July 1941
When I stareinto the mirrored slab stretched along the lavatory wall, I wonder how I got to this point—this stagnant moment which could look the same day after day, year after year. All that will change will be the deepening lines across my forehead and crow’s feet perching out from the sides of my eyes. I won’t have a choice but to cut my bangs to cover the signs of aging. I’ve seen what this hospital does to a nurse. She carries the weight of many lives on her shoulders, never slouching, never groaning, or wincing at an ache from standing in heels for hours each day. A nurse is a superhuman who saves lives but also smiles when squatting down to a child’s level to hand out a sucker. How can one person be so many things? Mom was under the assumption she could take on the world, save everyone, leave no one behind, but then it seemed like she was the one who stayed behind. Her death wasn’t the classic definition of a sacrifice, not compared to what our military men give up, but she chose others over herself and it was a sacrifice—one she made on our entire family’s behalf.
I once swore to myself I wouldn’t follow in her footsteps or desert my family for the greater good. In fact, I must have scribbled this statement into my diary more than a hundred times. My anger toward life was getting the best of me after Mom died, but in truth, I want nothing more than to be just like her.
When the time came for me to decide, Mom’s voice found me in the darkness of night.
Alone, gazing at the sight of the moon kissing its reflection against the horizon, I wondered if I had my thoughts wrong. I contemplated whether I should become a nurse or a journalist. I didn’t know if my life’s focus should be on self-fulfillment or the deed of doing good for others.
It was a question no one could answer, but Mom’s last words swept through my mind like a blast of cool air. It was as if she was standing before me, holding my chin within her warm, gentle hand.
“But I saved so many, Elizabeth.”
The drawn-out sound of whispering syllables brought a chill to my spine. Each word was clear and crisp, harmonizing with the orchestra of crashing waves. I twisted around, searching from right to left, behind me and toward the tide, convinced I wasn’t alone.
In contrast, I had never felt lonelier, but a sense of clarity overcame me.
If I was to become a journalist rather than a nurse, I may never make an impact on the world, let alone one person. My words could become lost in an attic somewhere, and that option isn’t enough for what I desire in life. I want to leave my footprint here, which means my words would offer more while caring for and comforting the wounded and sick.
I pull out my tube of lipstick and brighten the red tint on my lips before returning to the training room. With a quick blot on a tissue, I smile to check for smudges and lead the click clacking echo from my heels out into the corridor.
Just before entering the training room, I spot about a dozen soldiers pushing through the main entrance of the hospital. I can only imagine what has happened.
We were in the process of a lecture on the effects of Penicillin but none of the other students are sitting in their seats, which tells me there’s an all-hands-on deck issue. Two of the teaching nurses are chatting with hushed voices, and I spot Audrey conversing with a co-trainee. “It looks like there is another viral infection on the prowl. What’s today’s story?”
“A test flight exercise didn’t go as planned. Someone mentioned the possibility of a gear failing just after takeoff.”
“How many injuries in total?” I ask.
Judy, one of the other nurses in training, turns to peek at the nurses across the room. It seems she has information she’s not allowed to share, but if we’re supposed to help, we should know what happened. “There were two men in the aircraft. The pilot landed the plane without significant damage, but there were soldiers training nearby. Some of them took hits from flying debris and shrapnel. From what I could overhear, the men sustained only superficial injuries—nothing very serious. However, there appears to be confidential information regarding the incident, so I’m not sure about our involvement yet.”
Audrey’s eyes widen into the shapes of almonds. She stares at me as if I should be able to read her expression, but that only adds to the confusion.
“Ladies, we are going to be using some hands-on experience with superficial wounds today. Sutures might be necessary, but I have faith that you are prepared with steady hands. As a reminder, anything you see or hear today shall remain confidential under all circumstances. We have to protect our men’s privacy at all costs.”
We have been through this one crucial rule since the first day we began training, but I don’t think I’ve attended one session where this reminder hasn’t come up. It may be more difficult for those who didn’t grow up on base or in a military lifestyle. I understand these rules all too well, which offers me an advantage in certain situations. It’s well known the nursing staff can trust me, as well as Audrey, due to our family ties to the military.
“We will assign a pair of assisting hands to each triage bed along with necessary medical records. Do any of you have any questions for me?” Nurse Jones asks.
We have had extensive training with sutures, superficial wounds, and burns. Dealing with a room full of vomiting children will make this situation seem easy in comparison.
“No, Ma’am,” I respond, following the others.
“Lizzie and Audrey, bed nine,” she assigns.
The closer we walk toward triage the more laughter and boisterous sounds echo down the corridor. “They don’t sound to be in rough shape,” Audrey says. Her forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Is this a joke to them?”
“My dad always says: ‘If you can’t learn to laugh at what’s thrown at you, then it will laugh at you.’ It makes sense, I guess,” I tell her.
Audrey twists her head and lowers her glasses down the bridge of her nose to give me a pointed look. “No, that statement doesn’t make much sense at all.”
“They need to lighten up a bit, is all I’m trying to say. I wish my dad would do so. Trust me.”
“I can understand all too well,” she says. Our dads are comrades and friends with many similar traits, or lack thereof, I should say. They’re both quiet, emotionless, and stale.
We stroll down the row of triage beds and I’m having trouble spotting some injuries as we pass by, but that doesn’t mean much. Bed nine is a bit of a doozy, though. A strip of gauze is sagging from the top right of the man’s head, down to the left corner of his chin. His knuckles are bleeding through the gauze wrapped around both hands too. “Goodness, it looks like you might have seen the worst of this, Sir,” I say, inspecting the dressing taped to his head a little closer. The gauze is overlapping his eyes, but there doesn’t seem to be damage to the front of his face.
“I was the one flying the plane,” he says, his voice hoarse and choky, yet vaguely familiar. “Nothing feels too serious, though.”
