The Reluctant Midwife Page 14
To the Bone
“The doctor? Is the doctor here?” a fellow of about twenty shouts as four young men in bloodstained uniforms stagger in carrying an injured boy. From the looks of him, it’s serious. His leg is covered in a crude bandage of white rags drenched in red and his face is alabaster.
The secretary rises so fast she knocks her chair over. “Oh, Lord . . . not another one!” She flings the infirmary door open to reveal four white metal beds with a scale in the corner and a blood pressure cuff mounted on a stand. I jump up, throw my pocketbook on the chair, and, without even thinking, begin to shout orders.
“Here, lay him down. Someone get my medical bag in the Pontiac. What happened?” The young men, by this time, are running out the door, either to get my bag, or more likely, to escape the scene of carnage, but I grab one by the shirtsleeve. “You! Explain!”
“It happened at the sawmill, ma’am. Awful bad. Halfway cut off. Where’s the doc? Is the doc here today? Can he save his leg?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try.” My informant is about to be sick so I let him slink away. “My bag!” I yell after him.
“Mrs. Ross, a pan of hot water. I’ll need to wash the wound to assess the damage. Does anyone in the camp know first aid? Is there a medic?”
The round woman is now cowering against the wall. “Come on now, Mrs. Ross! Pull yourself together.”
“No medic,” she whispers.
“Call the physician at the other camp. Tell him registered nurse Becky Myers needs him here as soon as possible.”
“There’s no phone. It’s a shortwave radio. I can try.” Mrs. Ross starts for the kitchen to get water and then spins around like a top and points to the wooden CB set on a table in the corner. “Which first?”
“Water and clean rags first. Hold on the radio. This may not be as bad as it looks.” Just then the young man who’d given me the report returns with my bag.
“This it, ma’am?” He’s no longer so white and a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, thank you, but you can’t smoke in here. There’s a pair of scissors and a packet of gauze in the satchel, get them out, please. Don’t look at the wound if you can’t take the sight of blood. I’m going to unwrap his leg.” The young man runs to the door and flips his cigarette out into the yard.
Removing the crude bandage, I finally get a look at the injury. The cut is below the knee and down to the bone, but it’s straight, not jagged, and there’s no dirt or sawdust in it. Most important, the bleeding seems to have slowed.
The boy rummages around in my bag, pulls out what I need, and places it on the small pine table that Mrs. Ross brings in.
“What’s your name, son? And what’s the patient’s name?”
“I’m Boodean Sypolt. His name is Jed Troutman. I didn’t know there were lady doctors.”
“Mmmmm.” The injured man is coming to. He groans and then groans again.
“Boodean, hand me the blue bottle of merthiolate, the one with the cork. Also, I’ll need the tin box of suture needles. I’m a nurse, not a doctor. A registered nurse.”
“Fuck!” The victim shakes his head and there are tears in his golden-brown eyes. “What happened? Oh, fuck. What have I done?”
“It’s okay, Jed. It’s okay. I’m Nurse Becky and I’m going to give you a teaspoon of laudanum before I sew you up.” This I do sparingly, since the liquid in the blue bottle is the last of Dr. Blum’s supply. Within moments Jed falls back into a stupor, and I can get on with my work.
Boodean
For the next half hour, by the big wooden cuckoo clock on the wall, I cleanse the wound, carefully stitch the layers of muscle and skin back together, and anoint the deep cut with merthiolate. Boodean serves as my surgical assistant, cutting my suture when I need it and handing me the instruments, but otherwise concentrating on a poster above the bed, this one in green and yellow, exhorting the virtues of the Forest Army with an image of a tall evergreen and the Civilian Conservation Corps logo below it.
By the end of the procedure, I notice the young man is looking down at the surgical field and actually anticipating my next move. Finally, I’m finished. Boodean stretches his back.
“Nice job,” I tell him, and when he smiles I notice one of his teeth is missing, the eyetooth, the one with the point. Otherwise he’s a good-looking lad, with clear skin, kind eyes, and curly brown hair. His nose, which appears to have been broken at some time in the past, is the only other feature that mars his handsome face.
“Thanks,” he says shyly. “I never did nothin’ like that before. Will he still be able to work? His mother is counting on the twenty-five a month that Jed sends from his CCC pay. She’s a widow with five other children.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He should heal okay, if he keeps his wound clean. Do you know each other from home?”
“Both our dads went down to Hawk’s Nest to work on the tunnel they put under the mountain. Out of the four men from home who traveled together, my dad is the only one that made it back alive.”
I’m familiar with the situation at Hawk’s Nest. If you read the news, you couldn’t miss it. In 1930, Union Carbide decided to improve their power plant by diverting the New River under Gauley Mountain. To do this they hired unemployed Appalachians and blacks from the South.
It was a big scandal, even got hearings in Congress and in the federal courts. Four hundred men died, both white and colored, the largest industrial accident in the United States. Some, who had no family living close by, weren’t even buried, they were just dumped over a cliff.
Dr. Blum had been livid. “The workers died of acute silicosis,” he told me after attending a medical meeting in Torrington, where the tragedy was discussed. “The silica in the rocks coated their lungs and no one gave them masks or breathing equipment, although management knew enough to wear them. Those workers died within a year. . . . A waste of good lives. A crime.”
Things like that used to really upset him, back when he had his mind.
The Major
I’m just washing up when Mrs. Ross cracks open the infirmary door. “They’re coming!” she whispers. “Outside . . . the truck just pulled up . . . the captain and the superintendent.”
After getting over her case of nerves when she first saw the victim covered in blood, the camp secretary has become my ally. I stand and straighten my hair. There’s a spot of blood on my nylons but hopefully it’s not too obvious.
The door bangs open. “Where is he? Is he okay? Why didn’t you call me at Camp Laurel?” a loud nasal voice demands.
Mrs. Ross answers so quietly I can’t hear her response.
Then the inner door swings back, and two men in uniform enter the infirmary. Captain Wolfe steps forward and shakes my hand. “Miss Myers. Thank God you were here. How’s Jed? The boys outside said his leg was half cut off.”
The man beside him is short and plump, balding on top, with his yellow hair combed over his freckled scalp. Both are dressed in army uniforms and they begin to perspire in the warm room.
“I’m Major Milliken,” the superintendent introduces himself. Since I grew up in New England, I recognize his Boston accent at once. “I’m deeply grateful for your services, Nurse. Is the young man’s leg okay? Do we need to transport him to the hospital? There will have to be a report filed. This is awkward, a civilian doing the surgery. . . .”
He paces the floor, mulling things over. “I wonder if we could submit the Pay Inquiry Form 2142 for the registered nurse before we submit the DA285,” he says to himself and then turns toward his secretary. “Could we do that, Mrs. Ross?”
“Certainly, Major. Whatever you say. I’ll do it right away. Post the employment 2142 this afternoon and the DA285 tomorrow.”
“Hold on a moment.” I’m not usually so forceful but things seem to be moving too fast. “Are you saying you’re hiring me? We haven’t discussed the pay for a registered nurse, the hours of employment, or what my responsibilities would be.”
“I gave him some laudanum,” I explain. “The laceration was deep, but there will be no lasting deformity, except the scar of course.”
“Young men don’t mind scars.” Captain Wolfe laughs, touching his own face. “It’s their mothers and wives who mind. . . . Before we go too far, Milliken, don’t you think you should interview Miss Myers and be sure she wants the job?”
“Oh, very well. Yes. Will you come into my office, miss?”
There’s something about the miss that irritates me, but I let it go.
“I believe the current pay for registered nurses is thirty-five to forty cents an hour,” the camp supervisor begins—no “How do you do?” or “Thanks for being here at just the right moment.” “I can give you thirty cents an hour.”
My inner eyes go wide at the insult, but I keep my face still. “Major, I just saved your enlisted man’s life. If I hadn’t been here, he might have bled to death. I can work for thirty-five cents an hour and no less.
“I’d also like dinner on the days I’m here, and Captain Wolfe told me the camp would fill up my gas tank and make minor repairs on my automobile if needed.” This part about the repairs is a fabrication, but I don’t care. The officious man annoys me.
“Agreed . . . Mrs. Ross,” he calls, “Can you type up the offer and bring in the forms. This meeting is over. You’ll need to make a list of supplies. There’s already an account at the pharmacy in Liberty and anything they don’t have we can order through the army quartermaster in Pittsburgh. I’ll also assign one of the young men as your first aid officer. Can you come on Tuesday and Friday?” He doesn’t wait for my response.
“The physician at Camp Laurel, Dr. Crane, will come Mondays and Wednesdays. Then we’ll go uncovered on weekends and hope the medic can handle it. I’m going to add you to the payroll as an LEM. . . . That’s the best I can do . . . Mrs. Ross!” He shouts these last words.
“An LEM?”
“LEM, locally employed man. We hire fellows to teach specialized skills—forestry, mechanics, driving heavy equipment. Most of the CCC boys are from cities and know nothing about working in the woods.
“We also hire cooks, carpenters, and unemployed teachers from the surrounding area. Headquarters in Washington has decided it will help the economy and keep down locals’ resentment about the camps.
“Mrs. Ross!” he shouts again, though by this time she’s standing right at his elbow. “Get Mrs. Myers’s dress size and order her a surplus army nurse uniform. Make it two.”
“I’d like Boodean for my assistant, if he’s willing.”
“Who?”
“Boodean, the young man who was here when you came in. I’d like him for my medic. He was very helpful with the wound repair and may have an aptitude for this kind of work.”
“Agreed.” The little man looks at his watch. “Can you stay and fill out the employment forms and the medical report? I have to go. It’s three forty-five, and I’m teaching the class in business math at four.”
Holy moly! I have to be in Liberty to pick Dr. Blum up by four thirty! Hastily, I make my report about the accident and my medical care and then turn to the employment form. Twenty minutes later, the secretary gives me a nod as I check on the patient in the miniature infirmary one more time. He still sleeps and Boodean sits at his side, but when I look around for Captain Wolfe he’s nowhere in sight.
“Well, I guess I’m done, Mrs. Ross. Is there anything else?”
“No, honey. Thank the lord you were here. We’ll see you next Tuesday.”
As I hurry out the door, a chorus of deep voices startles me. “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!” Eight or nine young men rise from the steps where they’ve been keeping a vigil for their friend Jed Troutman. “Nice work, Nursie!” a short, bright-eyed fellow calls out.
“It’s Nurse Myers,” I correct, my face turning red.
“That’s what I meant,” the smart aleck answers.
Fall
18
Big Blow
It’s Indian summer and each day is hotter and dryer than the last. Nights are in the fifties, days in the eighties. It’s so hot even the goldenrod is drooping.
Lately, I’ve been reading the newspapers that Daniel brings over aloud in an attempt to stimulate Dr. Blum’s mind. We sit at the table after our midday meal while I peruse the headlines.
“Listen,” I say to him. “‘RECORD HEAT. SEVEN DAYS IN A ROW. OVER NINETY IN IOWA AND A DROUGHT HAS SPREAD ACROSS EIGHTY PERCENT OF THE USA. IT’S RUINING THE RANCHERS AND FARMERS.’”
I turn to the comics and check out the latest Li’l Abner cartoon, then notice the caption on the next page under the photo of a short man in uniform who looks a lot like Charlie Chaplin.
“ADOLF HITLER, LEADER OF THE NATIONAL SOCIALIST WORKERS’ PARTY, TAKES OVER GERMANY.” I read the headline, but skip the article. “I don’t know why we should care. Germany’s so far away.”
Outside the window it’s another cloudless, sunny day. “Looks like a good afternoon to pick the last of the beans,” I tell my silent partner. “We better get back to work.” I find our straw hats and buckets and lead him out to the garden.
An hour later, a breeze ruffles my hair and within minutes I’m holding on to Dr. Blum’s arm. The sky has turned dark and the wind is almost ripping my clothes off.
“Come on! We better get inside.” I pick up our buckets, pull on Dr. Blum’s arm, and head for the house. Small branches, torn from the trees, are flying everywhere, and then the rain comes, hard, cold pellets that sting.
“Is this a tornado?” I say out loud as we pull the blue door closed behind us. We have no telephone to call for help, not that anyone would come. No radio to listen to a weather report. No shutters to cover the windows. No basement to hide in. Then I remember the underground springhouse out by the barn.
“Blum! Come on!” He is sitting on the sofa staring into space, as if he doesn’t hear the roar or feel the house shake. “We need to get to the springhouse,” I shout into his face, shaking his shoulders.
“Blum, help me. Please! I can’t do this alone.” The doctor rises slowly like a man in a dream, and I lead him to the back door, where we stop under the porch eaves. Water streams down the hillside, already four inches deep in the low places. Then the thunder comes and the lightning.
CRACK! A tree somewhere close is struck and comes down. “We’d better go!” I shout. “I’ll hold on to you.” I push Blum down the three wooden steps but he stops again. I push him once more and that’s when he does something wholly unexpected. He throws me over his shoulder and, like a fireman, heads for the only safe shelter we have.
We’re halfway to the springhouse built into the side of the hill when the hail starts, chunks of ice the size of marbles. Even in Vermont, I’d never seen anything like this. Blum is slipping and sliding over the ice-covered ground. I’m still slung over his shoulder and I try to cover our heads.
At the entrance to the underground shelter, the doctor deposits me in the mud and I look up, expecting, perhaps, a smile saying “Surprised you, didn’t I?” But there’s just the same blank stare, as if his picking me up was a reflex that didn’t involve his mind.
Thunder rumbles ever closer, with lightning right after it; we are in a war zone of light and sound and when I pull open the door, it blows off its hinges and sails away. Panting, we both fall inside, safe for the moment, watching nature go crazy in front of us.
Spared
Within an hour, the tempest is over, but it isn’t until the sun comes out that I get up my nerve to look outside to see if our barn and house are still standing. They are, but pellets of ice still litter the ground.
The garden is a mess. It’s good we picked most of the beans and tomatoes before the storm, because only one in three plants is left standing. The root vege
tables, like carrots and beets, are okay.
When we crunch across the ice toward the house, I find that we do have a broken window where a branch from the old oak in front flew right through the glass. A row of shingles has also blown off, but these things are small. Already, Mr. Maddock and his tractor are coming up the road.
He pulls up near the house. “You folks okay?”
“Yes, thank you. And you?”
“Had to carry the missus down the cellar steps. Nearly fell. Lost a few chickens. They were outside and there was no way I could get to them. The cattle hid in the gulley down by the creek and the horses were locked up in their stalls.”
“I didn’t even think of our chickens. Good thing they were in the barn. I’ll have to fix my roof, though. Water got in. And there’s the one window.”
“Mrs. Maddock says she’s cooking up baked beans for your supper. You aren’t to trouble about it.” He looks at Blum, who is sitting on the porch staring into space again. You can tell it riles him. “Can’t that man do anything to help you? Can’t he get up and do something?”
“Not much. He can’t do very much. He doesn’t know how to help me.”
Except once, I think, one time today . . . when I really needed him.
Rescue Party
By evening, Patience and Daniel also come up Wild Rose Road to check on us.
“Hello!” Patience yells, jumping out of the Ford. She’s invented some kind of carrier for her little boy, a sling made out of bright cloth that she wears around her hip. It makes her look like a native from Borneo, but I doubt she cares. “Are you okay? Did you get much damage?”
From her cheerful expression you’d think she was talking about something dangerous but fun, a trip through the haunted house at the county fair or a roller coaster ride. I’m already up on the roof trying to tack down some wooden shingles over the hole while Blum sits on the porch bench.