Thursday, March 22, 1945

Worked on my psycho-neurotic patient today - the artist - Underwood. He got a haircut to please me and looks better. He's one of those unhappy lost souls, they attach themselves to you - and why not? I personally cut his fingernails, and gave him some nice soap and talcum. He was pleased - has a remarkable talent for illustrating his pain. Several new artists in #22 - Jack's old ward. One is fine. I had coffee tonight and showed the other one his work. Missed Jack.

On the radio talked about Oxford and Phyllis played the accordion. Jack left this AM after we got back at 9.30 - carrying a very heavy barracks bag - he's visiting friends in Swindon. Called me tonight, misses me terribly, "Did I tell you I love you? I love you!". This I have heard from a different voice in the last month. Jimmie hasn't called this week. Jack is sincere, serious. I have a heartache so big and frightening that I simply have to close my mind. Jack has probably saved me from idiocy.