A PLEA FOR THE HOSPITALS IN DORSET.

[By A Nurse.] 1921

"Ships that pass in the night

And speak to one another in passing."

I am always reminded of those words on admittance days, as the patients drift up the hospital steps. For most of them the hospital and all it contains is an uncharted sea, and they wander down the corridor in a shy, diffident, frightened manner, as a ship may do, uncertain of her course.

The doors of healing stand open day and night to receive them; but, alas! in a workaday world, it requires something as practical and prosaic as money to keep any institution going, and throughout the county those doors are in danger of closing.

Think what it means. If it were the doors of picture palaces that were threatened with closing perhaps no one would be much the worse; but hospitals are not there for pleasure—they deal essentially in reality. Within those walls you meet face to face real sickness, real suffering, real sorrow. And the closing of the doors will mean the shutting out from succour of such ills as those.

Come for a moment through the wards. Here is the Women's Ward. (Somehow on entering a ward a wish assails one to slip one's shoes from off one's feet, for the ground seems holy.) In that end bed there is a woman who has been in hospital for more than a year; forced to leave her home and young children; a painful dressing to be done twice a day—and yet she greets you with a smile.

Over there you may see another, a stranger to the place, her husband abroad, no friends near, a dangerous operation before her; but if you can spare the time you will feel the better for speaking to her a moment. You will turn away cheered and comforted.

If you see sad sights in hospital, the depths to which humanity may sink, one also, and more frequently, sees the heights to which it can rise. The patients are so grateful; they grumble so very seldom. They are so kind to one another.

We are told that a cup of cold water given in His Name is counted unto us for righteousness.

 Then surely those little crushed and crumpled bunches of flowers so often passed by a sick woman to her suffering neighbour, "because she looks lonesome-like," must rank among the sweetest of Heaven's perfumes.

Now come below to the Men's Ward. It is the greatest mistake in the world to suppose there is only sadness in hospital. Sometimes I think the heartiest laughs of all are heard in a ward; but then it may cost a good deal to give that laugh—it often does. When a man is in awful pain, it is not easy to make a joke of it, real humour that sets the whole ward rocking—and yet it is done many times.

A few spare V.C.'s handed round would not be out of place, only the recipients would be so astonished. That is characteristic.

And, last of all, come to the Children's Ward, and come softly, for the lights are shaded, and the small patients asleep—at least, those of them who can sleep. Sometimes, as they will tell you, the pain is too bad, but they try hard.

(Of course, one has no right to be there at that hour; one was off duty some time ago, but Night Sister kindly averts her head and fails to notice one's presence—she loves children, too.)

Some are sleeping quietly; others tossing restlessly, while a few are lying too quiet and still—you see, they are too weak to move unaided.

From the cot in the corner there comes the feeble whine of a poor wasted marasmus baby; and if you have heard that little cry, you will know that it cuts deeper into the heart than any knife.

It was worth while, was it not, giving up that pleasure, denying yourself that luxury, and sending that sum of money last week to the hospital instead? It is helping to bring fresh strength to that little life, to give it proper nourishment and care.

And when the patients are beyond all human help, at least it is good to know that to the last they received the best attention it was possible to give them before they set out for that "undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns."

What more Christ-like way of showing your religion than by supporting the hospital in your town?

"They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick."

"I was a stranger, and ye took Me in. . . ."

"I was sick, and ye visited Me."

Will you not place your hand—both hands—against those closing doors and push them open a little wider and keep them open?

Southern Times and Dorset County Herald - Saturday 01 January 1921