Entire Florence Nightingale Story - edited

Chapter One

Every woman knows what they are expected to be and how they are expected to act. I have been designed by society, custom made to satisfy men. We are all constantly confined to the edges of life as we cook, clean house, and birth babies for our husbands. We can do nothing we want, nothing we need, for we are not supposed to want, to need. We are just supposed to be: be women on the edges, making life comfortable for men. In this society there should be no reason for any of us to question our place. It has been clearly defined by the generations of women before us, twisting back through the memories of time.
Like every woman, I too am being forced into this confining mold. I am only seventeen, yet there is no mystery to how my life is going to unfold. I sometimes wish there was more uncertainty, more room for me to grow. Maybe even a chance for me to learn about myself without society holding so tightly to my hand. I want to be set free, but I can’t. My life is already planned out for me.
I have what every women should long for, every woman should want. I have a man who is deeply in love with me. I come from a wealthy family. I am an attractive and well educated woman. However, for one reason or another, I am not satisfied. My father, Eric, and my mother, Mary, expect me to happily slide into their custom crafted mold. They expect me to turn out exactly like them.
The loved crazed boy whom desperately wants to marry me is named Julian. He is kind and funny, and relatively handsome. It is not that I do not like him, for I do. I just do not love him. Like society, he has expectations of me. After our proposed marriage, Julian wants me to mother his seven desired children, to cook and clean for him, and care for him the rest of his life. And worst of all, my parents support his plan.
Most women would love this kind of opportunity thrust at them with such vigor and approval. I am just not one of them. At times I consider speaking up, asking for my life to be different. But I can’t imagine what kind of woman I would become. I am afraid my family would shun me and society would reject me. As much as I want to break out of my role which, like quicksand, is slowly and painfully pulling me in. I do not want to end up living in the shadows of this world. Being shunned would be worse than conforming to society. At least that’s what I think.
I do not know what I want. I do not know what to even ask to be different. All I know is that I have this burning desire to be different that I just can’t ignore: I want to take my life into my own hands, to strive to be more than what is expected of me.
Maybe it was my parent’s mistake to educate me. Now I know what is out there in the world. I know the possibilities. I know there is more. I don’t know why I am expected to be happy with their plans for my life. I probably should be. It is probably not a good idea to question my place. I mean, shouldn’t I be happy that Julian loves me and wants to marry me? Isn’t that what every woman waits for, even longs for? So, then what is wrong with me? Why am I not satisfied? Why am I not happy?
Part of me is afraid to change, to flee the life I have looming just within reach; the life that is just an arm’s length in front of me, the life that could be mine with one simple step forward; the life that would be mine if I could just utter the word “yes” to Julian. I don’t want to be a disappointment to Julian or to my parents. I not sure my desires are worth disappointing my family and possibly loosing them.

Chapter Two - Three months later, the middle of winter
Although it has only been three months, it feels like it has been more than an eternity. Everyday I feel like I walk through life with a profound sense of emptiness. I feel as if there is something missing, that there must be something more. I just am not satisfied. It is as if, in my mind, I have a consistent debate raging: one part of me is screaming “Florence, there is more to this live than your family is allowing you, so do something to change it! Make yourself happy!” while another part whispers, “Florence, please do not do this. Do not ruin what you already have and what has already been made for you. Do not ruin your family and your life. Please.”
I wish that I knew which voice to listen to. I mean, although one screams and the other whispers they seem to have the same amount of pull in my mind. I love my family dearly, but I just don’t think their plan for my life is what I am meant to do. I don’t think I can follow there dreams and be happy. Sometimes I wonder if women are even supposed to be “happy.” I know I am crossing a societal line when I question my place and my role as a woman, and if I have the right to find happiness on my own terms. I also wonder if having an opinion and asking questions are really wrong. Why should my desire, and the desire of so many other women, to break the mold that defines us, be silenced by men without a second thought? How is that just? How is that fair?
Sometimes I want to ask my mother if she is happy and living the life she always imagined. I want to ask how she copes and how she gets through every day. Although I long for such a conversation, I can not bring myself to as my mother such questions. I think my mother would be disappointed in my curiosity. She is very old fashioned and has little respect for the idea of women’s rights. From what I have gathered, without asking of course but by observing, my mother believes women are supposed to be servants to their husbands. Her policy is: anything the husband wants, the wife shall do. I have a difficult time understanding her reasoning. I don’t understand how she can put herself down and dismiss her rights as a person, and yet act as if she is not be affected by her choices. Although it is not what I want, I am afraid to tear my family’s values apart and therefore loose them forever. I am just so confused.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Quickly I try to dry my tears, straighten out my dress, and fix my hair. I can not have someone coming into my room while I am looking like this. Seconds later, I hear a light knocking on my door.
“Just a moment,” I call in an attempt to sound proper and composed.
“Alright dear,” the voice responds. It is my mother. After thoroughly fixing my hair, I have run out of excuses as to why I can not open the door. I know my face is still red from crying, and I am dreading having to open the door and be subjected to my mother’s questions about my emotional well-being. I will just have to come up with an excuse, and fast, for I hear another knock on my door which grows more impatient sounding by the second.
“Florence!” my mother grumbles, “What is taking you so-” At that very moment, I pry the heavy old oak door open. On the other side my mother stands, waiting. I look directly into her eyes for the first time since I was a little girl. I desperately try to see past the hard shield she seems to have over them, hiding her secrets and her feelings. Starring for another moment I look deeper and see what I think may be sorrow. A sorrow so deep and so old it blends right into her face. We stare at each other for a long while. While I search her face I know she is also searching mine.
“Sweet Florence,” she says tenderly, “what is the matter? Did something happen between you and Julian? Are you hurt? What Florence, what is it?”
How did she expect me to answer? Does she actually believe that I will tell her the truth behind my tears? How can she think that my sorrow is a trivial as a fight I had with Julian? How can my own mother be so unaware?
“Oh, nothing is wrong mother. I was just getting up after a short nap when I slipped and hit my elbow on the floor. It hurt quite badly at the time, however now I am fine. My face just stays red for a while after I cry,” I lied. It was a lame excuse, but she bought it.
“Oh, Florence I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, no, mother. I will be fine,” I reply.
“Alright dear, be safe now. Do not forget to do the laundry, scrub the floors, and cook supper before five. Goodbye.”
“Mother,” I exclaim annoyed. There was no way I could do all of that work in less than an hour!
“Do not make me beat you Florence, because I will!” my mother screams, hand rising toward my face.
“No, mother, NO!” I exclaim as her hand hits my face with unbearable force. I stagger momentarily and then stand frozen for a few seconds. What had just happened? My face suddenly began to sting and tingle and then as quickly as the pain started it disappeared and my face went numb.
Slamming the door, I sigh with relief. Suddenly I feel exhausted. I walk over to my bed and slowly sink into the mattress. Looking around, I examine the room. From the old oak door to the solid wood floor everything looks impersonal. I see nothing of any meaning to me. I could loose anything in this room and I would be fine with it. I feel no connection with anything. As I settle into my bed, I gaze out the window. I can see the snowy landscape through the iced over window. The trees make eerie lines, chopping up our estate. The landscape looks vast and irregular, yet beautiful at the same time. This sight causes me to fall to my knees and begin a prayer to God:
Dear God, please if you are out there listen to me in my time of need. My heart desires for one thing, yet my mind keeps telling me to dismiss such feelings. I desperately want to be different; to break the mold society has placed upon me. I do not want to marry Julian and I do not want to be a housewife. I want to be as free as the snow covered trees. I just do not know how to do it. I do not want to loose my family, but I may have to in order to find true happiness. God, what should I do? Should I strive to be different? Should I strive to be more? Please, God, help me with this decision.
Waiting for an answer, I kneel on the floor in silence. Suddenly, I hear a voice. I look around the room, startled. In am still completely alone. Then it speaks again.
“Florence, strive for more. Florence, do not marry Julian. Florence, help others. Florence, become a nurse.”
Then just as quickly as it had emerged, the voice dissipated into the silence again. I do not know who exactly it was. However, in my heart, I believe that it was God answering my prayer. Whoever had spoken to me has helped make my decision final. I am going to break the mold. I get up and cross the room. I open the door and will myself to walk down the long and dimly lit corridor. I reach the stairs and begin my decent to the kitchen to tell my family of the decision I have made.
Chapter Three
Slowly creeping down the stairs, I can feel fear and sadness welling up. As I walk, I have to continually tell myself that I will be OK. I will survive this. I do not need a family forever, right? When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I can see my mother baking dessert and my father reading some thick intellectual book. Someday, soon, I will be reading books like that one, books filled with facts and history, books that will enable me to be of use in this world, books that will give my life meaning and purpose.
Stepping out of the shadows and into the overbearing lights of the kitchen, my mother sees me. “Florence,” she says hastily.
“Mother,” I respond coolly.
“Have you decided to do your tasks?”
“No mother.”
“I thought I warned you Florence. Did I not teach you a lesson last time? I will hit you again,” she said in a voice so low I could have mistaken it for a growl.
“No, that will not be necessary,” I replied even more calmly. I knew my calmness confused her, for her face began twisting as she tried to figure out what I was trying to imply.
“How will it not be necessary?” she said as her voice suddenly became anxious and high pitched.
“I am leaving. I will never do a stupid and worthless housekeeping task again. I am more than that. I am worth more. I will be gone by the end of the night.” I tried to sound as if what I had just said meant nothing to me, as if I was not about to tear my family apart forever.
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE?” my father shouted as he launched himself headfirst into the kitchen, stumbling for a moment, then stabilizing and moving directly to my mother. My mother was silent. I knew I had hurt her. She looked as if she were going to faint.
“I said I am leaving. I can not take this life anymore. I cannot do it. My life is worth more than this. I want to mean something to this world. I want to find my place. I have searched through this life and my place is not here. I am not happy and I will never be if I stay.”
Silence followed my words. Then my mother, whose face was as white as a sheet, began to back up. Reaching the wall, she grabbed a large cooking pot she threw it at me! I dropped to the floor as I felt the rush of air from the pot flying over my head. As my heart raced, I looked up and I saw my mother crying. Then I realized I was crying, too.
“Is this really what you want?” she said, her voice almost inaudible.
“Yes mom. I want to be of service to others. I want to be a nurse. That is my place in the world.”
“A NURSE!” my father interjects, “A NURSE, NO! BEING A NURSE IS NO BETTER THAN BEING A PROSTITUTE!” he bellowed, his face turning a dark shade of red. “I HAVE RAISED YOU TO BE A RESPECTABLE YOUNG WOMAN. I HAVE EDUCATED YOU. YOUR LIFE IS WORTH MORE!”
“Father, there is nothing you can do to change my mind. Nothing,” I say, taking a breath and gaining control again. Then, I turn my back and walk away. I had said what I needed to say.
“FLORENCE!” my father roared again, “DON’T YOU DARE WALK OUT OF THIS ROOM. DON’T YOU DARE!”
I continue walking towards the front door. “IF YOU LEAVE THIS HOUSE YOU ARE NO LONGER A PART OF THIS FAMILY. IF YOU EVEN THINK FOR A MOMENT MORE OF BECOMING A NURSE, YOU ARE OUT OF THIS FAMILY FOREVER!”
I did not turn around. Instead, I grabbed my bag, slid on my shoes, and walked out of my childhood home forever. I was no longer their little girl. I was no longer a part of their family. In many ways I was free.
Chapter Four – Six Months Later
I walk down the street quickly as I am late for my shift at the Harrison Clinic. As I walk, I find myself completely absorbed in my thoughts. Sometimes I still question the decision I made to leave my family. I have made a new life for myself and I am happy. Or at least I think the feelings I am experiencing are happiness. I have never really been happy in my life before, so how would I even know? I have heard about a war on the Crimean Peninsula and that the military is in need of nurses. Sometimes I desperately want to leave this town, and go to work on the Crimean Peninsula. However, I don’t know if I am ready to leave my home and what is left of a family behind. Suddenly, snapped out of my thoughts when a large man bumps into me. I loose my balance, dropping all of my papers and fall onto the deep amber colored cobble stones.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” the man said sounding nervous and hiding his face.
“That is OK. My name is Florence,” I say as I extend my hand.
“I know,” the man says, still keeping his face toward the ground.
“Have we met?” I ask nervously. Slowly, he lifts his head and looks me directly in the eye. “Oh my God, is that you Julian?”
“Yes,” Julian replied trying his best to keep his face straight.
“Oh my God” is all I can utter.
“You wrecked our lives. You ruined both of our families. I should not even be talking to you. How could you leave me to become a prostitute?”
“What did you just call me?” I stammered, shocked.
“I said prostitute,” he said stressing the last word.
“Why, would you say such a thing?”
“I know you left your family and me because you wanted to be a whore and, from the look of you, you have succeeded.”
“What? I am not a whore!” I screamed.
“Well, then what are you? Is there a more formal name for what you do?” he said sarcastically.
“I am a nurse!”
“Oh right, and I am a woman,” he said curtly.
“Why are you so intent on not believing me?” I said, now feeling hurt.
“What am I supposed to believe? Your family made it pretty clear why you left.”
“My parents did what? It was my father who told you this, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes,” he responded, still not doubting himself.
“That is not true. I am a nurse. I am a nurse!”
“Why should I believe that, whore?”
“Because,” I say as my voice rises, “I AM NOT A WHORE AND I CAN PROVE IT TO YOU” I scream, feeling tears welling up in my eyes now.
“Hum,” Julian said, turning his back and walking away.
Abruptly, I notice people are staring at me. I realize my argument with Julian has attracted a crowd. I can see people I once knew peering out of their market tents in an attempt to see what is happening.
“Whore,” I hear people calling from all directions.
“Why don’t you just go back to the house where you belong?” I hear another say.
“If you are a nurse, like you claim to be, then why don’t you quit your job and go do what women are supposed to do? Cook and clean and satisfy men,” another shouted, “Women are not meant to be in a man’s world.”
Tears began to fill my eyes, blinding my vision, making it harder to navigate the now crowded street. I wanted to escape. I needed to escape. I have to escape. Starting to run, I trip. As I fall to the ground, I can hear my dress rip. As I lay on the cool cobble stones, I look up to see faces hovering above me. The faces are laughing. Pulling myself together, I get up and continue walking. When I reach Harrison Street, instead of turning left towards the clinic, I turn right. I am now facing directly towards the train station. I realize I can’t live like this. I must leave this town forever.
Surprised by my sudden decision and the clarity of what I want, I run to the ticket window before I can change my mind. After buying my ticket to the Crimean Peninsula, I step onto the off white platform and settle myself on a bench. About thirty minutes later my train arrives at the station. Before I step into the coach, I turn around and take one last look at the life I have always known and that I am now leaving behind. It is summer and I can see the tall evergreen trees swaying in the gentle breeze. In the distance I see the church that my family and I had attended. Starring even further out into the distance, I let my eyes blur and feel the warm sun on my face. My moment of nostalgia abruptly ends as passengers start pushing their way onto the train. As I somewhat reluctantly step inside, I take one last look at the place I will forever resent, yet never forget. It is the place which has shaped who I am today and will ultimately influence who I am tomorrow. It is the place which I once called home.