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Mrs. Downing, head nurse, was in place, at
work, after her vacation. This woman exuded confidence and strength.
She had the appearance of a mature woman with hair white as her starched
uniform and nurse's cap. White hose and no nonsense, comfortable shoes
made a person believe she was all business but, kindly. The whole staff
was more relaxed. Something about the strong woman must have given them a
security. I was soon to learn how she did it.
On this visit she was carrying Rhonda, my
child, in her arms. As she handed the baby to me, I was unbelieving of
this tiny person's injuries. Her eyes were swollen shut, black, and blue.
All about her forehead and head she was bruised with the imprints of the
forceps that left marks there.
“Will she be blind?” I fearfully asked
“No, the swelling will soon go down and
her eyes will be all right.” The nurse reassured me. This wasn't exactly
true because Rhonda has had trouble with her eyes from the injury. There
are no corrective glasses that can help because it is a brain injury, but
for the time Mrs. Downing helping me to cope was more important than any
fearful prediction that someone could make.
“For the first time someone is exercising
intelligence,” I believed.
Mrs. Downing went on to
say, “You had a reaction to the anesthesia and some do. Instead of doing
what it was supposed to do, the drug reacted in an opposite way. This can
happen. “I've
never felt anything like it. There seemed to be a dark dungeon where I was
being held by strange wicked forces. Once in a while the light would come
and I was able to do what was told to me, but for the most part
everything was black,” I didn't want to remember, now. “Once in a while
the doctor would call my name and for a moment there was awareness of my
situation but just as quickly everything was gone again and once more
there was a need to get away and to fight in any way possible. I do
remember waking up once and my arms were cuffed to the table, I suppose to
restrain me. Hopefully, I didn't swing at anyone but, who knows?”
“With the breast milk you have pumped, we
have been feeding Rhonda, through an eye dropper. She probably can't nurse
yet because her mouth and throat are still sore and swollen from oxygen.
You did say you wanted to breast feed?” Mrs. Downing looked directly at
me.
This woman was moving
on, and it made me feel I wanted to do the same. “Yes, I do.” I was
certain about that.
“Our Native American mothers always do, and we are proud of that.”
Mrs. Downing voiced her admiration in the year of 1959.
Emotions and feelings of anger were strong
but somehow even in youth there was the knowledge that this was not the
time to fall. This poor child was beautiful even in her injuries. Her
golden, reddish, blond hair curled over some of the bruised places. She
had battled for her life so valiantly, it would be a cowardly thing not to
help her. Slowly but ever so slowly Rhonda began to take the breast and it
was if a sudden ray of sunshine darted a shaft of light onto us. She
immediately began to improve. It was miraculous.
The next few days, Mrs. Downing gave me
instructions about caring for my child. I made notes and kept them for
many years. Somewhere, they have been lost, but I do remember one thing
she said that I have used with all my children and my grandchildren, as
well.
“Loving a child is not
spoiling them. Allowing them to have bad manners is what one can call,
spoiled.” These words came from a wise and kindly woman, and have been
valued for all my life. |
