Tears of Florence Nightingale

There is a live-size portrait of Florence Nightingale hung on the wall of the ladies ward in Paro hospital. Hundreds of people come to hospital everyday and no one knows whose picture it is. Let alone knowing her, half of them may not have seen it at all. So I tell Tobgay about her. Though a history student he seems to have not gone out of his syllabus. So I tell him, Nightingale lived in 1800s. She was born to a rich landlord in Italy on 12 May, 1820. She left the luxury of her riches and so many prestigious proposals to become a nurse at the age of twenty-five, much against her parents' will and her social status. She selflessly travelled to Turkey during the Crimean War to save the lives of thousands of soldiers, alongside fighting her own war against prejudice of women’s involvement. After the battle of Inkerman she began reforming the military hospitals, soldiers called her "Lady with the Light". She gave birth to Army Medical College. She wrote several books, mostly about hospital and Nursing. August 13th, 1910, she passed away. Hundred years have passed now and she still lives as an inspirational light for millions of health workers across the world. That is how this portrait came here."
"For nurses, you mean?" and we both laugh.
"May be nurses here did not have Florence Nightingale in their syllabus either." still laughing. A nurse enters the room. We control ourselves for a while and burst out again as she disappears into other room that is attached to ours. People around look strangely at us. We know we cannot effort to laugh having our own patient sleeping; she hardly slept last night. But neither did we. Standing on the cold cemented floor in November through the night is a daring adventure, worse even, standing the sharp tongued nurses coming over and over to chase us out was not as simple as I ever thought. So now, as she sleeps so well we too deserve a light moment.

Zangmo was brought here late last night with serious abdominal pain. With her crying with pain along side we had to bargain the nurses for admission. After the late admission she was kept 'Under Observation' for about an hour, which means without any medical attention. 'Under observation' was possible at the hostel even, I thought, and told the nurses too. I regretted for saying that, because immediately they implemented a 'rule'; just one could stay along with the patient. Nobody listened to our request, so we promised to leave after her pain relieves a little. She received an injection and that was it. Nobody bothered anymore. She never became better. I went for help to the duty room.
"What can we do?" they nearly screamed.
"I don't know, I am a student." I replied, "But we brought her here thinking you all could help." I thought a nurse came with me to check on our patient but she was just there to scream at a visitor. "This is no visiting hour now. Get lost right now." nobody attempted a backfire. The man left the room leaving behind his old mother who had just a little daughter by the bedside. She turned to us and without looking at the patient shouted, "Don’t crowd over her. I told you just one can stay here. Didn’t you hear me?"
I didn't know why all the nurses were on rage. They seemed like they fought with their husbands before having the bed tea. However, we did not care her temperament. Our patient was dying with pain; she gripped onto Pema, who constantly had to remind, "Zangmo, we are here. You will be alright." Tobgay and I took turn in putting damp hanker-chip on her forehead to control the fever. There was no way we could help not crowding over her. Moreover, we weren't the bacteria or virus that gave her the pain. The nurse left the room and returned again with another. They jointly reminded us of the rules. Finally, except for Pema, we two had to stay in the corridor, strolling from one end to another through out the night in case if they would need us. Through the gigantic window we helplessly watched Zangmo struggling and literally sweating. All the seven other patients in the ward were old people and they expressed their concern and pity.
"O God, why such a young girl has such a bad illness." said one.
"Don’t they have something to relieve pain?" said another.
“What shall we do?" one panicked, " we should call a nurse."
"Don't, Don't do that. They just come here and shout." whispered an old lady, craned her neck across the door and started preparing a plate of mixed foods. She approached toward Zangmo's bed, and said," some of you watch out for them, they don't like this." and started saying prayers. She was well versed in it. With a spoon she poured the mixture into another container after each breath of words, which we don't understand. “She seems to be affected by evil spirits." she said later. A moment later the same nurse appeared, or may be another, anyhow they were all of same kind. She was there to check on the noise level not the patients. She saw us watching through the window and with a dirty look came forward to close the curtain. The door was latched from inside and now the curtain was closed so all we could do was to walk up and down the long corridor to keep ourselves warm. We had the company of three more men there.
Only this morning the door opened and we were let in. Zangmo says she is feeling well now and I tell Tobgay that we will leave, after all the treatment is much better in the hostel with much more freedom. "The doctor will be soon here." one nurse barges in. she hurriedly arranges the stools and beds here and there. "To please the doctor..." I whisper to Tobgay. Now we are packing and Pema dresses Zangmo and makes her hair. "What the hell are you doing?" the nurse mutters, "the doctor will be here in a minute."
"Thank you." I laugh and Tobgay joins me. Zangmo thanks the women in the ward and with smiles of gratitude we headed towards the door when an old woman, whose bed is by the portrait of Florence Nightingale, coughs out water all over the portrait. The panicked nurse screams out, "What is this now?" and nervously scans the room for a rag to wipe the frame. From the door I say, "This is the tear of Florence Nightingale." and closed the door behind me.