Labour of Love George and Martha Throwing Leaves at the Sun
by Louise Graham

Birth is a labour of love...
A time to reflect.
In doing this,
you'll gain self-respect.
As you go through the process,
you'll know it's worthwhile.
The aura is novel,
as you caress your new child.
The family circle has started.
The venture - about to begin.
You have amazing strength
that radiates from within.

Birth is so special,
it carries you through each day.
It brings forth from you a brilliance,
that guides him on his way.
As the years go by,
you will always know -
that you gave everything
from your body and soul.

Birth will always be
a labour of love.
With a little hand -
from someone above.		 by Martha J. Crowninshield O’Brien R.N.

Night time briskness slapped me in the face as I climbed in to my car for the familiar trek to work. It was my third scheduled night shift but only the first I had felt half way healthy enough to attend. I had called ahead to prepare myself for the pace of the unit, and was already exhausted at the prospect of a wild night. The evening nurse had sounded breathless and added that she had not yet had one free moment to eat or go to the bathroom.

“That’s just wonderful,” I mused, as I negotiated the ten miles of rural darkness to the hospital. Busy nights on the maternity unit were not always the happy, baby rocking times that the general public and most other nurses believed. They could be brutal and exhausting. Sometimes they could even be tragic and an inner voice nagged I should probably expect nothing less. As I drove into the parking lot past several ambulances in the emergency bay, I steadied myself for whatever chaos loomed ahead, keeping in mind that however short staffed the evening shift was, our shift would be even more compromised. Such is the stuff of the night shift.

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 by Martha Crowninshield O’Brien R.N.

“Astrid” and I bumped into each other years ago in nursing school. It happened that we were opposing forces (literally) in a pillow fight orchestrated by our roommates. Peals of laughter cascaded in waves as she extended her hand to help me up. From then onward we hurled ourselves into the frenetic pace of nursing school, often in tears or exhausted. Neither of us had even a remote inkling that it paled in comparison to “real nursing, or of the poignantly exquisite fragility of mortality.” Astrid” would be tested far more severely than either she or I could ever imagine. Nothing could prepare us for what was to come.

In the middle of our junior year, Astrid began to complain of chest pain. She would fatigue easily which, for nursing students is commonplace. Still, we worried about her and suggested she visit the school physician. “It’s probably nerves,” he said, and sent the two of us on our way. He suggested a prescription for valium. “Astrid” rolled her eyes and we walked slowly back to the dorm. There were no more pillow fights after that.

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