The Kind Nurse

I arrived at the ward in 1917, exhausted and in no mood to be looked after, or to be told what to do, especially by a woman. I remember when they told me that my nurse was Elise Ingles, I turned my head to the wall and wouldn’t talk to anyone. I thought to myself that no woman could deal with the wounds that I have from the front line. But strangely she didn’t seem offended she just got on with her work. At first I refused her help whenever she tried to help me. I was still a soldier I couldn’t get medical help from a woman; I needed a man that will get the work done fast and quick. But deep down the truth is that I didn’t want any of the other soldiers seeing that I was weak, unmanly, broken. Elsie never pushed, she just spoke calmly in a soft gentle voice, it reminded me of my mum, that’s what broke me the most. 

I snapped at Elsie more times than I can think, but she never snapped back, when I ignored her, she just kept talking like I was listening, I had a feeling about her, a feeling I couldn’t shake off. 

One night the pain was unbearable, I screamed out for her name without realising it, she was there instantly, that fast that I thought she was just waiting for me to shout for her. I expected her to panic or fret, but no she was calm, worked quickly and confidently. After that night I never turned away from her again. 

Once I was fit enough to leave, I had realised how horrible I treated Elsie. She didn’t just care for my wounds; she had helped to be a better man than I was before.