She was born September 17, 1914, in Fish’s Eddy, not far from the
Downsville, N.Y., area where she spent her early years. Life was simple,
often harsh—outhouses were more common than indoor plumbing, and
misbehaving children were corrected with a quick switch from the nearest
bush. From that rudimentary beginning, she developed the grit and
endurance that would come to defi ne her. She moved to Middletown,
N.Y., in the early 1930s to become a nurse, eventually raising a family
fi rst with George D. Van Druff —who died in 1949—and later with
Raymond C. North, who died in 1981.
 

“Van” was the name she carried from her fi rst marriage, and it stayed
with her long after George’s passing. Th e name became her identity not
only from her fi rst marriage, but because it was woven into the fabric of a 
hardscrabble profession during a time when medicine was transforming.
The authority of doctors still loomed like that of a pope: respected always,
but often questioned behind closed doors.
 

She was part of that world. In that growing city of 
Middletown, about 70 miles north of Manhattan, she tended to
patients from cradle to grave—on hospital floors, in nursing homes,
and on private duty in the homes of the elderly. Her care was quiet and
uncelebrated, but it was steady and fierce.
 

The nursing culture of her era was something akin to a battlefield—a
place where nurses coined their own shorthand for survival and solidarity.
The head nurse was the “ward sergeant.” New graduates, idealistic and
still hopeful, were called “white hats.” Night-shift nurses earned the
nickname “nightwalkers” for their stamina and ghost-like presence
in the quiet hours. “Med wranglers” managed the endless routines of
medication rounds—tedious and fraught with risk in those days. And
when emergencies hit, the “strap crew” or “code runners” moved in—
handling psychiatric outbursts or medical crises like frontline medics.
Long-timers were called “lifers,” not with derision, but respect. They
had seen it all.
 

Beneath this militaristic lingo ran a deep vein of compassion, dark
humor, and kinship. Nurses depended on each other. They shared
cigarettes, secrets, and sighs after long shifts. They built bonds that,
like scars, marked the battles they survived together. When I heard my
grandmother swap stories with her nursing friends, there was loyalty,
sharp edges, and human tenderness. The voices of her characters echo
the same throughout this book, which is part memoir, part memory, 
and entirely hers.