It’s Boodean. “We have our first patient, Nurse Myers.” The captain spins on his heel and leaves without another word.
Within ten minutes after Wolfe’s departure, Boodean and I have the extra cots collapsed and stored against the wall, the medications back on the shelves, and the dirty and clean linen put away, but I am still steamed.
What makes me feel so bad is that maybe Wolfe is right. Maybe I should have driven out here and told him personally what was going on. Maybe I could have come back to work sooner.
Fever and Chills
There isn’t much time for further self-recriminations. Within five minutes Boodean escorts our first patient through the door.
It’s Drake Trustler, aka Nick Rioli, the mobster’s driver, and he looks terrible. His face is pale with dark circles under his eyes and he’s lost so much weight his CCC uniform droops from his shoulders. I try to remember when I last saw him. It must have been before the camp Christmas party.
“Miss Myers.” He gives a little military salute. “Glad to have you back. I haven’t been feeling so well.”
I take a seat behind the desk and my assistant picks up his clipboard.
“Do you think you’re getting the mumps? I heard several of the men had it.” (Mumps are quite serious for adult males and can make them go sterile.)
“Not likely. Me and my brothers had the mumps in 1919. We were awful sick. I remember because my pop had just gotten back from the war.”
“Well, tell me what’s wrong then. What are your symptoms? Does it involve your bowels? Are you able to eat?”
“Oh, nothing like that. I eat all I want and I keep it down. Don’t feel much like eating though.” He starts to cough and puts a blue kerchief to his mouth. “It’s more like my chest hurts and I’m not sleeping well. I wake hot and then chill. I’m worried I’ve got pneumo.”
Without even asking, Boodean gets out my thermometer and stethoscope. He shakes the glass rod vigorously and pops it in the patient’s mouth before I have a chance to ask any more questions.
Two minutes later, as Boodean holds the glass tube up at eye level, his eyebrows go up. “One hundred and one degrees,” he reads out loud.
“Is that high? What’s it supposed to be, ninety or something?” Drake questions.
“Yes, it’s a little high.” I run my fingers down his neck looking for swollen glands and then lay the back of my hand on his forehead, feeling the heat. “You didn’t have a cigarette on the way over, did you?”
“Nah, I never smoke. My father died of consumption, so none of us kids did.”
“Can you take off your shirt?” The medic steps over to the wood stove, opens the damper, and throws in two logs to warm the room up.
The patient coughs again. When he stops, I place the bell of my stethoscope over his left upper chest and am startled to hear a familiar rattle. I listen again. Yes, it’s still there, a rattle on the in breath and not only that, there’s a high-pitched wheeze on the out breath too. “Can you cough harder? Clear your airway?”
“Yeah, I feel it, a squeaky door, every time I breathe.” The man leans over, his elbows on his knees with the kerchief over his face and hacks a few times, but when I listen, the rattle’s still there and so is the wheeze.
“You know, Drake. I think it’s a good idea to keep you in the clinic overnight. It’s probably warmer here than in the bunkhouse, and tomorrow I’m going to get Captain Wolfe or someone to take you down to the hospital in Torrington for a chest X-ray.” Boodean gives me a strange look.
“Oh, no, Miss Myers! My mother told me never to get an X-ray!” Drake argues. “She knew a lady who got brain cancer that way. I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow. Just sleeping here will help. It is cold in the bunkhouse and in the garage I’m on the concrete floor under the trucks all the time.”
“Drake, that’s a common misconception about X-rays, but I’ll consult with the captain and the supervisor to see what they think. . . . If you don’t mind, why don’t you sit in the reception area while we fix up your bed.” I open the door to tell Mrs. Ross, but find the room empty.
The mechanic slowly pulls his uniform shirt on and then slowly buttons it.
“What was that roll of the eyes you gave me when I told Trustler he might need an X-ray? Do you disagree?” (The medic and I are readying the room for Drake’s overnight stay.)
“You’re the doc.”
“Come clean, Boodean.” My little rhyme makes us both laugh.
“Okay, the truth is, it cost White Rock Camp plenty when they had to send those four boys down to the hospital, the ones that were in the truck accident. If you’d been in the camp, it might have been avoided. The supervisor and captain won’t take kindly to another medical expense, especially if it’s really not necessary. Trustler looks like shit, pardon my language, but it’s probably just the croup.”
“You didn’t listen to his lungs. I’ve heard sounds like that before.”
“Like what?”
“Like pleural effusion.”
He stares at me blankly.
“Fluid outside the lungs.”
I step to the door of the waiting room. “Hey, Drake, do you want to go back to the bunkhouse to get your pajamas and whatever else you need?”
“Drake?”
The man has fainted and is slumped over in his chair.
“Drake!”
Blessing
“I may have to make a trip to Torrington on Monday,” I tell Patience as I set the table for our noon meal. “I had a corpsman faint in the clinic yesterday.” She sits nursing the baby on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “It’s Drake Trustler . . . Nick Rioli, the driver for the mob crew from Pittsburgh. . . . Remember, I told you about him, how he’s turned his life around and is now one of the lead mechanics in the camp motor pool.” Patience shifts the baby to the other breast and touches her little girl’s cheek.
“She’s really growing isn’t she?” I observe.
“Four pounds now. Pretty good, huh? And I’m not giving her the Borden’s anymore.”
“You look like you’re feeling stronger too.”
She gives me a little smile. “Did I ever thank you for saving my life . . . and Mira’s? You’re such a blessing to us.”
“Me? It was Daniel and Isaac who did the c-section.”
“Daniel told me it was you who said, ‘Let’s go. We have to go now!’ It was you who resuscitated the baby.”
“You do what you have to do when someone you love is in danger.” This surprises me and I blush. I had never said that before, not even to myself, that I love Patience Hester. She doesn’t blush. She just looks at me steady and then changes the subject.
“So you might go to Torrington?”
“I might have to, but it won’t be easy. Drake is convinced X-rays cause cancer.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“Heard what?” Hester kicks his rubber boots off, returning from the barn, along with Blum and little Danny.
“X-rays causing cancer . . .”
“Where do people come up with this stuff? That was twenty years ago,” Daniel scoffs.
“Mrs. Kelly thought they were dangerous too,” Patience puts in. “She told me that Thomas Edison wouldn’t have an X-ray machine in his lab after one of his scientists got radiation burns and had to have both arms amputated.”
“Well, that’s a true story, but they’re safer now. Why are we talking about X-rays, anyhow?” He runs his hand along the back of Patience’s neck and leans in to kiss his baby. Blum plunks Danny in his wooden high chair and sits down beside him.
“What ray?” the little boy asks, but no one answers him.
I put the corn bread and beans on the table and bring fresh milk and butter from the Frigidaire. “I was explaining, I have a sick man at the camp and we may have to take him to Torrington for a chest X-ray.”
Here Blum looks as if he’s interested, and a familiar light flickers in his blue eyes, but he doesn’t ask questions or offer an
opinion. It’s as if the night of the surgery, when he returned for a few hours to his old self, never really happened, or it was a dream.
“So what’s the big deal? They do X-rays all the time.” That’s the vet.
“The young man doesn’t want one. Thinks they cause cancer. It’s going to be a fight.”
“Well, good luck with that one. The captain’s a military man. I’m sure he can issue an order.”
The Hesters bow their heads and close their eyes preparing to say the blessing and Blum and I do too. Since Mira’s birth it’s become a familiar ritual for us.
Daniel starts out and Patience and I join in, but Blum is mum. God, we thank you for this food. For rest and home and all things good. . . . I open my eyes to see what Blum’s doing and find him looking at me. It’s a curious moment, unsettling, and then it is over.
36
Hannah
For two days a spring storm, rain and then ice, breaks the limbs off the trees in the yard and higher up in the mountains. I try to call Sheriff Hardman to have him radio Camp White Rock that I can’t get in, but the phone lines are down and the thought of meeting Captain Wolfe’s ire if I don’t show up for clinic tomorrow makes my stomach hollow.
Outside, nothing moves but the tinkling branches. It’s late afternoon and we’re cut off from the world, and I’m just thinking of doing a watercolor of the crystalline trees when the distant sound of a vehicle alerts me. Who would be out on an evening like this?
Running to the window, I look down the road and see a tractor with two people on it, both bundled in rubber coats, knit caps, and scarves around their faces. Looking closer it appears there’s also a child. The tractor stops at the Hesters’ drive and bumps over the wooden bridge.
“What in heaven’s name?” That’s Patience, who was awakened by the motor’s sound and has come down the stairs to stand next to me.
“Come in! Come in!” she calls from the porch. “Watch the ice. It’s a bad day to be out on the road. Is there some way we can help you?”
“Well, I hope so!” a young woman answers. “It’s us! Hannah and John Dyer.” She whips down her scarf and pulls off her cap to reveal two long black braids and a cheerful pink face.
Her husband, a Scandinavian-looking fellow, removes his hat too and, grinning, unwraps the youngster, a girl of about five, a small female replica of her mother, the same black braids and everything. “This is Mary. I thought she could play with Danny.”
I’m still wondering why this young couple would travel over the dangerous roads to make an apparent social call when Hannah brings out a flowered tin box. “Oh, and we brought refreshments. Couldn’t have a baby without cookies! I hope you don’t mind. I figured it would be better to come to you than to make you come out in the storm.”
(Now I know who the young people are. This is the couple Patience told me about that delivered so beautifully in their farmhouse down by the Hope River five years ago.)
“Well, isn’t this nice! How’re you doing, Hannah? Are the pains very bad?” Patience gives the mother a hug, looking right in her eyes.
“I’m fine, but the contractions are getting harder. Can we get some music going? I brought a recording of Cab Calloway with ‘Minnie the Moocher’ and another of ‘The Saint James Infirmary Blues.’ ” She whips off her Mackinaw to reveal a very pregnant abdomen. “Where’s your gramophone?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t have one. We have a radio though. Becky, can you find something out of Pittsburgh or Wheeling? Try WWVA.” I sit down next to the wooden console and fool with the dial but all I can get is the news, then it fades into static. “Sorry,” I say. “The ice storm must be interfering.”
“Oh, no! We have to have music. Maybe we should go home again. Sing, John! I was counting on music!” There’s urgency in her voice and she begins to whirl around like a top. The husband throws his coat on the floor and takes her in his arms.
“One, two, three,” he chants as he leads her in a waltz. “One, two, three.” Then he begins to hum “The Blue Danube.”
Whirling Dervish
As soon as the contraction is over, Patience leads the mother to my bedroom.
“Hannah likes to dance through her pains,” she enlightens me when I return with a pot of hot water and the sterilized rubber gloves.
The young woman is lying on her back, half naked, while Patience listens to the baby’s heartbeat. Her five-year-old, Mary, leans on the edge of the bed all eyes. No modesty in this family! Then without warning the woman gets frantic again. . . . “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry! I can’t stand to lie down when the pains come.”
“One more minute. I just want to verify the baby’s position,” Patience responds, pulling on the exam gloves, but Hannah won’t wait. She holds out her hands to John, who pulls a long white ruffled skirt over her head and they are off, swooping in graceful arcs.
“Oh, John, go faster! We have to outdance the pain! Can’t we jitterbug or polka?”
Just then the kitchen door opens and Blum and the vet blow in from the barn. “What’s going on? I saw the tractor.” That’s Daniel.
“Hannah and John Dyer. Hannah’s in labor but we need music. Can you give us a polka?” asks Patience.
Things are moving too fast for me. The mother is a whirling tornado, taking over the whole house, and without Patience’s calm I’d be blown away in the storm. I lay out the birth supplies in my bedroom, which I assume will be the birth room, and then, grateful not to be in charge, crawl up on the parlor davenport to be out of the way.
Singing along in German, Daniel sits down in his work clothes and begins to bang out a lively tune. “So ei-ne Liech-ten-stei-ner Pol-ka die hats. Die macht Rabatz, mein Schatz! Ja ja ja! Ja ja ja! Ja ja ja! Ja ja ja!” I have no idea what the lyrics mean but it’s a rousing tune and soon John and Hannah are doing the polka, joining in with the “Ja ja ja!” They swoop and turn, occasionally bumping into a chair.
Suddenly, Hannah stops and looks down between her bare feet at a pool of clear fluid on the floor. “Whoops!”
Quick as anything, Patience runs to the kitchen for a dishtowel and wipes the mess up. “Better work your way back to the bedroom,” she instructs, but nobody’s listening. The piano music goes on, punctuated by another rousing “Ja ja ja!” Even little Mary gets into the song, jumping up and down, and I can’t help myself, I’m singing too. “Ja, ja, ja!” Blum stands in the kitchen doorway eating a cookie.
Suddenly Hannah’s eyes pop open and she digs her fingernails into John’s shoulder.
“Oh, my God. Something’s coming!”
Surely not!
Patience runs to the bedroom for her gloves and kneels down. “It’s the head, Hannah. Don’t push. Can you walk to the bedroom?” Hannah can’t walk, but she can waddle, so she waddles down the short hall into my room, lies on her side, and in three pushes delivers a very pink baby boy. His eyes, like his mother’s, are wide with surprise.
That’s all there is to it. The mother delivers the placenta, the midwife drops it in the chamber pot, and I put a pad between the patient’s legs, though there’s very little bleeding.
“Do you want to nurse?” Patience asks.
“You betcha! Come up here, Mary,” Hannah calls to her daughter. “You have a little brother.” John is sitting there too, and the sunset, shining orange, comes through the window, where the storm clouds have cleared.
Meanwhile, Danny and Mira sleep upstairs through it all, and Daniel keeps playing, but he’s opened a hymnal and changed the song.
“Joyful, joyful . . . We adore thee, God of glory, Lord of Love. Hearts unfold like flowers before thee . . . opening to the sun above.”
March 5, 1935
Precipitous birth of 8-pound John Lincoln Dyer Jr. to Hannah and John Dyer of Hope River . . . born at the Hesters’ house after an ice storm. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. No crying, no screaming, just dancing and music. Not long after her water broke, Hannah just pulled up her long skirt and squirted her baby
out.
Hester played the piano, first a German polka he learned from his grandmother and later the “Ode to Joy” by Beethoven. Except for the mother’s frantic insistence that we keep the music going, there was no way to know that Hannah was in hard labor, and I see now that the urgency in the mother’s voice, no matter what she asks for, comes with the urgency of the baby to be born.
Present were John and the little girl Mary, Patience and me, Dr. Blum, who stayed in the kitchen, and Daniel Hester, who played the piano. We were rewarded ten dollars, for which we were grateful, especially since we didn’t have to go out in the cold.
37
Sing a Little. Dance a Little.
I awake to the sound of water dripping and, when I look out the window, find it’s raining. The water coming down the drainpipe is like flute music. Maybe spring really is here!
By midmorning the storm clouds pass and I’m able to drive into Liberty.
“How are the roads?” I ask Boodean when Sheriff Hardman finally gets a connection to the camp on the shortwave.
“Bad,” Boodean answers. “One of the trucks slid into the creek.”
“I guess I better not try to get there then.”
“Don’t even think of it. Nuthin’ but mud and slick as . . . well you know. You’d be foolish to try.”
“How’s everything else? How’s Drake?”
“Still the low-grade fever, chills, and the cough. I’ve been bringing him four meals a day, but he just picks at his food. Captain Wolfe agrees we need to get him to the hospital in Torrington, but he says we should wait until tomorrow. Can you meet us at Stenger’s Pharmacy at nine fifteen? Can you do that?”
I agree to the plan. We talk a little about a patient with a spider bite who came into the clinic yesterday and then, “Is the captain still mad at me?”
I hear a long indrawn breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, Boodean! What do I have to do to get back in his good graces?”
The Reluctant Midwife Page 27