There is whole lovely list of things I long to be writing about, but my brain is dulled by a sinus and bronchial infection and the broken sleep that comes from the sound of my own coughing. When I'm asleep, I cough. When I'm awake, I sneeze. So, instead of the lovely things, I want to talk about health care. But not in the way you are thinking. I want to talk about the health care I remember from my childhood.
Earlier this week, when first I was felled by this infection, I wrote to my friend B about what a drag it is to be sick when you are a grownup because no one takes care of you. I remember three great nurses in my childhood, and I wish that any one of them could be here this week, just for a day or two, until I can get up to make my own chicken soup.
Grandma Kranendonk was the first, and greatest, nurse. She was always fascinated by the miracle of the human body, and very down to earth about its functions. What color? What consistency? What frequency? She wanted to know, because from experience and reading she knew what the various possibilities signified. My grandmother was born in 1900. In a way, that was one of the great tragedies of her life. She was very intelligent, acutely observant, and had good hands; if she had been born fifty years later, she would have been a doctor. Born in 1960, she would now be chief neurosurgeon at a prestigious hospital. Instead, she had to pour all that curiosity and energy and potential into being a mom and helpmate, nursing my granddad's career rather than patients, and bossing her children rather than first-year residents. I love her dearly, and have missed her every day since her death in 2001, but I know she was thwarted by the narrow channel of life available to a woman of her time and place.
The second great nurse is my dad. He is the one to take you to a doctor when you need one, because he is going to ask the questions you are too out of it, or too embarassed, to ask. He is going to be pushy on your behalf, and he sticks around to make sure you're being cared for. Once the medications or the tests or the chicken soup are administered, he steps into his other role, that of storyteller. My dad tells preposterous stories, disguising them as plausible events. He is a master of the Invented Fact and Statistic. In one of her autobiographical books, Madeleine L'Engle wrote about her granddaughter Lena's hospitalization after being hit by a car. She said that when the pain medication couldn't hold the child, a story could and did; for the duration of that story, her mind and body were eased. I know this from my own hospital stay following my car accident. A friend came in to read to me, and it was pure gift. I am always happy to hear my dad's stories (ask me sometime about where cashmere comes from. I know because, when I was little, he told me).
The third great nurse was a small, elderly Belgian woman named Elsa. My family lived in Brussels in 1967 and 1968, and while we were there, Elsa and Jules were - I don't know what to call them. Servants? Helpers? Auxiliary family is what they felt like. Elsa cried to see my sister and me fighting, which we did regularly then (our parents were going through a bad patch and we were unbalanced); her tears stopped us more effectively than any threats and punishments. Once, when our parents were out of town on some trip, my sis and I became very ill with flu, and Elsa took care of us. I don't know that any pharmaceutical medicines passed our lips, but I will never forget the flavorful clarified chicken broth she made, poured into a pretty bowl, and brought up to our bedrooms on a tray. There has never since been such a beautiful broth. Once we were on the mend, delicious toast appeared, and, I think, hot chocolate. All were the work of her hands: love made manifest. So maybe servant is the right word, not in the sense of employee, but in the sense of one who serves out of love. By the time our parents returned from wherever, we were fine.
There are many common denominators here among the great nurses; curiousity, courage, and determination, but the greatest of these is love. As it always is. I am going to make some tea now, and raise the cup in memory and gratitude... and then go back to bed. I need to be well by Thursday. Prayers gratefully accepted.
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