Category Archives: Nursing History

It’s National Nurses Week!

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(Plus, my book is on SALE!)

And so we are subjected to several interviews (CBC Ontario This Morning, for example) with people who have no idea what nursing is. This morning a very patient nurse practitioner had to explain multiple times what a nurse PRACTITIONER does as vs. a regular nurse. Their expanded role is essential to the provision of primary health care, and they and other specialist nurses are incredibly valuable.

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I suspect the misunderstanding comes from people not really knowing what nurses do. Yep, we all have images of the hospital nurse, standing prettily, adjusting IV rates or managing emergency room care (and the doctors within), or giving shots.

But there’s so much more nurses do!! A quick look at the Canadian Nurses Association website identifies just some of the roles nurses take on. Encouragingly, it also points out that the numbers of nurse practitioners are increasing. But the other levels of nursing, from aide to LPN/RNA, to RN, to NP are all important.

In my time as a nurse, I’ve: worked on a burn unit, a “dirty surgery” unit (where infections came post-op), a few general surgery wards, a psych ward, taught alcohol use remediation courses, and prenatal, parenting, physical activity promotion, and chronic disease management classes. I’ve taught LPNs in an expanded role. I’ve worked in public health, visiting new mothers and babies, helping with breastfeeding and those first weeks. I’ve done media campaigns and workplace wellness campaigns, organized large community events, applied for grants for tobacco use reduction programs, managed interdisciplinary teams, participated in province-wide and local health promotion campaigns and evaluation studies, helped organize and evaluate primary care clinics.

Public Health Nursing Oak Ridge by U.S. Department of Energy is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

And that’s only what I remember! It’s been a wildly varied career and I’ve loved every bit (well, except management, but we all have skill gaps). It’s allowed me to work in so many places as my then-husband moved us around for his work. Nurses I know have been everything from those who work in ICUs and ERs to those who manage long term care homes. Others have travelled to Africa and elsewhere to assist in clinics. Even more have worked in Canada’s North, providing often the only primary care to people living there. Public health nurses do everything from childhood clinics to sexual health programs to senior health promotion. Family practice nurses are often the first and most consistent primary care providers.

Photo by Denis Ngai on Pexels.com

In short, nurses are the backbone of health care. The backbone is getting strained, however. So it’s important to point out all the things we do, even if it’s just for a week.

It would help if the interviewers do a teensy bit of research about the role of the person they are speaking to, though.

In honour of Nurses Week, my ebook, Spit & Polish, is on sale! Why not check it out while my publisher sets the prices low? It speaks of nursing education in the post-WW2 years, and of the different roles and expectations nurses worked in and under at that time. You may recognize some from even your more current education…

Happy Nurses Week to my fellow nurses! Let’s continue the fight for public health care!

On (Eeek!) Being Seen


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I was messaging with my sister this morning and telling her about my book self-promotion (which I dread) and my reaching out to a local bookstore to maybe take some copies. I typed “I feel afraid.”

She asked, “What are you afraid of?” and after a pause I told her I was afraid a. of them just laughing at me or b. them offering to carry my book. No way to win, I added.

But it’s a strange thing, being seen for creative things. It’s like you pour your brains and heart out onto paper or artwork, and then you have to step back and wait for people to look at them, comment, accept or dismiss them. It’s not like doing any other work I can remember, in terms of soul-wrenching.

I remember when I started in this writing gig, I used to send out self-addressed envelopes with submissions (yes, I am that old). I was living in tiny Annapolis Royal, NS at the time, and the postmasters all knew me. They also knew that if the envelope came back fat, that meant they’d refused my submission. If it came back thin, that meant there was a cheque enclosed.

So they’d wait to see me coming, all smiles if the skinny envelope had found its way to my mailbox. It was totally heartening and cheering.

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Truth is, this kind of support doesn’t often happen. I’ve been so lucky with Spit & Polish that people are liking it, buying it, telling others about it. Not everyone, mind you, but enough people to make the experience encouraging.

But I still feel nervous, being seen. Having to trot my soul out for acceptance. Like most authors, I believe, every time you put something out you are being seen anew. Have you grown ugly chin hairs (rather too appropriate for me at this age)? Or are you swinging in with aplomb and grace?

Fingers crossed I don’t end up with proverbial lettuce in my teeth (as seems to happen more often as I age, but I digress) (and avoid arugula like the plague) as I step forward, waving Spit & Polish and my well-loved characters as I go… I’m already started on the sequel and need the endorphin rush of positive reviews…

Buy me? Or, hey, check out Somewhat Grumpy Press and their other books…

AWOL but now returned


I’ve been away from this blog for several weeks now, after all the entries relating to my new book (Spit & Polish). Partly, I wanted to give you lovely people who subscribe to this blog a bit of a breather. Partly, I was recovering from many week away from home base – I was looking after my kids’ cat and had to relocate for weeks. Coming back, I had all of those appointments and other foolishnesses to catch up on. Sucks the brain away.

And finally partly because, when I returned, I decided I couldn’t live without a cat of my own. I adopted one that (of course) required a five hour driving session to his shelter (Furry Tales Rescue) and back (He is big and orange and polydactyl, so I had to have him), followed by the usual buying frenzy and the somewhat more unusual trying to figure out what was wrong with his leg. But we’re getting along and I’m trying to keep him loving me while also helping him learn the rules of the house. He seems to be settling in well. I’ve named him Archy, after the Archy in Archy and Mehitabel, a book I’ve loved for years. (Archy is a cockroach/ beat poet, but with all those extra toes and my Archy’s singing voice, I think it works)

Look at those toes!

So work has taken a bit of a backseat of late. I am just starting the research for the sequel to Spit & Polish, hoping to get it tied up in draft by the end of the year. In-between I have a few editing projects lined up (by all means contact me if you need a developmental editor as I still have some spaces available), plus my usual onslaught of volunteer activities. This feeling like I have to make a contribution is exhausting sometimes, but to be honest most of my commitments are great fun and grist for the writing mill.

I’m now seeking input for the next book – in it, my nursing student, Ruth Maclean, is sent for her rotation to the Kingston Psychiatric Hospital, once known as the Rockwood Asylum. It’s 1947, and treatments for the mentally ill are still pretty basic. The concept of treating mental illness, as versus just hiding its sufferers away, is still new, but the building here was designed by William Coverdale with all the best of intentions, with lots of light and privacy. (It’s not the building’s fault it now is vacant, falling apart, and perhaps haunted.)

Rockwood Asylum

I mean, just look at all those windows! Very unusual at the time for psychiatric hospitals, even more so for asylums for the criminally insane like Rockwood. It’s going to be fun to research more about this building and its inhabitants.

During the time my fictional Ruth is on placement there, there was an existing nursing education program running on site, for Registered Psychiatric Nurses. I can only imagine the tensions between all of the nursing programs in Kingston at the time – the Kingston General Hospital School, the Hotel Dieu School, Queen’s University, and this one. Competition for the best jobs, various comments about discrepancies in programs – this is all familiar to me from my time at Queen’s, where there was still great tension between regular nurses who trained for their RNs, and those that opted for the university program to get their BNSc. Could lead to some interesting interpersonal interludes.

So I’m looking for any information about psychiatric nursing schools, inter school competition, psychiatric care in 1947, and life in Canada in the post-war period. I’d be most grateful if you have any tidbits to share that I could insert into Ruth’s life.

It’s going to be a bit of a challenging time for Ruth again, I’m afraid. Money remains tight, doctors are flirtatious, supervisors are demanding, patients are difficult. Someone may even have an unfortunate “accident.”

I can’t wait to see how it all turns out.

You can get a Quick Look at the Museum of Health Care here:

Not celebrating International Women’s Day


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I just can’t. I am too close to rage about the state of women’s rights in the world today. It’s all cheery to say “Yay, Women!”, but hey, why are we still not being paid the correct rate? Why do republican candidates in the US think it’s okay to play Stepford Wives and talk in mealy-mouthed voices and fight reproductive choice? Why do women and men both seem to feel that women belong in the kitchen, preferably pregnant and docile? Why is the Christ I learned about being touted as someone who wanted women to bow and scrape to men? (I don’t remember that lesson). Why are we still overwhelmingly likely to suffer violence, even from those who purport to love us?

It’s enraging, as someone who grew up in the long long fight of trying to be treated as an equal.

And year by year, month by month, day by day, I am seeing women’s rights being eroded everywhere. Even here in my beloved Canada, things are slipping. Not that we’ve ever been allowed to be equals, no. But at least the effort used to be there.

I’ve led a fairly quiet life, and yet I have had to suffer multiple instances of sexual assault, had to endure being paid much less than someone doing my exact job, had to fight to be seen despite accruing qualifications and expertise. It’s annoying, and dangerous. And I’m living in a “democracy”, as vs. a place where I would be required not to be seen at all.

There are many many places like that. I’m grateful not to live in any of those places, but on the other hand, I’ve been raised to believe in equality of opportunity. It feels bad to lose it. And I worry about our kids and grandkids who have to try to push their way forward. It feels so redundant to fight for rights again, to fight for women and the2SLGBTQ+ community, to worry about anyone who isn’t a white male being the object of hatred. And I worry about the white males, too. It must be terrifying to lose privilege. Perhaps they could use this understanding and apply it to the treatment of everyone else? And don’t they wish they could have a broader definition of their roles than the standard one?

So that’s why I don’t celebrate International Women’s Day. It feels like wearing a pink t-shirt against bullying. Pretty but ultimately meaningless.

In my recent book, Spit & Polish, I write about a time where women had very limited opportunities. The war was over, and the men coming back took back all the jobs that women did so well while they were off fighting. Women were back to being nurses, secretaries, teachers — if they were allowed out of the house at all. Ruth Maclean, my main character, is part of a new change in nursing. Nurses were working to become less of a drudge, more of an educated professional, and being fought all the way.

It’s a process that still continues. Even with the professional nursing corps, male nurses are often paid more than female ones. Why? And nurses, particularly female ones, are victims of assault way too often. It needs to stop. We need to take women seriously, stop squashing them, stop trying to shove them back into the kitchen unless they want to be there. Stop killing them.

Then we can truly celebrate International Women’s Day.

Spit & Polish is now available on book sites in ebook and paperback format, and through your local bookstore. It also can be ordered through Somewhat Grumpy Press directly. Why not also check out the other books published through Somewhat Grumpy Press? Lots of good reading to be found…

An Excerpt from Spit & Polish


A little taste to encourage you to run right out and pre-purchase Spit & Polish while the ebook remains on pre-release sale. It’s available on many platforms. The paperback will be released February 29, 2024.

Nightingale Pledge, 1935

 

“I solemnly pledge myself before God and in the presence of this assembly, to pass my life in purity and to practise my profession faithfully. I will abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous, and will not take or knowingly administer any harmful drug. I will do all in my power to maintain and elevate the standard of my profession, and will hold in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping, and all family affairs coming to my knowledge in the practice of my calling. With loyalty will I endeavour to aid the physician in his work, and as a ‘missioner of health’ I will dedicate myself to devoted service to human welfare.”

Ruth dragged her feet up the stairs of the nursing residence, almost tripping on the risers. She was so tired. A long day of classes and reception duty hit her. At least she didn’t have to ring the front doorbell—the thought of having to wake one of the housemothers terrified her. The students called them “dragons” for a reason.

Tiptoeing down the hallway, Ruth opened her door and started to undress and put away her uniform. She carefully took off her apron and cuffs, placing the cuffs on the windowsill and hanging her apron over the radiator. She had a spot on the chest of her uniform, darn it. At least the blue and white striped material seemed to wash easily. She’d have to sponge that out before class tomorrow. She was too tired to think about it now. She cringed as her warped wardrobe door shrieked. Everything else lay silent, all of her fellow students asleep or on their night shifts. It appeared both eerie and lovely at night. Her window overlooked Lake Ontario, and the water glistened, flat as glass. She laid her black stockings carefully over the chair beside her bed and gazed out at the September moonlight. 

Suddenly, her door banged open, and a terrifying shape filled it.

“What in the name of all that’s good and holy are you doing?” The apparition, a grey-haired medusa in a long flannel nightgown, waved its arms at her. “Can’t you be quieter? Some of us want to sleep!” It turned and stumbled along the hall, thumping its feet in its hard-soled slippers.

Ruth fell back on her bed, heart racing.

Her friend Betty peeked her head around the corner. She grinned. “I see you’ve met the new matron.”

Ruth pulled Betty into the room and pulled her door almost closed. “Who WAS that?”

“Shhh. She’ll hear you. That’s our new supervisor,” Betty whispered. “Her name is Mrs. Graham, but she wants us to call her Matron. Some British thing. She trained there.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “She scared me half to death! I’m trying to be so quiet!”

“I didn’t hear a thing until she stomped in. She’s afraid of prowlers or something. Ann got lambasted before you got in. She seems to have it in for first years.”

“Oh great,” moaned Ruth. “Just what I need is someone to yell at me unexpectedly. I thought I left that back at home with my father.”

Betty nodded, put her hand on Ruth’s. “It won’t be that bad, surely. After all, she can’t be everywhere, can she?”

“I hope not. That hair!” Ruth permitted herself another quiet laugh. “She looked like she’d been electrified!”

On the joys (?) of revision


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“Revision is one of the exquisite pleasures of writing.”
―Bernard Malamud

So went the quotation in my email from Writers.com. (I highly recommend this newsletter, btw) I have mixed feelings about this. Yes, adjusting prose to make it clearer and more bright, to enhance the emotions in your first draft, to make your words sing – that can be pleasurable. I personally like the hack and burn part of revision, too, where you look through your tome and realize this bit AND that bit, and also the other bit, could really be thrown to the wolves (or if decent, tucked into a file for use later).

But I am licking my wounds a bit. My publisher has sent out advance review copies of my book to people and of course (probably my fault as I was pushing for release), it went out with multiple typos in it. People have noticed and commented. Sigh. One or two (you know who you are, DP!) helped me find the more egregious ones. Bless them.

Since it was exposed to some of the masses, my publisher and I have gone back and forth and back and forth, correcting things — but I’m certain little errors remain. I’m equally sure some eagle-eyed readers will find them and helpfully point them out to me so that I can revise it again.

All of which leads me to the conclusion that I will hire a copyeditor for my next book. Editors are good things (of course I would say this, being one myself). They can see things that the author misses in all sorts of places. I love my editing work. It gives me the chance to REALLY read a story, see it in its wholeness, try to help the author bring forward what they want. I’ve had great pleasure in my editing jobs – I do mostly developmental and line editing, which doesn’t require me to copyedit. Phew.

Because I realize the limit of my capabilities. I am not a copyeditor. I need helpful eyes for this. And my glasses aren’t doing it.

So, just to liven things up a bit, I will send a surprise to anyone who spots a typo in the officially released Spit & Polish book. Send me a message here, and I’ll contact you. What will it be, the surprise? Well, you will just have to wait and see…

Meantime, why not join me today, February 27, 2024, for an interview about the book and the writing process (I imagine there will be some shuffling in shame about errors), today at 4 pm AT, 5PM Eastern, 12noon Pacific on Youtube, Facebook, etc. Or you can watch me and the wonderful Anne O’Connell of OC Publishing on her YouTube channel later. It’s so generous of Anne to have me on. If you watch the show, look through her other interviews, too. She is a very generous and interested interviewer.

And don’t forget to pre-order your discount ebook before the official release date of February 29, 2924. After that things will be full price… Check out Amazon, Kobo, Apple Books, and more. The paperback will be available February 29th everywhere – just ask your local store to order in a copy for you. Or you can order directly from Somewhat Grumpy Press, too. I do hope you enjoy it!

Stretching umbilical cords, or the joy/sorrow of letting kids go


I woke this morning thinking about how my kids, the hearts of my heart, are about as far away from me and each other that they can be, geographically. One is in Europe, one in Australia, one back in Kingston while I am in Vancouver. It reminded me of the imagery I tried to share with them (but of course they found repellent, because, kids) that I can almost feel the leftover umbilical threads tugging at times, especially when I am worrying about them, or when I know life is being challenging for them. It’s a weird thing.

I raised them to be independent, to question the status quo, to be unafraid of trying new things. This has resulted in them being all over the world. I miss them, still find such joy in their contact with me. I have fantasies of them all being together, chatting and laughing with each other again. I used to love listening to them talk amongst themselves. This is unlikely to happen anytime soon.

But that’s the thing – you’ve got to let those kids go. Let them vanish and like that old tiresome quote: If you love something, set it free. If it is yours, it will come back to you. It’s risky, though. They may never come back. One of mine hasn’t. Still have that psychic umbilical attachment, though, even if these days it is more of an ache.

In my upcoming book, Spit & Polish, my main character, Ruth, is dying to leave her small town and move to the slightly bigger city of Kingston, ON. She’s bored, the local boys are mean, and she dreads having nothing to do but wash diapers for her always increasing brood of siblings.

In that time period, the years after WW2, choices for single women were few. All the jobs that had opened up for women during the war were closed with a snap. Men needed the jobs, everyone thought. Women should get married and have babies. And endlessly support their husbands, no matter how unfulfilling that might be. Ruth, at her young age of 18, didn’t love that option. She wanted an alternative.

Cloyne in the 1930’s

But her parents wanted her nearby, of course. At least until she got married. Which is why Ruth was so surprised to find her mother supporting her to go away to nursing school. It meant a very real increase of work for her mother, and Ruth is frequently guilty about her escape. (Not so much that she wants to go home, though…)

While nursing might seem a stereotypical choice for women now (I beg to differ, having had a very varied and exciting career as a nurse myself), it certainly wasn’t then. Nursing was just becoming respectable, and nurses were continually being portrayed as being easy, loose, a bit tawdry. Nursing schools were incredibly strict to help control this image, and students were held to a very high standard for behaviour. Of course there were a few who snuck out after hours, misbehaved with patients, followed doctors like eager puppies. Ruth doesn’t dare. She knows she is there on a short leash from her father, and she is terrified of losing her route to what she hopes is a satisfying career.

It doesn’t help that challenges are thrown at her every time she steps just a wee bit out of line. Still, she keeps on, gradually becoming braver as she falls more in love with nursing. It gives her strength to stand up for her choice, even as another pregnancy makes her guilt about not being at home to help her mother. Fortunately, Mrs. Maclean is willing to do the letting go, to allow herself to accept the risk of losing Ruth forever.

I’ll be doing an interview about the book with OC Publishing, on their Author’s Journey sites : YouTube, and Facebook, on Tuesday February 27. I’m delighted to have a chance to visit with Anne O’Connell, who has been a tremendous supporter of writers and writing.

Spit & Polish officially launches February 29th. It’s on sale (the ebook) for pre-order until then on Kobo, Amazon, Apple Books and more. Why not grab a copy and see what happens to Ruth in this first in a series of books on Ruth, nursing education, medical care, and Kingston, ON in 1946.

Self-promotion, or why I’ll never succeed in politics


This meme showed up on Facebook this morning and it made me laugh out loud. I’m battling with self-promotion. When I wrote my first book, Recycled Virgin, and launched it right in the middle of the pandemic, I just couldn’t force myself to do any promotion. Life felt too grim. So my first novel sunk gently into the muck. It is still available, and I think it’s worth a read, if I do say so myself.

Some other people say so, too – one Goodreads review that warmed my heart says: “Recycled Virgin” by D.A. Brown is an intellectually stimulating and thought-provoking exploration of a fictional premise that brilliantly reimagines a cornerstone of religious history. In this intricately woven narrative, the author takes readers on a captivating journey that questions traditional narratives, challenges preconceived notions, and offers a fresh perspective on a timeless story.

Hmm. I seem to have firmly stuck my promotional hat on. Those of you who read this blog, (and cheers to all of you who do. I really appreciate you!) have been somewhat awash in messages about the upcoming launch of Spit and Polish. I’m truly sorry if you feel overwhelmed. It’s all about the search engines…

Publishing a book these days is quite a feat. It’s easy to create a book, but will anyone ever read it? There are so many DIY’d books out there, many of them only responsible for the unnecessary killing of trees, it becomes hard to make an impact. There’s a sweet spot where the behemoth Amazon actually takes notice of your humble book and starts promoting you. This makes a huge difference, lifts your book temporarily out of the mire, shines a bit of effort from them upon it. All those “Amazon Best Sellers” manage the algorithm by finessing pre-orders, sending out piles of notices to their mailing lists (obtained by offering ‘freebies’ for a name). I’m simply not good at that.

I’d like to think my prose will pull people in and my book will take off independent of advertising, but realistically, I know that just ain’t so. So I’m writing this blog, and we are offering the ebook on the cheap for pre-order – won’t make me rich, but it might just make me noticeable.

But I really hate promoting myself. I can promote you and what you do with great ease – will gladly cheer on your books (especially if I’ve edited them) (stop it! More self-promotion!) But ask me to sell myself, and somehow, I’m just not convincing. When I did run for politics many years ago, I failed utterly in the “call people and ask for money” phase. My burgeoning career failed so promptly there was barely a ripple.

So please forgive me as I thrash about promoting my book. I’m kind of proud of it. I loved writing it and researching for it. I’m working on the sequel as we speak. I’d like it if you enjoy it, too.

I have had a sweet review posted by an early reviewer on LibraryThing: I love books where I identify with the characters, and Ruth was a very sympathetic and resilient character, with all the trials she went through. The author is planning to continue Ruth’s story in a sequel, so I will look forward to that. Highly recommended!.

And on Tuesday, I’ll be doing an interview with the inimitable Anne O’Connell from OC Publishing so you can watch me struggle to self-promote, and hear more about the book. Check it out (along with many other excellent interviews) on her YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/@OCPublishing

Being a nursing student, or getting by with a little help from your friends


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There are lots of books and stories about the trauma of training to become a medical doctor. There are fewer about nursing education, for some reason, unless you count the romances and Cherry Ames-type books. Apparently nurses have an easier time of it.

I beg to differ.

I’ve looked at nursing education from both sides now…as a student and teacher. Anyway you slice it, it’s tough. In my character Ruth Maclean‘s time, nursing was largely a process of training young women to obey. In my time as a student, some years later, we were initially forced to obey, and then after the first couple of years, were gently allowed to think for ourselves, a bit. I still entered practice completely green, but with an expanded view of my own competence. How I pity my poor patients from back then!

In every case, the amount of knowledge needed to become a competent nurse was huge. Huge and unappreciated. Nurses had to be able both to assess their patients and to persuade doctors to take the issues they found seriously. This was more difficult than it would seem. Doctors also have their image to maintain, and often that meant putting down the nurses they counted on to keep the patient alive.

And the training was gruelling. I’ve tried to convey that a bit in Spit and Polish. Exacting expectations for everything from dress to bed-making to the medical treatments made learning nerve-wracking for the average student. Shift work and the endless demands to clean as well as care for the people in the beds could throw a student off track. Poor Ruth is less competent at physical tasks than her fellow students – largely, I think, because of having to do piles of housework at her crowded and noisy home. She had a tendency to be slap-dash, and that just was not acceptable for a nursing student. So she was called into her supervisor’s office far too often for the school’s comfort, and eventually banished to build up her skills at the Tuberculosis Sanatorium.

Fortunately for Ruth, and my story, she took this admonition in good spirit and vowed to do better. But key to her progress were the friends she made along the way, the supportive other students, the senior nurses who took her under their wings, the friendly physicians who helped her learn new skills.

And that’s the key point about nursing education — the only way to survive it is with friends and colleagues who can prop you up when things get bad. I was fortunate to have a roommate and friend, Paula, who was by my side as we trudged through our degree. We studied for the RN exams together, sitting on a sunbaked roof in Kingston, ON, then removed the gains through some fairly serious celebration afterwards. (We both passed.)

Before that, we saw each other through disastrous relationships, unfriendly profs, bad placements, annoying exams. We fought off the “nurses are easy” teasing, became professionals. When we got our first jobs, we rallied to support each other after bad shifts where patients died or head nurses snarled or doctors were nasty. Her friendship was invaluable.

It’s for that reason I decided Ruth should go to the Kingston General Hospital School of Nursing, a place whose alumni are still close friends after more than 60 years. They still look after one another, still meet regularly. It’s pretty impressive — but it also speaks of the shared experiences they had, the support they gave one another all along.

I hope you enjoy reading about Ruth and her nursing classmates and their trials and tribulations. If you act now and pre-order Spit and Polish before it launches on February 29, you can get a discounted price. And keep an eye out for the sequel, expected soon.

Life in a Sanatorium


In my upcoming book, Spit and Polish, Ruth Maclean, a nursing student, is reprimanded for her slowness and clumsiness. The nursing school sends her to practice her basic nursing skills at the local veteran’s hospital and sanatorium which, coincidentally, has been flooded with patients and needs more staff. Hmm.

When she first arrives, she is given the patient rules, which were lengthy. Rest periods every couple of hours were mandatory, during which the patients couldn’t even read to pass the time, and nurses weren’t allowed to speak any louder than a whisper. Patients were propped outside in the fresh air, even in winter. The rules around spitting were very intensive, as TB bacteria were present in sputum. It was collected in little pots or bottles that then the nurses had to clean out (ick). Sterilizing and cleaning were major duties every day, often using vile solutions of oil and iodine. It’s a miracle nurses’ uniforms remained white. It’s a miracle nurses remained!

Patients were grouped into several categories: absolute bedrest, basins (where they can wash themselves in their room and go to the bathroom), OTW (out to wash), and then up and about, gradually increasing their amount of time out of bed hour by hour. Any of these steps could be revoked if the patient’s temperature went up. It was a long, long healing time – it’s a wonder patients didn’t go mad (more often). Still the food was often good, since the hospital had to try to reverse the extreme weight loss caused by the disease. That’s assuming the patients could eat. TB often creeps away from the lungs, and patients could have throat abscesses, spinal infection, kidney involvement, and more.

Punishment for not obeying the rules was pretty severe, too: “It is expected that any patient that cannot adapt herself to these necessary restrictions will inform the Medical Superintendent and make immediate arrangements for transfer to an institution more suited to her tastes’, and that ‘she will not endeavour to make herself more comfortable by lack of discipline which can hinder the staff and make matters more difficult for fellow patients’.” (Raymond Hurt, Tuberculosis sanatorium regimen in the 1940s: a patient’s personal diary) Needless to say, nurses disobeying the rules would also be severely reprimanded. Nursing students, even more so.

It was a fascinating period to research for the book, and I was specially interested since my father had been hospitalized for TB in the very sanatorium Ruth is sent to. I also did part of my nursing training there, though by that time it had changed to a hospital for severely disabled children. Still, the building remained pretty much as it was back in Ruth’s day, almost falling apart. It had been thrown up during the war to house women workers at the ALCAN factory, and been unloved surplus ever since. It’s been taken down since I was there, and when I went looking for pictures you could see Kingston was embarrassed by it, as there were almost no photographs available.

There are many books detailing life (and death) in various sanatoria world-wide. Thomas Mann’s classic novel, The Magic Mountain, covers both the physical and psychological aspects of a long stay in a sanatorium in the Alps. It is a good read for a long winter…

Spit and Polish , which does have more action in it than The Magic Mountain, is available February 29, 2024.