Now, as to the time of washing a baby. The morning is unquestionably the time, but if the baby be very young (less than two weeks) and has been wakeful during the night, I would let him have his nap, even if it did delay you and interfere with your plan of work. If he sleeps he is comfortable, and, unless for some more serious reason than the bath, he ought not to be disturbed. This, for babies in private practice. Hospital babies cannot be so tenderly cared for. When there are ten or eleven to be washed in one morning, choose, of course, the ones that are awake, as far as you can, but there will always be one or two sleepy, warm little ones about whom you will have some twinges of conscience as you begin to wash their faces, but the work presses so, it must be done.
A baby should not be bathed just after nursing, or when he is hungry. Yet, most little babies go to sleep at the breast, and very often do not waken until they are once more ready for eating. This seems like stating a difficult problem, and I know it is not always easy to select just the proper time, but the best way, I think, is this.
If the baby is nursing from the breast, tell the mother, after this nursing you wish to wash the child, and not to let him go off for sound sleep. She can prevent it, and keep him for the twenty minutes or half an hour it is necessary to wait after his meal, meantime you have time to get everything in readiness for the bath. It is a great mistake to attempt to bathe a baby when he is hungry. He will scream for his food from the beginning to the end of the performance, hesitating occasionally when something warm touches his mouth, and he eagerly seeks his meal, only to redouble his cries when not satisfied. Nothing is so persevering in its endeavors, as a hungry baby. Satisfy its appetite first and wait a reasonable length of time, wash him deftly and quickly, and he will be so sleepy by the time you are through, you can lay him in his bed and he will be asleep in a moment, when you can pick up all the soiled clothing and the general "mess" of the bathing operation, and leave the room once more tidy.
And just here, let me say a little about the washing of the baby's clothes. Of course the dresses or slips, skirts, and the diapers go to the laundress. Begin every morning on an entirely new, that is newly-washed, set of diapers. Gather up all that have been used the past twenty-four hours and have them washed. Perhaps they may not be ironed, but washed they should be, every twenty-four hours, even if you have to do it yourself, and I do not think a nurse should ever be called upon to do this. Still, I would rather do it than use a diaper over and over again.
But it is of the little shirts I particularly wish to speak. I think the nurse should wash these, also the socks when they need it, and the knitted shawls most babies wear. It takes very little time to do this, and if you know how, you will do it much better than any laundress. The best way to wash these things is in cool borax water, and if there is any one place the baby has vomited on, put a little dry powdered borax on (the place being wet), and rub it in. Then wash by plunging it in the water and squeezing it out. Do this again and again until the garment is clean. Rinse in clear cool water, and wring as dry as possible in a towel; then pull in shape and lay it on a clean towel to dry. It is a good plan to lay it on a folded towel over a half shut register and place a single fold of towel over. It will dry very soon. If you are washing a baby's knitted shawl, be very careful about the wringing. Lay a large towel (bath towel is the best) out flat, and, having squeezed the most of the water from the blanket, lay it carefully on the towel and roll both together, and wring very tightly. If this towel gets wet take a second. When you are satisfied that it is as dry as you can make it, lay it out on a folded sheet on the floor, in some room not much used, and pull and arrange it into its original shape and size.
Anything made of Germantown wool stretches terribly, but you can arrange it as it ought to be. It will look ruffly here and there and ridgy all over, but when it is dry it will shrink down all right. Only do not hang it up, and when it is dry you will be surprised to find it looks as good as new. If you are ever consulted beforehand as to what would be nice for the baby, use all your eloquence against any color being put into these knitted shawls. Germantown wool is the best to use, and plain knitting or brioche stitch is the best to wear and wash, and these things must be washed with the most careful handling. On the nicest baby they will become dirty, and the delicate blues and pinks become the dismalest wrecks when washed. Therefore, tell your patient not to put any color in these first plain little comfortable shawls. They should be a yard long by about three- quarters wide. Two or three will be all you will need, and do not use any of the fancy blankets sent in by friends. Lay these all away, with a sachet bag or two, in some convenient drawer, and never take them out unless the baby is required to look very fine for a brief display to some friend. These delicate, fancy trifles when once wet through or vomited on are ruined, and it should be your aim to leave everything as good as you found it when you go from the house. There will be plenty of time after you have left, for the fond mamma to spoil all the pretty things, and as she does so she will appreciate more and more your care of them.
XIII
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
I suppose that no nurse deliberately chooses to go to an incurable case, yet most of us who have done private nursing have found ourselves at some time caring for one who slowly, and painfully, creeps nearer day by day to the great End. We have gone perhaps to stay a few weeks, for some acute disease, but symptoms have changed, and instead of recovery, a long, slow decline is to be faced, the nurse feeling she is needed, decides to stay and do what she can for the poor failing body, and so the weeks drag on in the dreadful monotony of that one sick room, until we feel that we have been left out of the real nursing world, that we are stranded with our patient upon an island of pain, that there is no outlook but the one dread Valley, no moving object but the river of Death, and no hope for the life we are guarding. Each week we grow more and more rusty as to our hardly-won surgical technic, more out of touch with those who come and go to one patient after the other, and who not unnaturally count upon so and so many victories over the very enemy who we know will overcome the life we are fighting to save. Yet we realize that all our care will never bring victory, all our skill can but help to smooth the rugged pathway, down which the feet must tread alone. The endless repetition of the same symptoms is wearying, the only possible variation being some new pain, which indicates another stage in the development of the disease. An improvement hardly cheers us, as we know it is but temporary, and maybe followed by an exacerbation of the trouble.
Often the actual nursing calls but for a portion of the day, but that portion is so necessary that the nurse's presence is imperatively demanded. The remainder of the time little is to be done, except perhaps a guard maintained over the failing strength, a watch kept for untoward accidents that might snap the frail thread that binds the spirit still to earth. Probably the bedroom must be kept tidy, and the patient's clothing cared for, and the nurse feels she has degenerated into a servant.