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If we owe a debt for what we are beyond mere circumstance, then mine
is owed to this meagre land and her people: gypsies, children of the street,
her ever-present weeds, who invited me to live with them on the Avenue of
Princes, who struck the match that caused the fire in my belly.
Ken’s childhood in Portugal is a story of a young boy growing up wild
in the streets – a boy adored by his father and encouraged by his mentor,
an old Portuguese fisherman, to become a painter and to explore the Arctic
wilds of Canada. Ken was dyslexic. At school, he was alternately called
a moron and a genius. He overcame ridicule and unwarranted praise and
grew strong, with a sense of self that no one could shatter. His inner sense
of assurance drew disparaging comments all his life, the most frequent
being, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
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more of her attention than she felt she could give.
Calls for bedpans from several of her elderly female patients were usually taken care of by the nurses’ aide, but Martha Schultz was needed on the Maternity wing tonight to help bathe and feed the newborns in the overflowing nursery. Shirley McQuire, the R.N. on that ward, had not even had time to pop round to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
There’s no doubt about it, Tyne thought as she settled at the charting desk, there are nights when we need more help. But then, how did a person predict how busy the hospital was going to be on any shift? Director of Nurses, Inge Larson, could not bring people in to work on speculation only.
Tyne sighed, pushed a stray auburn curl under her nurses’ cap, and picked up her pen. At least Lydia appeared to have settled down following the back rub. But that thought brought another sigh. Tyne had not yet decided how she was going to keep her promise to Lydia to have the children cared for. In fact, until now, she had not found a minute to think about it. What could she tell Lydia before she went off duty at eight o’clock? The only thing clear to Tyne was that something had to be done, and soon.
She removed a chart from the rack in front of her and opened it to the page of nurses’ notes. She had time only to record, in red ink, the demerol she had administrated to the man who had undergone surgery for a ruptured appendix, when she heard the wail of a siren followed by the crunch of wheels on gravel at the emergency entrance. Tyne looked up. Lights from an approaching vehicle shone briefly through the windows of the double doors as the vehicle made a hurried turn, then backed up to the entrance.
Manolis Aligizakis 