“The ‘Mystery” in Wanting to Be Useful” by Winifred Black from the May
16, 1914, issue of The Washington Times
Miss Helen Cudahy, the youngest daughter of Patrick Cudahy,
the millionaire meat packer, is going to register in the Massachusetts General
Hospital as a student in the school for trained nurses.
“Her family,” says the press dispatch which gives the news,
“declines to give Miss Cudahy’s reason for this action.
Dear me, how mysterious!
There must be a man in an iron mask or a woman in a velvet
domino somewhere in the story. It wouldn’t be possible for an energetic,
ambitious, big-brained, big-hearted, generous souled girl to want to go
somewhere and be of some use in the world—would it?
Not when her father pays an income tax of thousands of
dollars a year. Why, the idea—why should she want to amount to anything?
Why should she care whether people die in pain or are born
in agony or not? What is it to her that friendless women need comforting and
that little, helpless babies need care? What earthly reason can she have for
wanting to make things a little easier for a dying man or to help some poor
wreck of a woman say good-by to a life of misery with some show of decent
fortitude?
A Noble Profession
A trained nurse, a good trained nurse, is the noblest and
the most useful creature that walks the earth.
If ever there is any use for a halo in this world of ours—I’ve
seen one hovering around the forehead of a nice, cosy, comfy, little trained
nurse who would go without sleep for nights at a time, and without rest for
days, just to see some cantankerous patient “pulled through” in spite of the
family.
And she’d think you were joking if you even hinted that she
was anything like a saint.
Patience, courage, resourcefulness, self-reliance, tact, a
quick wit, a sense of humor, a gentle hand, a light heart, a generous soul—all
these are the things that go to make up the character of the trained nurse.
What should the daughter of a rich man want with such a list
of the beatitudes?
Nurse a little mother back to health, back to the care of
her little children, save the flower of the family to be a useful man and take
his place in the world with a sound constitution and good, clean blood; put the
head of the house on his feet and make him able to go on with the work he ought
to be doing—why, why what’s such trifling as that to the things that Miss Helen
Cudahy could do, if she only had sense enough to want to.
She could be the best tango dancer in her set without a
doubt.
They say she’s a regular witch at bridge if she’d only put
her mind on it; and as to tennis and golf—just think of it.
There’s a motor boat, too—why doesn’t she learn to run one
of them if she really wants to be useful in the world, and go chuff, chuffing
up and down in season and out of season, just to show that she can?
And automobiles—what’s the matter with Miss Cudahy’s driving
her machine and making a few killings now and then—just to show she’s game.
Think of giving up joys like this, just to be somebody
real—somebody good—somebody kind—somebody reliable—somebody worth while in the
world. Why the girl must be crazy, or else all the rest of us are.
I wonder which it is. Her act is so mysterious!
Prudence McKinley—oh yes, I’m going to call your name right
out in print for once, just to see how you like it.
You who wouldn’t lie down for three nights because you
wanted to change the bandages on a little child’s eyes yourself—for fear any
one else who came in might nap and forget—just once.
When you meet that little child now, growing into gracious
and graceful womanhood and she looks at you with two clear, beautiful eyes—how
much money would you take for the song that stirs your heartstrings when you
think that if it was not for you that girl would probably be groping in the
utter dark of total blindness today?
Is that what you are looking for, Miss Helen Cudahy, you
with your money and your beautiful home—the chance to be a woman of glorious
use in the world?
If it is—here’s my heart in my hand. Take it, it is yours to
keep.
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