Massachusetts General Hospital School of Nursing - Yearbook (Boston, MA)

Page 24 text:

In between breaks came grinding hours of study, the attempt to assimilate a body of knowledge we felt at times could not be learned in a thousand years, let alone a thousand days. In those days, “The MGH Way” seemed always a little beyond our grasp. So we made beds ad nauseam in the lab far into the night; so we injected pil- lows and oranges with air. But somehow it wasn’t quite the same when we were presented with our very own real live patients. “Hello, I’m Miss Fisher and I’m going to be tjour nurse this morning, and would you like a backrub?” 20

Page 23 text:

r; I I t I How vividly we remember that warm September day when The Lincolnshire opened its doors wide to receive one hundred twenty-five young women, eager yet timid, reaching out for maturity yet clinging mightily to the last remnants of girlhood. The old hotel creaked under the weight of trunks, boxes, suitcases and stuffed animals, anything portable, totable or dragable . . . (“But, Mother, I might need my five formals, skis, bathing suit and T ' set.”) ... If only our big sister had told us that all we really needed were a toothbrush and alarm clock! The days passed in rapid suc- cession, and we cultivated the MGH stride on our daily march down Charles Street to the Mecca. At six o’clock on any particular morning we owned that old cow- path! 19

Page 25 text:

We had, fortunately, the Junior Proc- tors, living proof that surviva l in dis- aster was possible, and our kindly big sisters who seemed at the time so know- ing, so accomphshed. Life at The Lincolnshire included, of necessity, escape. With every weekend off, some of us went home, some to fraternity parties, and some to self- styled TGIF parties. And some of us simply shut our doors and went to sleep, content to let MGH and the world rush by without us for awhile. For all of the diversion Boston offered, there was no escaping January twenty-fourth, day number one of our “week that was,” when we were buried under such an avalanche of exams that some of us never saw dayhght again. Trips away from Gharles Street were few and even Scharaff’s lost its appeal. We were well-acquainted, too, with that old Monday morning feehng as we returned to an exam or two or three, ready to G R, to examine the innards of our yellow rats, to ponder the Hopi way, to flame our loops, to give our patients that old one-two: back care, mouth care and emotional support. We even learned to make a flaxseed poultice (thank heavens for Hydro- colator packs ) . Phrases drift across the span, sifted from the complex maze of our daily activity: ... In Dr. Mead’s article, I beheve that’s number 739 on your yellow list . . . You’re going to be in seeerious trouble . . . Judy Germ . . . The Smile . . . When I worked at the Gity there was a patient who . . . Now, Girls . . . But which femur is it? . . . Pith it yourself ... A nurse? Just a minute. I’ll get you one . . . You’re here for education, not service . . . The which cycle? . . . At MGH we hold the washcloth this way. J 21