h2>Dating : Nurses are Born, not Made
Stand to attention, Nurse.
I experience culture shock as I begin my nursing career. I soon realised we were in some sort of army! A humorous look at student nurse training in the Sixties.
As we gathered in the foyer of the nurses’ home on our first day as student nurses, the mood was one of exhilaration. We were a small group compared to the previous groups of that year, the first being well over fifty. There were sixteen of us, and it seemed that the four intakes a year grew smaller in number as the year progressed, which was an advantage as far as we were concerned, as we began small and ended smaller, and our student life was one of sharing one another’s ups and downs. We were Group 4/64, the fourth group intake for that year.
We were met by our two Clinical Educators, trained nurses, known as ‘sisters’ in those days, both of many years experience, we learnt later that day; a brief ‘good morning’ preceded an order to follow them to the Preliminary Training School buildings, situated somewhere down numerous passages through the Nurses’ Home.
After introductions and a register call, we soon realised we were in some sort of army, that of student nurses regulated by strict rules, and disaster would ensue should you attempt to break years of tradition as to how nurses are to behave.
Respect for Seniors.
The first rule was to stand tall and straight, shoulders back; to walk in line and stand back at entrances and doorways for those walking behind you who were your seniors; for us, that meant everyone in sight, as we were the ‘babes in the wood’; there was no one more junior than we were; therefore, it meant anyone within a distance allowing for a sharp, loud reprimand to “Stop, Nurse! Have you no manners?”
Bear in mind, reader, this was the Sixties; we were accustomed to being obedient and unquestioning; years later, when reflecting on our youth, I and my nursing colleagues were astounded at how we adapted to the nursing environment of our day. We agreed that if we were to be students today, we would rebel, and many of us would never survive our training years; alternatively, we would cause some mighty ripples along the way! However, way back then, that is how it was, and that is how we were.
From that day on, we approached the numerous archways and doors through the hospital precincts with trepidation, lest infuriated seniors should haul us back by our collars. We carefully checked the long corridors between wards for the sight of a blue-uniformed matron, a large-veiled senior sister, or a group of haughty senior nurses, lest we trespass the unbroken code of respect for seniors.
Hilarity and Uniforms.
Having been measured up and down by seamstresses in the linen room, we were each handed a linen bag filled with our first issue of fourteen uniforms. A hilarious session ensued as Sister Brown and Sister Howard introduced us to the uniform code. Strictly below the knee, belt fastened with the white porcelain buttons supplied, white linen caps folded in a distinctive pattern and fastened onto our heads with slim clips, which were to be unseen beneath the cap. Hair was to be in a short style, and if long, in a high ponytail or a roll at the back of the head, with no strands hanging around the face; fringes had to be neat and short; absolutely no hair was ever to be seen on your collar! That was anathema to the dress code.
Armed with our large, green “Nursing Procedure Manual” known as our ‘Nursing Bible’, various other textbooks, and our linen bags, we made our way to our rooms. Our egos, which despite the experiences of the day, were still intact and brimming over with importance at having chosen this noble career; we had yet to be hauled over the coals for infringing the right of senior professionals to march ahead of us at a doorway; that was yet to come.
The Intricacies of our Uniforms: or, How to look Smart, Professional and Every Inch a Nurse.
Screams of laughter followed as we attempted to put on our uniforms. Mine came to just above my ankles, was wide enough to fit two of me inside it, plus one other, and the belt was a puzzle as it was starched as hard as a board, stiff and unyielding. By now, we had met some friendly first -years who came to our rescue, showing us the secrets of looking good despite the enormous size of our uniforms.
The Dress, Buttons, and Belt.
Firstly, put on the starched rectangular piece of material, after opening it up fully. With your right hand, take the seam that ran down the left-hand side and extend it outwards, at the same time folding the excess under, towards your right side, and then place the flap that you have formed over to the left; hold it there, and do a second fold downwards, pulling the dress up to your waistline until the hemline rests on your knee; holding all in position, place the stiff, starched belt over the folds, take a deep breath in, and fasten the belt by using your scissors to pull the buttons through the buttonholes.
The result was that we had the narrow waistlines and on-the-knee hemlines we saw on our seniors, and we were very pleased with the effect. The fact that the hairclips securing the caps pulled at our hair was a minor detail; the tightness of the belt securing the folded fabric ensured that we walked with shoulders back and tummy tucked in! This eventually became second-nature to us.
Before attempting to put on the uniform, you had to master preparing the belt. Several beautiful white porcelain buttons strengthened in the middle with some sort of harder substance were anchored on the belt with little attachments fastened onto ring hooks under the button; you had to prepare this yourself. This you did by using your handy blunt-nosed nursing scissors. There was a row of these buttons down the seam of the uniform, which also needed scissors to pull them through. We became experts at dressing in record time, niftily securing buttons and belts with quick movements of well-practised hands and supple fingers!
Hilarity.
You may well imagine the hoots of laughter as we practised the intricacies of looking smart in these curious, starched, rectangular pieces of material. Somehow, after one or two days, we had accomplished the impossible. We had become replicas of the uniformed nurses around us. We were every inch a nurse in appearance, and we were immensely proud to be so.
The Student Nurse of the Sixties was the Picture of Professionalism.
We looked at our senior colleagues with awe. Without exception, dressed in those pure white starched uniforms, hair brushed back neatly into rolls and pinned up plaits, their white caps expertly folded and perched serenely above their perfect hairstyles, the nurses of the Sixties were the picture of professionalism. Heads held high, they walked tall, proud to be nurses, confident in the skills they had acquired shift by shift, day by day, skills handed down by generations of nurses, one to another.
The third-years were our particular role models. They were at the peak of their training and had an air of confidence that comes with achievement; recognised as competent practitioners throughout the hospital wards by the Senior Sisters, colleagues and doctors alike, they were for me, if not for my peers, all that I wanted to be; one day, I wanted to be like them.