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The Nurse Came Naked

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What really goes on behind hospital walls? Justine Haynes exposes the medical fraternity, and its willing, available nurses, for what it is.


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The Nurse Came Naked

Justine Haynes

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.

Chapter One

The girl was lying on the operating table. Her legs, encased in flannel leggings, were strapped in stirrups. Sterile drapes covered her belly, which she felt with the tips of her fingers below the edge of her hospital gown.

“It will be over in thirty seconds,” he had said. Thirty seconds with the new suction machine; she remembered when she was a student nurse how she almost passed out the first time she saw a fetus floating in a jar of formaldehyde in the science lab. Closing her eyes, shutting out the fish-like head and limb buds of an unborn embryo, Andra listened to the sound of the doctors in the scrub room. In the O.R. the circulating nurse was busy checking the equipment.

“Don't touch anything!” the nurse's voice was sharp. One of the new students had almost knocked over the sterile instrument tray.

Startled, Andra raised her head. She saw the swinging doors open and there was Mark in his scrub suit, masked, holding his dripping arms bent at the elbows, and followed by the interne. The nurse pushed the table with the sterile towels and gloves near him. Andra watched him carefully dry his hands and stand in the center of the room waiting for the nurse assist to him with his gown.

“It's too loose around the neck,” he said crisply.

How many times had she gone through this ritual with him. She knew his style, everything he preferred, his choice of instruments and sutures, so well that he never had to ask her for anything when she used to scrub with him on big Gyn surgical cases. But this wasn't a big case, Andra thought. An experienced scrub nurse wasn't needed, not for a thirty-second suction job.

“Fix the light!” his voice cracked.

The nurse shot him an annoyed look and after whispering something to one of the students, she reached up, standing at the foot of the table, and grasped the metal bars of the big light, which was hanging just above Andra's open legs.

Mark walked to the side of the table. Andra, by that strange instinct she'd developed after so long that was so much an undercurrent of chemical empathy, knew he was near her, felt his presence, even the animal essence of him. His voice was low and tender.

“How do you feel?”

“Getting woozy from the Demerol,” and she felt the stick in her arm again as she remembered the trouble the floor nurse had in finding her vein. The oblivion medicine; if only it could wipe everything out.

“It really only takes thirty seconds?” She turned her pale face towards him, looking up the strong green clad length of him, at the jutting chin, the mask covering his cynical mouth and sharp nose. His eyes, haunted, sherry colored eyes, looked right into the core of her.

“It has to be done.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You were always so maternal.” His voice was barely audible through the mask.

“You should hate me; I tried to trick you. Isn't that what you think?”

There was a flash of pain in his eyes, but he said nothing and walked to the foot of the table as the nurse said, “This will feel cold.”

The drapes were pulled back from her open legs and Andra felt the sudden shock of icy zephiran chloride on her shaven skin. She closed her eyes; the anesthesiologist stretched out her arm, palpating for a good vein. The fast-acting oblivion drug, Pentothal, would wipe everything out. The tourniquet squeezed her arm. The pin prick of the needle, and she saw the dark red blood shoot into the syringe. Then the sound of the anesthesiologist's voice.

“You'll feel sleepy. Your mouth will get dry.”

Why do they tell me these things, she thought. She knew all about it. How many times had she said the same things to patients?

Mark nodded to the anesthesiologist. Get it over with, he said to himself. Go ahead. Too late for reflection. The agony of decision was over. He had to do it. Abort his own unborn child.

He remembered that scene in his office as he answered the interne's question, when she came to him for the report. No, he couldn't divorce Jennifer. He thought he could but after all, they had been together for twenty years. He had married her when he finished his three-year Air Force stint in the Far East. It was an amicable arrangement.

Jennifer was the perfect doctor's wife. The daughter of a retired surgeon, coolly elegant, who was a great organizer and kept his home running smoothly so that he could do as he pleased. But she had wanted a child and couldn't have any. He never could stand children even though he delivered them. So he lived as he pleased, the answer, the solution to a relatively harmonious marriage being the freedom to be alone and not spend too much time together. She went to Palm Beach to visit her mother in the winter and he did whatever appealed to his eclectic tastes, surrounding himself with an assortment of off-beat friends, mostly artists and musicians. The tight-fitting jigsaw puzzle of his life was suddenly ripped apart by Andra's unexpected appearance in his circumscribed world after ten years of not hearing a word from her.

The nurse wheeled the suction machine between Andra's legs, and he stared at the slender thighs, her opening glistening from the zephiran chloride, waiting for its fetal contents to be sucked out in sterile silence.

How stunned he was that moment she burst into his life during office hours. The last patient had just left and Andra was suddenly there. She was magnificent, looking younger than ever, matured, yet fey, the years of living etched into the superb character of her narrow, bony face. She wore a gold and black dress, cut low at the bosom, her breasts Rubenesque, the skin whose texture and scent he had never forgotten, warm and glistening in the soft play of the ceiling lights. She still had very short hair, which she combed with her fingers, the straw colored bangs dipping low on her fine brows. Her whole body radiated that great energy, but she was and always would be the elusive ghost in his life, someone who exploded like Fourth of July firecrackers, then disappeared. Independent, seemingly self-sufficient, yet essentially terribly feminine, a man's woman who was incomplete without one, scatterbrained and delightfully appealing.

They had met in the country when he was a first-year medical student. Only last summer he drove out to Easthampton and visited the old hotel on the beach, long since boarded up and abandoned. He sat there for hours feeling the haunting pull of memory as the ghosts drifted through the cracked boards of the windows and stirred his imagination.

He looked at her face under the harsh lights. The years had been kind to her. She could have been twenty. She was the only woman whose child he had ever wanted. He only wanted a girl. Mark Hillary was a woman's man. He didn't like men. Women were far more perceptive and interesting. A girl like Andra.... The muscles in his jaw tightened. He could not permit himself to feel anything. The pattern of his life with Jennifer permitted him to live as he wished, and he was always in control. For a moment he thought of her delivering a full-term baby, her beautiful breasts and belly swollen, distorted. He imagined her sweating and straining to push the baby's head through the birth canal. The thought sickened him. No, not Andra. The rush of tender feelings almost weakened his resolve, but he hardened and froze. How could he afford the luxury of allowing her to stir up his life again, make him think, probe, analyze himself, feel again? What was it about her that produced this strange and compelling effect on men? It was an indefinable appeal, which was so characteristic of her, something she sparkled, radiated. And now he was taking her child, his child. No, a fetus, barely formed, a collection of fused cells, that's all....

Andra felt herself letting go into the welcome oblivion. Through the remnants of consciousness she heard the final sounds: the rubber heels of the nurse's shoes on the tile, instruments slapping rubber gloves, the whoosh of the suction machine. The ravelled knots of her mind pulled back awareness, and she felt herself floating beyond her body, searching for union, completeness, a mystical confrontation with her inner self. The erotic fantasy entered her body, feathery fingers reaching for her breasts. She always thought of herself and Mark as brother and sister because they had known each other so long. She was fifteen that summer. Yes! Incestuous love, the most exciting and forbidden of all relationships.

She gave herself up to the Pentothal, blowing her mind, seeing herself and Mark very young and beautiful, playing with one another in a steamy, tropical place, hypnotic, musky, surrounded by exotic vegetation, a misty rain falling on their tanned, naked bodies. Girl of the Limberlost, she remembered that book from her childhood. Yes, the two of them lying on a soft bed of silvery lichen, fairy-like, two children in Narnia. Mark slipped her dress from her shoulders, as she laughed and felt the cool softness of the moss against her skin. He touched her pink, budding breasts, half-formed. She looked at his smooth body, the narrow hips, and the organ between his legs—that wondrous cock—so soft at first in her hand, as she giggled and touched it for the first time....

Other images unfolded across the movie camera of her mind in her thirty-second limbo. That long ago wild party in her Greenwich Village studio when she was on the Spanish dancing kick. She invited all her lovers, displaying herself in a tight costume, black satin, plunging deeply at the cleavage of her breasts, the lace mantilla supported by a mother-of-pearl comb in her hair and her feet tapping sensuously in the red-heeled shoes. Her half-Russian, half-Moroccan mother had been a dancer. Andra had inherited her energy, her concentration in losing herself in creative acts.

The dance was controlled and erotic, and she felt the release of her sexual power as one by one she emasculated her papier-mache lovers. Except Mark. The others faded away and the two of them were drawn together in the enactment of brother-sister love, incest love. Lying on the fur rug, hands locked, his organ big and beautiful, touching her clitoris, then rubbing downwards towards her opening. She felt herself lost in a surrealistic world like a character in a Resnais film. His cock deep within her, touching every nerve ending of her whole being....

A baby was crying. She opened her eyes. The glazed film of oblivion formed cataracts over her eyes. The cry. Sharp, tremulous. Keep it warm. Silver nitrate in the tearless eyes. Slate color. Fists clenched. Covered with cheesy vernix. Wrinkled. Yes! How well she knew the routine....

In the motel basin she saw the flob of the fetal Contents emptied from her uterus. Hands reached under her buttocks and she felt herself sliding from the table onto a stretcher.

Over.

Thirty seconds? The whole room seemed to shrink, close in, then elongate. She remembered as a child having queer visual experiences.

“In the opinion of Dr. Mark Hillary, Chief of Gynecology, it would be emotionally disastrous for Andra Szabo to bear a child. Miss Szabo has clinically demonstrated to the hospital board that she has already shown symptoms of incipient melancholia with strong suicidal urges...

Elevator doors snapped shut. Blue and white striped hems of student nurses' uniforms cracked starchly against the side of the stretcher. Giggles. Gossip. Fear of the first day on the wards. Yes, she remembered. Long ago. He made her become a nurse. She was full of enthusiasm, and she saw herself entering the insular hospital world, the wisp of a cap set high on her head, wearing the yellow and white uniform of Longview College School of Nursing....

He was waiting for her in her room. He made sure she had the corner room with the view of the river and the Queensboro Bridge. She was awake now, and she saw his sharp profile as he sat on the edge of the vaulted window, the mask dangling from his neck, a cigarette between his fingers.

The swirl of her honey hair fanned the top of the bed, the shaggy ends curling slightly at the back of her neck. She asked him for a cigarette.

Mark sat down on the bed and lit the cigarette for her. Their eyes met in painful recognition. There was no escaping her eyes, the incisiveness of her mind.

“How do you feel?”

“In controlled doses Pentothal could, replace LSD. I had some fascinating erotic fantasies.” She smiled and tried to sound casual, knowing how he despised the emotional crap. But then she had this ability to turn off at will, any man, any painful situation which she preferred to block out. He said she turned on and off like a neon light.

He was looking at her breasts; the strings of the hospital gown had loosened at the back. Impulsively, he took the edge of the wrinkled cotton band around her neck and lowered the gown over her breasts.

“I love your breasts.”

She did not move, but leaned back against the hard pillows, her eyes half-lidded, the thick lashes sweeping the pale, bluish skin under them. He massaged her breasts, wanting to take one in his mouth, the nostalgia igniting his old desire for her again.

“No one has skin like yours. I should have married you. I think of that studio of yours—remember you got mad that time I brought what was her name—”

“Joan.” She laughed. “A real cunt.”

“Jesus, you were furious.”

“I didn't give a damn about your fucking around, but not in my studio.”

“Come on. I never did that.”

“Well the two of you were there—”

They both laughed. He pulled the gown up over her breasts again.

“You're so delightful my love. But it's terribly appealing.”

“I also stir you up, make you think and feel. It's very disturbing, isn't it, Mark? You're one of the few men I know who really deserve me! But do you have enough guts?”

He chose, typically, to ignore the question.

“You know, I think I'll take you to see Ada Stark. She's a psychic. Came to me once as a patient and I operated on her a year ago. Fascinating woman. Yes, that would be most interesting. Let her give us both a reading. Perhaps we were brother and sister in another life. I think you'll find it a unique experience. Ada goes into a deep trance. A guide, a kind of prophet, an Indian, speaks through her. There are a number of fascinating lectures and she gives personal readings while under the Indian's control.”

“I didn't know you went in for that sort of thing.”

“You know I've always experimented with way-out phenomena.”

“Like me.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“You're not responsible for me, Mark. I'll get out of your hair, your life. I decided not to take the supervisor's job here.”

“Why not? As Ob-Gyn supervisor, we'll be able to see each other more often. It's a well-paying job. I can get you a bonus besides. You'll do special work for me, you know, research.”

“I can imagine the kind of research you have in mind. Real groovy, hm?” She smiled and touched the cleft in his chin with her forefinger.

“It would have been our child,” she said, her mood changing suddenly, the depression obvious.

“You're too maternal. How could you support a child? Not that I wouldn't have taken care of you, but it was impossible. In time it would have become an annoyance. You're very impulsive.”

“What's going to happen to us, Mark? I'm so sick of nursing. I want to be something more than what I am. I want to do something extraordinary, creative.”

“You'll have to meet some of my freaky artist friends.”

“I tried painting that summer I spent in San Miguel. But I discovered I couldn't paint. I'm too impatient. Besides, I couldn't stand being mediocre at anything.”

“Look, why don't you fly down to Bermuda for two weeks. I'll pay for it. You need time to walk along the beach; reflect, do nothing, pamper yourself. I might even be able to get away for a few days.”

“You're sweet, Mark, but I hate vacations. After three days on a beach, anywhere except New York for that matter, I'm so restless, I just pack up and come home.”

“You never told me about your divorce. Number two or three?”

“Two only. Give me time.”

“It's not like you to be flippant. You suffered. I can see it in your face.”

“I don't want to talk about it, Mark. When I can, I'll tell you.” The pain in her eyes was apparent and she turned off, staring out of the window at the river and the tugboats.

“You're blocking again, turning off.”

He grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him.

“Not now, Mark. Please. What am I going to do with my life? When I got married for the first time —you know I walked right past Herb the other day and didn't even recognize him? Then it all seemed senseless. So I thought marriage would give me a feeling of roots, stability, children. He was sterile.”

“So you got divorced and remarried immediately.”

“That awful dependency. That's what I mean. Marriage is simply an economic bondage for a woman. I loathe it. I have to be something important, a person, a human being. I don't want to fall into the same trap again.”

“But Stanley was very rich. You did as you pleased.”

“I told you I wasn't ready to talk about it now.”

“I'll let up—for now—under the circumstances. Are you sure you don't want to take that Bermuda trip?”

She shook her head.

“You need to go back to work. You think too much. That's part of your trouble. Promise me you won't be impulsive and turn down the supervisor's job. I need you here.”

“I don't know, Mark. I will consider it but I'm so damn restless. Still I can't stop moving. I want to fly high. If J stop I'm finished. Stanley had a terrible effect on me. He slowed me up physically and mentally.”

The transistor buzzed in his pocket. They were paging him in the O.R.

“The suction machine is waiting.”

“No. It's an invasive carcinoma of the cervix. Twenty-four-year-old girl.” His voice changed. How well she knew this mood of his, the sudden withdrawal. He stood up, then held her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I'll stop by before I leave tonight. You'll be able to check out tomorrow. I'll drive you home.”

“I want to have a baby, Mark Will I ever have one?”

He looked at her thoughtfully, then without a word, he held her tight against his chest for a moment. The buzzer clicked again. They exchanged a last look, and without saying anything, he turned and left the room.

She sat up in bed and dangled her legs over the side. Carcinoma of the cervix. Invasive. At twenty-four how many years did she have left? What was the survival rate, five years? She had forgotten. It all depended upon how extensive the cancer had grown.... The last confrontation left to face. Death. No, she wouldn't think about that. Even in her deepest depressions, she was still very much alive. She had the old resilience and always bounced back. She put on her robe and slippers and walked out into the hall. A woman was crying in the next room. She heard the nurse's harsh voice.

“Well, I'm afraid you're not going to have this one....”

Chapter Two

Andra walked up the half flight of stairs leading to the second-floor labor and delivery suite. She pushed open the door and stood in the center of the green corridor. A stretcher banged against the wall. Two aides were washing instruments in the big utility room where the giant autoclave was steaming. Lights flashed above the labor rooms, and through the swinging doors separating them from the delivery suite nurses in green gowns and caps were dashing back and forth.

To the right was the glass enclosed nurses' station. The phones were ringing and the ward clerk answered it finally, as one of the internes walked out of the adjacent doctors' lounge, yawning. The head nurse, Marge Rourke, turned the corner and nearly ran straight into Andra. Marge was twenty-five and had just graduated from Physicians' Medical when Andra left ten years before. Andra was the head nurse then.

“So you're back,” Marge said sharply, pulling her scrub cap down over her ears. She was small, bird-like, with sparrow color hair and eyes.

“Well, I hope you can do something about the mess up here. Otherwise I'm quitting at the end of the month. Now you're going to have to talk to that damn instructor. I simply do not have time to teach the students. They're only in the way. As it is I need three more R.N.'s. It's impossible and they're doing more sections than ever, which ties up one of my nurses because the O.R. can't spare a scrub nurse.”

“I see the problems haven't changed,” Andra said, looking as attractive as a nurse could be in her new stylish white uniform. The obstetrical nursing instructor was in the nurses station talking to her brood of nervous students. Marge and Andra walked in followed by one of the nurses, who was apparently upset.

“I can't get a fetal heartbeat on Mrs. Ross.”

“Isn't she hooked up to the electronic equipment? Dr. Karlin was concerned about it, said she has a very small baby, probably a preemie. Stay with her, Rose, and see if you can get an FH. I'll call Dr. Karlin right away. He's in the hospital.”

“I'll see the patient, Marge.” Andra briskly walked out of the nurses' station and followed the young nurse into Mrs. Ross's room. She was a woman in her forties. This was her first baby. She was lying in the hard labor bed, clenching and unclenching her fists. Because the baby was small she could not have any medication. Sweat beaded her forehead. Her skin was very pale, almost translucent and her dark hair was wet on the pillow. She had bit off the pale flakes of her lipstick; her lips were dry.

“That was a good one,” Andra said, smiling gently, as she placed the palm of her hand on the top of the belly, the fundus of the uterus. Then she grabbed the fetus scope to listen to the baby's heartbeat, feeling expertly with her hands for the position of its back, so she would know the best place to listen. Bending over the swollen belly, she placed the metallic disc over the right spot and listened. She moved the disc several times. Finally, she heard it. It was difficult to count but the rhythm was steady. The heart was still beating. But they better section her, she thought unless she was fully dilated.

She told the nurse to tell Marge Rourke that she got a heartbeat and to send Dr. Karlin down right away.

“There's something wrong. I know it. There's something wrong with the baby.” The woman's eyes revealed her fear and pain. She reached for Andra's hand.

“The nurse had trouble finding the baby's heartbeat, Mrs. Ross. That happens sometimes. It doesn't necessarily mean anything is wrong. But if we do have trouble finding it, we like to take extra precautions. Now I just heard it and its regular even though I couldn't hear it too well. But I think from the way the contractions are coming, you may be ready to deliver soon, which is good.”

“Here comes another one. I can't stand the pain anymore.”

“Now listen to me. Look at me. Listen. You're frightened. Tense. It hurts. The muscles are stretching as the baby's head pushes through the birth canal, but it doesn't have to be unbearable if you work with it. Think of swimming out to meet a big wave, waiting, waiting to ride in over the crest at just the right moment. Now look, with each contraction you're going to breathe a certain way and concentrate. Watch me. I'll do it with you.”

“I can't! It will be born dead anyway!” She cried out, squeezing Andra's hand.

“Yes you can, and you will! And your baby is not going to be born dead. Now watch me. Before the next contraction starts again.”

Andra forced the woman laboring to concentrate on the breathing she was teaching her to do, the short, panting breaths and the light finger-tipped massage of the belly. She made her sit straight up in bed instead of lying down. There was blood underneath her and Andra kept the woman breathing, encouraging her, counting off the seconds, so she would know when the contraction was coming to an end.

“That's great. Very good. You're going to deliver within half an hour. Tell me when you feel the urge to bear down, but don't do it, until I tell you to. That's it. Now the contraction is almost over. Take three deep breaths, and relax now. I'll moisten your lips. They're very dry. You're doing fine.” Andra stayed with her, suddenly feeling herself caught up in her old world, satisfying the desire to be needed, to be in command, losing herself in someone else's need. She went with Mrs. Ross to the delivery room and helped her through the delivery so that she would not require anesthesia. She taught her how to push properly, transforming a frightened, screaming woman into an active participant in her own act of giving birth. Nothing had stirred Andra so much in years as the look on Mrs. Ross's face when she saw her baby, alive and warm. It was small, no more than five and a half pounds, but the fast delivery had prevented any serious damage. The cord had been wrapped around the baby's neck, but the fast-thinking anesthesiologist resuscitated the baby quickly until it began breathing evenly on its own in the incubator.

Andra did not leave until she made sure that the baby was all right. She looked down at the tiny infant, crying plaintively, its fingers moving under the blanket, and she had an overwhelming urge to pick it up, hold it against her breast. She often thought how wonderful it would feel to breast-feed her baby, feel the sucking sensation on her nipple. Then she turned away suddenly and walked out of the room, down the hall towards the elevators. She began to finish making rounds. But Marge Rourke stopped her again.

“What are you going to do about the student problem? I have talked to Miss Ainsley and she absolutely will not do the clinical instruction on the floor. She has never worked in labor and delivery. But of course she's teaching students, sitting on her ass in a class room and having coffee with the habes in the nursing office all day!”

“I'll talk to her, Marge, and see what can be done. Maybe we can find a clinical instructor to take over the ward teaching. Look, this is my first day back and it's going to take me a while to reorganize this place. You know our problems—under-staffing. No one wants to work evenings or nights. Things haven't changed. But I promise you I will do something about it. I understand. You have a very difficult job. I used to be in your spot, remember, when you were only a student yourself.”

“I'm counting on you, Mrs. Szabo. Believe me. Or you're going to be without a delivery room head nurse next month and you can tell Miss Moran that in the nursing office.”

Andra got the report and then went upstairs to the post-partum and nursery floors. She visited all the patients and talked with the staff. It was just as if she had never left and she tried not to think about Mark. There were times when he meant absolutely nothing to her. Then there were the other times, the nostalgia, the peculiar bond between them spanning so many years and she tried to remember what she was like long ago at fifteen. It was absurd.

As she was walking past the utility room on the post-partum floor she noticed one of the students crying. She went in to talk to her. The student was from out of town; Andra knew the type. From a small hospital in a Pennsylvania coal town maybe, terribly homesick and vulnerable, the way she was once, except that Andra had come from Brooklyn. The girl was pretty in a very young, blank way, scrubbed and fresh, with long blond hair tucked in a bun under her cap and blue eyes which saw nothing, a face that was sweet but without character. Youth was so terribly uninteresting.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I—I'm sorry. I got some zephiran chloride fumes in my eyes. That stuff really burns.”

“Come on. You can talk to me. Sit down. Maybe I can help you.”

“You're the new supervisor.”

“Mrs. Szabo.”

“I heard all about you. Everyone remembers you, All the Ob-Gyn men talk about you.”

“That doesn't sound so good.”

The student blew her nose in a four-by-four, then threw it in the waste basket. She had stopped crying.

“I'm okay now. I better finish my assignment or Miss Lukas will get sore. She can't stand to see students standing around.”

“But Miss Lukas can stand around. I've watched her.”

“I know. Still, she's the Head Nurse and I'm only a student.”

“You're too deprecating. Besides, think how fortunate you are in comparison to Miss Lukas. She's set in her mold, hardened, and bitter. She'll never be anything except Miss Alice Lukas, head nurse on Forman Three. She was here when the Forman Pavilion first opened and she'll never leave. You. Now, look, you have it all ahead of you.”

“I haven't anything ahead of me—without Paul.” .

“Oh, boyfriend problems. Who's Paul?”

“Dr. Knight. Paul Knight.”

There was a sound of voices coming from...

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