October 1934
The other day a girl or rather a woman came to the clinic. She had her four-year-old son with her, and during the conversation, she squatted down on the ground and the boy began to hunt for his dinner—still nursing. We made a lot of fun of him for it, and the mother let drop the information that he had been married for a year. A married man and still dependent on his mother’s breast for his milk. It struck my funny spot as well as made me heartsick. The little girl is the same age. Of course they will not live together until she reaches puberty, but that will bring them together as man and wife when they are about twelve or thirteen.
Had another eclampsia case this week. The girl was brought in by the relatives. They live in Pandu—about six miles from here. Last summer Edna and Doctoroni had a very bad case of that sort and the woman died. They told the relatives that if she had been brought in sooner that she might have lived. The next case from that region (Ob. case) was an eclampsia that we had the latter part of January. She was very sick when Edna and Doctoroni who went out on the call brought her in to the hospital and the baby was dead, but she recovered.
That particular morning while we were working in the office a man ran up on the hospital verandah and said that they were bringing a patient in. Found out that it was an eclampsia who had been in labor only four hours and had had only two seizures. The people said that the others in the village had said, “Take her to the Memsahib right away”. She had one more convulsion in the hospital shortly after arriving but had no more of them and delivered normally this morning about five-thirty of a four or four-and-a-half pound boy (her first baby) and the little fellow seems quite hale and hearty in spite of his diminutive size. The girl is doing beautifully. We have been tickled to pieces over the case and very thankful as well.
It is encouraging to have them bring a case in voluntarily and early, and the results have borne out our statements that they must come early in such cases. Dr. Ahlquist says that we certainly do get the most abnormal cases down here. Said he hadn’t had an eclampsia case in all the time he had been out here. He wouldn’t—he is a man, and women die here before they will let a man attend them in such times. Magnesium sulphate surely has worked beautifully in the cases that we have had so far, and the Great Physician has been very near.
The last big tumor case that we operated on is going home today. She says there will be some other cases similar to hers come from up there now that she has been helped, and best of all she says that she is going to tell them about Jesus. Her face was so hard and unyielding when she came down, and has softened and brightened so much in the time she has been here.
More and more of the babus who come to the hospital with their wives are accepting Testaments to read, and some of them are buying them. I had rather a long talk with Ratnadhar the other night, (My Pundit), and he is most unhappy. Is trying to be a Hindu outwardly, and Christian inwardly, and realizes he is cheating no one more than himself. His father was a rather prominent Hindu priest, and because of this he is a Brahmin of the Brahmins so to speak. He says that it would be talked about thruout the province if he were to come too openly for Christ, but admits that most of his friends know that he does not follow Hinduism in all of its ritual and customs, but says that as long as they cannot prove it, that he is safe. I think he would find that things would not be quite as bad as he thinks they would be if he were to come out openly. His mother is much opposed to it, and he can’t see the possibility that she too might take up Christianity if he did so.
Must go now.
Loads of Love to All, Dor
Dorothy reread the letter as she slowly pulled the paper from the typewriter’s platen, then signed it. It highlighted only a few of this weeks’ cases, gravely skirting the tragedies whose stories were too fresh yet to tell. It was no wonder she felt weary. It was no wonder her bones cried out for a bit of relief.
Thank you, Lord, she whispered, for every opportunity you have set before me today. And for those to come. And Lord? If you can? Keep sending them sooner. And let them stay longer. Open their minds and hearts. But if you can’t? Just send them. I’ll be here. I’ll take them any way they come.
And they did come. Wrapped in rags and dragged to the hospital steps on primitive, rickety travois-style rigs, or less often, swathed in rich, colorfully splendid fabrics and carried in a motor car. Hindu and Buddhist, heathen and Christian, they came. Growing the hospital, growing her skill, growing God’s kingdom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WRITTEN IN THE STARS
August 1934
People, my table cloth is finished and washed and ironed and ready for the first dinner party, and is it good looking. Wink, if I was at home I would let you use it for your wedding tea or whatever you are having.
September 1934
I thought about you all a lot, particularly Sunday night as that would be the wedding day at home. I tried to picture each one of you, what you would wear, where you would stand, the guests, etc. Shall be so anxious to get the first reports.
I sent the cable from here Sunday about noon. Your cable arrived here Monday about two P.M. According to the blank it was sent about 7:25 P.M. which would mean that it came thru in about seven hours. The cable was well worded for it told me that the wedding had taken place according to plans, and that Marian and her family were there. That meant so much. It was a thrill to get the cable, all right.
There were days when thoughts of home were nearly overpowering. Today was one of them. Her youngest sister had just been married, and she couldn’t be there to support her, to hug her close, to send her off joyfully into her new life.
Dorothy had spent half the day imagining what her beautiful Wink looked like in her bridal clothes, how romantic the setting might have been with her pretty sister standing in the family drawing room pledging her future to the man with whom she had fallen in love.
There would be stars in her eyes, that was for certain. After all, Wink was an incurable romantic.
A small brown hand tugging at her sleeve broke her reverie. They’d caught her daydreaming. Again.
Five little sets of beautiful dark eyes peered in wonder at the storybook picture Dorothy held, all but forgotten. Each child clung tightly to the hand of the child next to them. They loved it when she read them a bedtime story. She loved it, too, their eager, breathless anticipation, their delight in heroes and the way they always yelled loudly at the villains.
“Foo! Foo!”
Who could ever tire of sharing a moment with these precious angels? She took a long breath, prolonging the suspense to a nearly wicked degree.
“The great tall warrior stood slowly, raising himself to his majestic height.” Dorothy drew out the words with as much theatrics as she dared. “And then,” she paused dramatically, “then, when every person from the village had stopped crying and looked solemnly up at him, he lifted high his ceremonial torch and said, ‘Fear not, my people, for it is I who will save you. It is I who will set you free.’”
The children clapped wildly, as wildly as their various illnesses allowed, then gasped as Dorothy’s voice dropped in volume and rose in pitch to one of childlike innocence. “‘But how, O Great One, how do you know that you shall win?’’’
The children nodded soberly. It was an entirely logical question.
“‘This I know, my child,’” Dorothy finished in a solemn tone, “‘this I know.’” She held another dramatic pause as she captured the eye of each child. “‘For it is written...in the stars.’”
There was silence all around as the children soaked in the final ringing words of her story. Each little head turned to follow with their eyes the finger she pointed out the window at the night sky. She let them sit for a moment, enthralled.
Oh, how she loved these impromptu storytimes. These little ones were so fresh, so eager, so malleable.
“And now,” she smiled, snapping the book closed, “I shall tell you something else that is written in the sta
rs.”
“Yes! Yes!” they cried. “Tell us!”
She laughed. “It is written in the stars, my little angels, that if you all take your medicine like good little warriors tonight, there will be sweets from the Khetri ghat under your pillows in the morning.”
“Yes! Yes!” they cried, and scrambled into their beds, ready for the student nurse to come around with their bedtime medicine. Some could not resist looking beneath their pillows, on the chance that the goodies had already been delivered.
There were often sweets under their pillows in the morning. Dry honeyed figs stuffed with almonds, segments of oranges wrapped in waxed paper, or some other such tasty treat. As welcome as candy, yes, but desperately necessary for these poorly nourished little ones. Not every bit of nourishment needed to come on the breakfast tray. Some could come in the form of a magical treat. Dorothy made sure of that. The children loved it, and a treat guaranteed that most days around here would begin with smiles. At least in the children’s ward.
Each month when she made her sojourn to the village ghats, or markets, she kept an eye out for something special for the children as she shopped for the various and sundry things on her list. They were marketing trips, to be sure, but Dorothy had learned never to expect one trip to be exactly like another.
And she was never disappointed.
November 1934
Last Wednesday we left here about eight and went to Sonapur and then on to Khetri. I was congratulating myself that we had picked a good day to go (it was the regular day) as the next day was a big festival day, consequently there would be more at the ‘ghat’ or market. However, altho there were crowds at the market, we were for the most part shunned and then some. I couldn’t quite understand it.
We went on to another village where we had several people who had been in our hospital. They were very glad to see us but wouldn’t touch us or allow us to touch them in any way. Reason? The next day was the final day of the big festival and they would have to stop and get purified again if we were to touch them, and they didn’t have the time to stop and do it.
This festival comes just two months after the light puja that I wrote about and is sort of a harvest festival as all the rice has been garnered.
They gave us some eggs, but I had to hold a towel in my hands and she dropped the eggs into it one at a time—I was scared that they would break but they didn’t. When she gave us some rice it was wrapped up in cloth, and as she wanted the cloth back we put it into something else. Lahaori then had to throw the cloth over to the side of the road and then she (the egg lady) went and picked it up.
We decided that we wouldn’t go to the ‘ghats’ again on a puja day or thereabouts. This particular puja is celebrated by building bamboo structures and after much noise making, very early in the morning, these are all burned and anything else they can lay their hands on (a la Hallowe’en). The bamboo makes a terrific noise when it burns as the stocks are hollow between joints and these explode. Some fireworks, I can assure you.
Dorothy tucked each child into bed with a smile. She didn’t always have the time, but when she did, she savored the ritual.
“Doctor Kinney?”
Dorothy turned back toward the small girl she had just bade goodnight. “Yes, sweetie-kin, what is it?”
The small child fingered the bandages that covered her left eye. This little one had the worst case of ingrown eyelashes Dorothy had ever seen. They perniciously disfigured her left eyelid and threatened to damage her sight if they were not managed.
“I want my bofe eyes,” she said, expressing eloquently as children do her deepest wish.
“You shall have your both eyes soon, sweetie-kin. Very soon, indeed.”
In fact, the bandages may very well come off later tomorrow, she thought, if all went well. And Dorothy had been completely satisfied before bandaging the child that there had been no serious damage to the child’s vision.
“How can you know?” the child asked, then cried, “Oh! Is it written in the stars?”
Dorothy smiled as she bent toward the child and tipped her head toward the nearest window. “Oh my yes, little one. It’s written in the stars. And it’s written on your nose,” which she tapped with her forefinger, “and it’s written on your toes,” which she wiggled with her hand, making the child giggle, “and it’s written in my heart,” she said.
With her finger she drew a cross on her heart and then touched the tip of the same finger to the little girl’s heart. “Tomorrow you shall have your both eyes.”
“Tomollow is long time?” The child’s voice broke with anxiety. She was too little still to completely understand the passing of days from yesterday to today to tomorrow.
“Oh not at all! Tomorrow is one sleep away, see? You close your eyes, get a good night’s sleep, and when you wake up in the morning it will be tomorrow.”
The child sighed a huge, satisfied sound of total contentment. Then she slipped her own hand from beneath the covers and drew the same cross over her own heart before reaching out to touch the tip of her small finger to Dorothy’s own heart.
“Tomollow,” the little girl whispered as her unbandaged eye fluttered shut.
Dorothy sat utterly still watching slumber overtake the sweet little one. The child’s small gesture moved her so profoundly that it drew tears to her eyes. They spilled over her lids and rolled relentlessly down her cheeks.
She found she was helpless to stop them.
Ever so silently she wept for the trust in her the little girl had shown. She wept for the miracles that had happened here in their burgeoning hospital at the edge of the jungle. And she wept for those for whom a miracle had not taken shape. She wept for the wedding she had missed, and she wept for the grace of a loving God who had brought her to this place, to be here with these children.
And she wept for a child of her own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NO NIGHT HERE
Warm days turned to velvet nights, which dawned on rainy mornings and weeks of monsoon. In good weather the temporary boardwalks were removed and the dusty, flower-bordered paths around the compound were easy to traverse. And then the rains would come again and the boardwalks would once again appear as if by magic.
Dorothy kept a spare pair of shoes at the hospital, so that even if she popped into the surgery looking like a drowned rat, her feet would be dry.
It would be one thing to simply give in and live an unsophisticated, even rather rustic life in this remote compound. Wet feet and all. But it was quite another to attempt civilized living in the middle of a mostly primitive population. She had not seen a pair of nylon stockings for more years than she could remember, but in every way available to her, Dorothy maintained a look that she was certain could be seen on most streets back home.
No matter what it took, Dorothy required of herself to always look the lady. No sagging hems, no uniform without the proper-length slip beneath it, no unruly locks. And always the pristine white coat. And she was in good company. She had set the standard on the compound and everyone made a conscientious effort to meet it.
The European women with whom she occasionally shared tea did the same. As wives of British attachés and other government, medical and missionary men, they clearly held themselves to that standard, too.
It would be a mistake to think that western women cornered the market on ladylike demeanor, though. In truth, she was surrounded daily by the kind, thoughtful, graceful, tactful, gentle Indian women who could be called nothing other than “lady”, as well.
On Dorothy’s first free evening in ten days, it was a British lady, a Mrs. Lancaster, who was the reason Dorothy had set about the task that had occupied most of her evening on this particular date in late spring. For several hours tonight her prized treadle sewing machine filled the back of the bungalow with its steady ratcha-ta-ratcha-ta sound—always as welcome as music to her ears. The lush feel of the elegant fabric she’d chosen made her smile as her finger
s expertly guided it beneath the presser foot that held the needle in its track.
Mrs. Lancaster had invited her to tea, and Dorothy would arrive appropriately dressed or not arrive at all.
Her own slippered toes hugged the treadle.
Toe, heel, toe heel.
It was a sublime dance that had been part of her makeup since…well, since before time. One sure foot on the treadle kept the needle singing smoothly through the sheer fabric, then two feet on the treadle where the filmy material joined the heavier fabric of the bodice. She could gauge the need for one foot or two as easily as she could sense the need for one lump or two in her morning chota.
What would she do without her Singer?
It was hard on the ankles, to be sure, but the very thought of using a new electric machine was impossible for Dorothy to contemplate. It would be akin to Samson losing his strength when Delilah cut off his hair. Not using her feet in the delicious rhythm of the treadle would be like cutting half of her being out of the creative process.
Dorothy pressed her heel on the back of the treadle to bring it to a halt just long enough that she could smooth the chiffon sleeves that were shaping up nicely. They were such a radical departure from the pattern that she had breathed a sigh of relief when she saw them take shape just the way she had envisioned. She’d had the fabric for a month now, but it wasn’t until this morning that she’d conceived the idea of changing the sleeveless pattern. It was the clever idea of incorporating chiffon sleeves that allowed her to finally begin working on her new creation. And already she knew it would be brilliant. The bee’s knees, to be sure.
A tap of her toe had the treadle humming once again.
She eased the back of the fabric with her forefinger as she gently helped the sleeve pass smoothly under the needle. There were a couple of minutes of good light left, and then she’d have to light the gas lamps. The supply was low, and she would not be lavish in her use of it. But they were all to have dinner with the Lancasters tomorrow evening, and she was determined to have the new dress finished by then.
Courage in a White Coat Page 5