Circling the Square

The Hygiene Department has a fine big building near the trolley tracks on Mt. Auburn Street for the care and feeding of mild illnesses. Students who have managed to avoid stretch at Stillman don't know what they're missing, those who have been there find the experience unforgettable.

Fir Stillman is an institution devoted to the elimination of sleep. The daily routine starts at 6:30 a.m., when the sick student, comfortably clad in a pair of T-shaped cloth objects distinguishable only by a drawstring through the top of one, finds the pleasant mouth of the nurse pressed close to his ear. She is quietly calling his name. Outside to the east, the sky is still graying, but this does not bother the efficient nurse. She likes to Get Things Done. She takes to paticut's temperature with a wet mouth thermometer. He goes back to sleep. At eight brakfast appears on a large tray; it is good and substantial and makes the student drowsy again.

9.00 a.m. is bath time. And it is not earlier than 10:00 that the Friendly Nurse barks into the snoring student's car, "Ha-ha-ha--I guess you're got the sleeping sickness." Similar interruptions follow throughout the day, invariably accompanied by aspirin, alcohol rubs, more washrags, and a little by podermic needle full of penicillin. And at 9:00 a.m. podermic needle full of penicillin. And at 9:00 p.m. the final Cheerful Nurse appears carrying a bottle of huge red Seconal pills. "Medication for sleep," she calls them.

Stillman food is served on white gleaming plates, which makes it very attractive to try-worn students, and fresh orange juice and milk shakes appear at frequent intervals. So three or four days in the sleep-murdering routine can be far from uncomfortable, especially during hour exams.

Every once and a while, however, someone will get stuck in Stillman for weks on end; it is then that the place loses much of its charm. Recently this happened in the case of a student named Smith.

Smith entered early this spring with a Strep throat, was issued his pajamas and water, absorbent little gray cotton slippers, and put on a three-hour penicillin schedule. His fever promptly dropped, and he, too, began to beg to get out. But Strep throats are tricky things, and Stillman care is cautions. Smith stayed in the small respiratory ward three weeks; the first week was the best. He discovered a batch of jig-saw puzzles thoughtfully placed on a shelf in the ward, and completed the lot, though all were marked with "seven damn pieces missing" or similar discouraging comments.

He read through a fine collection of 25 cent pocket books, found in another corner of the room; they had titles like "Fifi' or "The Impatient Virgin." And every day brought the 6:30 thermometer. It grew increasingly tough. Smith pattered around the ward, suggesting that tottering arrivals be "placed immediately in bed." He frequently curled up in his covers and moaned "morphine, morphine,' in a pained-wracked voice. He waggled his fingers at feverish flu-victims and solemnly pronounced "Leprosy." He played cards until he found he knew all the cards from the back. He read patients each others fever charts. He even insisted on holding Bible readings on Sunday morning, after awhile.

Smith's final discharge was unusually quick, when it did come. But now he describes his stay with near-longing in his voice, "It wasn't a bad life--if you didn't need any sleep."