smooth the paths where sorrow walks. There will come in time a reckoning day, When facing God and mankind we can proudly say, “The ascent was steep— the hazards great, I have faithfully served—I have fulfilled my fate.” —S. MacKAY. -♦♦♦- INFLATION BY DEGREES Probies’ feet begin to swell first day on wards— They hurt like-! on trips to laundry, D.K., lab.; Not patients, but flunkies, should be in bed, With inflation—You said it! Your feet feel like lead. Even pipe-stem arms start swelling in “Popeye” fashion From heaving patients up in bed—it seems a passion—this slipping, Or ever tried to pull the lift from 1st West, whew! That adds more brawny muscle too. Feet, arms, legs, throw out your chest, What’s that—a visceroptosis below your vest? Think you had to fill out your apron To have a practically general inflation (pardon poet’s license). Well so now your a senior—expand a bit more, And balance the top with what’s on the floor. How can the cranium stand this last phrase, momentus Of inflation of head, which “probies” call stupendous? —A. M. F.

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52 IN CAP AND UNIFORM ' HOSPITAL Hospital is a grand spot— Assuming of course you have got To the stage known as convalescent And allowed chicken (or pheasant) Which tastes like chicken (or pheasant) And not like cardboard suspiciously flavored With the anaesthetic that doctors favored; Assuming also the three or possibly four Cigarettes permitted per diem, smell more Like tobacco and less like an act Of incendiarism, or hay incautiously stacked. Even though the old “wagon” is hitched To a scar, it’s good when you’ve been “unstitched” To lie in bed in your ward And observe how you’re loved and adored By your friends and relations. (Even Aunt Jane, whose prognostications Concerning your future career are not very rosy, Has sent you a “get-well” posy). Flowers and fruit greet you from every table, You might be a stricken Tracy, a sick Clark Gable. Oh, hospital is swell! Though, mind you, it’s just as well To obey the rules, and employ a measure of stealth In pursuit of your wants; and you musn’t speak of your health Or keep ringing your bell all day If you mean to enjoy your stay. At first it may seem a bit daft That they wake you up to give you your sleeping draught, Or at nothing a.m., just as the early bird hastens To snap up the worm, they come along with their basins And insist on washing you, whether you’ve had A good night’s rest or a bad. But orders are orders; or else the whole show would go pop; Does not General Routine rank higher than Major Op? So you’ve got to be washed, dead or alive, And all groomed up before the doctors arrive. Sister would be uncapped And nurse probably clapped