Born to be a Nurse

Is a collection of precious memories of Carole. E. Rogers. It follows an emotional roller-coaster; beginning with her childhood in England in the 1940s and through her life-changing medical training at the world renowned Royal Victory Infirmary (RVI) in Newcastle upon Tyne. Mixed with sadness and humour, these memories give you an insight to the post-war era and the antics of a young nurse, wife and mother who was able to live her dream. I don’t know if it was by chance, good dancing skills or the thought of spending the rest of their life together; all I know is that the marriage proposal was made whilst my dad was walking mum home, as was the tradition at the time, and the fear and uncertainty of the announcement of war was fresh in everyone’s minds. And so it was. In 1939, war had been declared and on 2nd October mum and dad chose to be married before dad was posted abroad for “King and country”. He had already been called up and was posted to Swindon, Wiltshire, in the south of England. I was about a year old when dad was posted overseas and into the thick of the fighting. Dad often told how the last thing he saw as a train-full of troops pulled out of the station, was mum holding me in her arms and the sun glinting on my hair so brightly that it made his eyes water. Mum had no idea when the war would be over and dad would return to England but return he would of this she was sure. When he returned he would need a home and a job to return to. I had grown up to love the man in the photo; he sent us letters and gifts from places called North Africa, Sicily and Italy. Their arrival created great excitement and mum would show me maps of where these letters came from and the letters with lots of blacked-out patches were read over and over again at bedtime until the next ones arrived. Now the letters would stop; we had the writer of them home with us. I was not sure what to do or how to act with this man called “dad” – my experience with men was limited to boys and old men – anything in between had been like my dad – out of the country fighting to keep Britain free. At 7 years old I wasn’t sure what an asset was but dad went on to explain if we used some of the money we had saved towards buying our own home, we could help this man pay his medical bills and if we all worked together we could soon replace that money and more towards our own goal. It seemed simple enough to me to deliver a few newspapers. I voted yes without thinking about the rain, snow or holidays I would loose out on; I joined the workforce! At age 13 there was an opportunity for children in the Durham area who had missed the chance to go to Grammar school at age 11 (of whom I was one) to take an examination to enter a special class in selected schools. The nearest school to me was in Stockton. I was eligible because I had been in hospital having my operation so, I had never been assessed for the Grammar school and I was quite happy where I was. That was until I saw the date and time of the exam clashed with a double period of Physical Education run by one of the ogre teachers I didn’t like. It was the ideal opportunity to get out of that class - whoopee! I was now 17, a well established schoolgirl at the Newham Grange Comprehensive Secondary school, Stockton-on-Tees, in the county of Cleveland, England in class 6X and I had no desire to change that status. Even though I lived in a small village called Norton a 5 mile bike ride away. My best friend at school lived closer to the school in a part of Stockton called Fairfield; she could walk to school. Unlike me, she couldn’t wait to leave school and had a burning desire to become a nurse and she filled my head with her plans at every opportunity. As soon as we were seated at the table I made my announcement... I could wait no longer. “Mum, dad, I’m going to be a trained nurse.” Of course, in my mind, I had had the interview, passed my GCEs, passed the exam, done the training, passed the nursing finals and was a fully trained nurse; a piece of cake! But, there was stunned silence. Both mum and dad put down their knives and forks, looked straight at me and in unison said, “You’re mad Carole. You can’t be a nurse.” I stepped into a room and, seated in front of me, was the most regal-looking woman I had ever seen. Fitted on her head was a nurse’s cap, the likes of which I had never seen before. It was pristine white, starched to within an inch of its life and looked like a huge sail. Not a hair was out of place and how the cap stayed angled, I have no idea as not a clip was in sight. I would learn latter that nothing and nobody messed with Matron! “I have to tell you that your conductor, my husband, will not be here tonight. He passed away on Wednesday. You, his orchestra, were a very special part of his life, I would be honoured if as many of you as possible could play at his funeral next Wednesday at our parish church in Middlesbrough. Needless to say you will need to wear your uniforms.” Mrs Grieve went on to say her husband had chosen three pieces of music that he liked and knew we could all play well. Mrs Grieve gave us a few minutes to digest the news and then asked us if we would be kind enough to practice the music chosen and the sheets of music were handed out. I was not surprised to see the first piece of music was ‘Greensleeves’ that had been written by that wicked King Henry VIII, I didn’t know how true the origin was that he had written it but we had played it many times before that night and was obviously a favourite piece of Mr Grieve. The second choice was also a piece of music we were familiar with and had played with great enthusiasm in the various parks and village halls during the summer months. Handel’s ‘Water Music – we knew it well. The third piece of music was something we had never played before and it was music to a hymn that I had not sung in church before ‘Breathe on me breath of God’. Now, every time I hear the words in church I remember those happy, carefree years in my orchestral career and how they came to an end. I am sure it appealed to Mr Grieve’s sense of humour as we played Handel’s Water Music in the bandstands of Ropner Park, Albert Park or Stewart Park and the heavens opened and down came the rain and our audience had to run for shelter. At long last, the anticipated 1st of December arrived. My parents had friends cover their shift at the shop and they drove me to Newcastle and Framlington House to hand over the responsibility of their rebellious daughter. I’m sure they thought I would be handed back to them as “un-trainable” by the end of the first week. They would come and collect me and take me home and I would work for them in the shop and the whole experiment would be over – not a chance! Ward 10 (Female medical) was my introduction to the joys and sorrows that nursing had to offer. There was a strict pecking order that had to be learned and learned quickly if you were to survive. Head of the ward, who had eyes and ears everywhere, was the ward sister. Next in command was her junior sister – there were two of these bodies, day sister and night sister. Next down the ladder were the staff nurses who were very strict task masters and answerable to sister for mistakes and responsible for keeping the student nurses under control. Then came the lowly student nurses; 3rd year, 2nd year and bottom of the pile were the 1st years... including me! WARNING! The next few lines are not for those readers with a weak stomach or who are squeamish! We both jumped up to see the patient with the rubber bed pan lying in their lap and dripping with urine! It was everywhere; the bed was saturated; even the fruit was floating in the bowl.