The Baby in the Basin
Middle Ages, Chapter 2
I remember being told, “A good thing about being a nurse is that you can always find a job.” I hoped that was true because I had just quit my job as a newly graduated pediatric nurse at Mass General Hospital after working there for less than a year. That was in 1966. While I felt completely justified as described in the previous story, “The Night Shift from Hell”, quitting a job in less than a year wasn’t done in those days. It could easily label you as flighty and unemployable. I knew it wasn’t proper protocol, but I also knew I couldn’t risk my hard-earned license. I needed to work because my husband was going to school, and I was the only one bringing in any money. Who would hire me now? St. Margaret’s Hospital and Sister Julia came to mind.
The summer before I went to nursing school, I worked at St. Margaret’s Hospital as a Nurse’s Aide to pay for my school uniforms and to gain practical experience. My mother had worked there since I was 8. She took me to all the Christmas parties over those years, I got to know most of the staff and Sister Julia, the head nun. They watched me grow up.
I called for an appointment and went to see Sister Julia. She was happy to see me and wanted to hear about my work. I told her what had happened to me at Mass General and asked if she had any openings. When I finished telling my story, she was understanding and sympathetic, however, she said that if she did not know me this well and if I hadn’t been such an exemplary aide, she would not consider hiring me. After a long pause, while I held my breath, she said she had an opening for the Head Nurse for the nursery. She then offered me the position, which I was delighted, grateful, and greatly relieved to accept. It also came with an added bonus: it was on the day shift.
The Baby in the Basin
My plan to be a Pediatric Nurse was taking a different turn. I was grateful to be working, but I felt that newborn care was limited in its scope. In those days, there was little variety and less chance for growth. In contrast, Pediatrics at Mass General was full of learning experiences caring for children of all ages and conditions.
Once I had mastered this new administrative role, I found the nursery to be a little mundane. In retrospect, I did learn a few things, like scheduling staff and doing evaluations, tasks that would serve me in later roles, and I will always be grateful to Sister Julia for giving me that opportunity.
During my tenure in the regular nursery, I had my first baby. Shortly after that, my grandmother died, and my grandfather, who lived in the same house as my parents, was getting senile and needed to be watched. My mother proposed that my little family come there to live. The plan was that I would work the second shift and care for my grandfather during the day, and she would watch the baby after she got home. So, we packed up and moved in.
I transferred to the second shift and was assigned to the Premature Nursery. This excited me because I would be doing something a little more challenging. My wish was fulfilled on my first evening. The little nursery was full. It had 12 preemies, an unusually high number. I was told that each one needed to be fed every 3 hours. I knew that was not going to be easy as I was alone. Preemies are known to be slow feeders, requiring at least 1.5 to 2 ounces each time. I quickly figured out that I had to feed and change each baby in about 12 minutes, or they would not get 3 feedings during my shift.
I got to work immediately. The first baby I fed weighed almost 5 pounds, a little girl who ate quickly. She would be discharged soon. The next 6 were a bit slower but did well, too. Then, I hit a tough one. This little guy, a three-pounder, was very sleepy, and his appetite was poor. He didn’t seem to be able to keep the milk in his mouth, and most of it leaked out, running down onto his shirt and soaking his chest. I had to stop and change his top and diaper. That seemed to wake him up a bit, and I resumed his feeding. He was hungry but his suck was weak. Spoon-feeding (yes, we did that then) would take too long. If only I could help him draw the milk in, I thought. As I cradled his little head in my left hand, I tried squeezing his cheeks together with my thumb and index finger. This helped him and he got milk with each suck. He finished his feeding, and I think he was proud of himself. I know I was thrilled that I had discovered a new skill. By the end of that shift, all the babies had been fed three times, and I had become a pro.
One evening, while I was caring for my babies, a nurse from the delivery room knocked at my door with a small basin covered by a green surgical towel. She handed me the basin and said, “Just put it on the windowsill until the heart stops”. I was confused until I lifted the towel and saw a perfectly formed baby no bigger than my hand in the cold, stainless-steel basin. His skin was translucent and covered his frame like a surgical glove. I could see all his blood vessels and his tiny heart beating in his chest. He had long fingers and toes that seemed too long for his hands and feet. His eyelids were fused, too early to be open. I knew that this tiny baby was a miscarriage, too premature to survive. I was unsettled by what she said. It didn’t seem right to just put him out of the way and continue my work. Instead, I fixed up a small bed using a diaper for a pad and a small washcloth for a blanket. I gently placed him there and baptized him even though I was not Catholic; it was a Catholic hospital, and his mother might be. I didn’t think it would hurt him anyway. I wondered if his mother had seen him. I felt bad for her loss. Later, when I checked on him, his little heart had stopped. I called the delivery room, and a nurse came and got the basin. She never looked inside. It was common practice for the hospital to handle these “products of conception”, as they were titled, in the same way as any other specimen. After his heart had stopped, he would be treated as a specimen and sent to the lab. There was something inherently sad about that.
I turned from the door and picked up a hungry baby. I held him close as I fed him, willing my mind not to think about anything but the little one I was cuddling now. I was disturbed as I replayed the whole evening but couldn’t see how it could change.
That was in 1970. Now, more than 60 years later, I can still see that event in my mind’s eye, and I understand how it triggered me to become an agent of change.
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