c.n.a. sonnet (3)
Of the few nurse aides to write about their experiences perhaps the first and the most famous is that of Walt Whitman, “the Good, Gray Poet.” His book, “Drum-Taps,” written during the American Civil War, describes his role as a nurse tending to the wounded and dying that came back in floods from the battles that were raging all around him:
The results of the late battle are exhibited everywhere about here in thousands of cases, (hundreds die every day), in the camp, brigade, and division hospitals. These are merely tents, and sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if their blankets are spread on layers of pine or hemlock twigs, or small leaves. No cots, seldom even a mattress. It is pretty cold. The ground is frozen hard, and there is occasional snow. I go around from one case to another. I do not see that I do much good to these wounded and dying; but I cannot leave them. Once in a while some youngster holds me convulsively, and I do what I can for him; at any rate, stop with him and sit near him for hours, if he wishes it (Loewen, 24)
It is this sitting near the dying, keeping watch over them, that strikes a chord for me. Little has changed, really, since "Drum-Taps" was written. Part of my job as a nurse aide is to keep bedside death watch; monitoring the slow progress (if progress is the right word) as the body shuts down. That is one of the downside to working with a geriatric population – their bodies are always shutting down, the end of their lives is always near. Whitman talks about this care in his poem “The Wound-Dresser” (1865). Here he states:
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On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,)
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life
struggles hard,
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and side falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the
bloody stump,
And has not yet look'd on it.I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening,
so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast
a fire, a burning flame.) … (Cowley, 285-6)
And even today, as I and my fellow nurse aides try to make the resident's last moments of being alive as comfortable as possible I see that the “sweet death” Whitman writes about is not always merciful and not always quick but in the end it finally does arrive.
These two drops of morphine under the tongue
forces the body to relax, the heart
to still, lungs to slow, slowing. And what clung
to life now let's go. Let go. There's no art
to death. No skill in dying. The small part
I do, bedside death watch on volunteer
basis, is to watch for pain. I will chart
just what I see. At times we interfere
with death; strap the body to machines, cog
and pump forcing circulation. It does
for a while. But infinity's fabric,
that gray hue, still takes over. So we slog
on in post-mortem care. We work and buzz
and joke like this is art; our own sick trick.
Works Cited
Cowley, Malcolm (ed). The complete poetry and prose of Walt Whitman: as prepared by him for the deathbed edition. New York: Pellegrini & Cudahy (1948)
Loewen, Nancy (ed). Walt Whitman. Mankato, Minn.: Creative Editions (1994)