Heart of Hearts (Nurses of New York Book 4)

by Amelia C. Adams

  She smiled, looking down at her napkin. “I was hoping to be less blunt about it, but yes.”

  “I’d like to stay until she has a bit more pink in her cheeks. You’re welcome to go back to the house if you like, though—I don’t think we’ll be doing an additional surgery tonight. She couldn’t take it.”

  “No, I’ll stay. There’s some paperwork to be filed if nothing else, and everything in here could use a good dusting.”

  He glanced around as if seeing his office for the first time. “I could hire someone to come in and do that.”

  “Or I could do it while we’re waiting. It’s no bother.” Irene stood and peered in the basket again. “There it is—the chocolate cake. Are you ready for it now, or should we finish eating first?”

  “You want to know if we should finish eating before we eat? That seems like a rather odd question to me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do, and I say, there’s never a time like the present for cake.”

  They had just taken their first bites when Ida Beth came running in. “Dr. Russell, come quick. Dr. Dearing stepped out to check on another patient, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Dr. Russell all but threw his cake on the desk and followed Ida Beth, her black skirt flapping behind her as she ran. Irene was just one step behind, and they burst into the recovery room to find their patient convulsing on the table.

  “Does she have a history of seizures?” Dr. Russell asked, moving to the patient’s side and lifting an eyelid to peer beneath.

  “No. Not that I was ever told.” Ida Beth grabbed a moist cloth and began wiping the woman’s forehead. Irene wasn’t sure what good that would do, but supposed it was better than standing there helplessly. She moved forward and took a pulse, which was difficult with the arm flailing back and forth.

  “Get me a cloth of chloroform,” Dr. Russell barked, and Irene instantly moved to fetch it. This operating room was organized differently, though, and it took her precious seconds longer to locate the bottle. As soon as she soaked the cloth and placed it in Dr. Russell’s hand, he held it to the woman’s nose and mouth and she relaxed, her head flopping to the side on the bed.

  “That won’t fix the problem, but it will give her some rest,” Dr. Russell said, stepping back and handing the cloth to Irene.

  Dr. Dearing entered the room just then, nearly trotting in his effort to get back. “What’s the matter? The nurse at the desk told me something was wrong.”

  “She was convulsing, Doctor. I’ve never seen that after a surgery before,” Ida Beth said, her eyes wide.

  “I gave her some chloroform, but you’ll want to follow up,” Dr. Russell added.

  Dr. Dearing looked as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “Convulsions? Now, what on earth would have caused that?”

  “Reaction to the medication? Shock from loss of blood?” Dr. Russell suggested.

  Dr. Dearing nodded. “Good points, both. I’ll begin looking to that immediately.” His eyes seemed to glaze over as he looked at his patient. “I just keep thinking, if this was my wife, what would I try? It feels as though our options are so limited.”

  “All we can do is our best,” Dr. Russell said. “I know that’s shallow comfort, but we don’t have all the answers. The body is an amazing, complex machine that we may never understand in its entirety.”

  “That’s most certainly true.” Dr. Dearing blinked a few times as though coming back to himself. “Thank you for stepping in.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Have you eaten?” Irene interjected. “We have some food left from what we brought with us.”

  “Oh, no, but thank you. My wife will be bringing us some supper in about fifteen minutes.” Dr. Dearing checked his pocket watch. “Yes, right about fifteen minutes. She promised some cherry pie.”

  “Sounds like everything’s well in hand, then.”

  “Yes, it should be.” Dr. Dearing’s eyes flicked back to the patient on the table. “Convulsions, you say . . .”

  He still wore a thoughtful look on his face as Irene and Dr. Russell made their way back to his office.

  “Oh, drat.” Cake crumbs were scattered everywhere from the papers to the floor. Dr. Russell looked down at them in dismay. “And it was such a nice piece of cake too.”

  “I still have half of mine. I’ll share,” Irene offered.

  “No, I shouldn’t. It’s yours.” He began sweeping crumbs into his other hand. “But . . . all right. I will.”

  She smiled as she pulled a small knife from the basket and cut her piece in half. Doing so only gave each of them two mouthfuls, but it was fun to share nonetheless. She imagined for just a moment that instead of sitting in his office, they were lounging on the banks of the river, spending time together by choice and not for work or to fulfill some societal expectation. It was nice . . . it was really nice.

  All too soon, though, their meal was over, and it was time to face reality again. She packed away their napkins and put the basket in the corner again, then grabbed a dust cloth from the cabinet and began to dust the office. These little excursions down to the river she sometimes took in her imagination were what got her by—they were as close to being with Dr. Russell as she would ever get.

  Chapter Eight

  This time, it was Dr. Dearing himself who burst into Frank’s office. “She’s gone,” he said, breathless as though he’d run all the way down the hall. “She convulsed again and was gone before I could do anything.”

  Frank could see the distress on his colleague’s face. He clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and guided him to a chair, glancing at Miss Cantrell. Reading his mind as she so often did, she put down her dust cloth and poured a glass of water from the pitcher that stood on a table in the corner.

  Dr. Dearing took the glass with a trembling hand. “I really thought we had a chance with her. But after four hours of surgery . . . I suppose the odds were too great.”

  “You did everything you could,” Frank said, returning to his chair. “That was one of the most complicated surgeries I’ve ever witnessed, and you performed it skillfully. I don’t know what else could have been done.”

  “You know how it is, though, Doctor—we always question ourselves, wondering what we could have done differently.” He took another sip and then placed the glass on the desk. “Ida Beth is beside herself. She and the patient spent some time talking before the surgery, and they struck up a bit of a friendship.”

  “What was her name?” Miss Cantrell asked from where she stood in the corner.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dr. Dearing blinked, as though forgetting she was there.

  “The patient’s name. I’ve never once heard it mentioned.”

  “Oh. Um, it was Carol. Carol Green.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go sit with Ida Beth.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room. Frank supposed that was more for Dr. Dearing’s benefit than his own—he’d never demanded or expected that sort of formality from her.

  He picked up his pen and made a notation on the paper in front of him. Carol Green. When he filled out his log book later, he’d want to record that.

  As he brought the pen down to create the G at the beginning of “Green,” another stab of pain shot up his arm, and he dropped the pen onto the desk. Thankfully, it wasn’t as noticeable as a cup of punch all over a dress, and Dr. Dearing didn’t seem to notice.

  Frank laid his arm on his lap and massaged it with his other hand, wondering if the muscles were contracting and needed to relax. “Where is Mrs. Green’s husband?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, as if nothing whatsoever was happening.

  “At home, with the children. She came in by herself.”

  That wasn’t ideal—most patients did best if a family member was nearby while they underwent treatment. However, Frank doubted anything would have kept this woman alive—he saw nothing in the surgery that Dr. Dearing overlooked or did poorly.

  “I can’t figure out
the reasons for the convulsions,” the man went on, speaking more to himself than to Frank. “That’s never happened before. It was like her body went into shock because of the procedure.” He blinked and looked up. “Do you suppose that’s what happened?”

  The pain in Frank’s arm was so acute, he had to swallow before he could speak normally. “I believe that’s entirely possible.”

  “I need to look into that.” Dr. Dearing stood and reached out to shake Frank’s hand. “Thank you for your help.”

  Frank looked at the offered hand, not knowing what to do. If he didn’t accept it, he risked offending a colleague, but if he did . . . He pasted a smile on his face and shook Dr. Dearing’s hand, doing his best to ignore the pain that multiplied tenfold when the man gave his fingers a hearty squeeze. “My pleasure,” he forced out.

  As soon as Dr. Dearing left the room, Frank fell back in his chair, gasping for breath. It was nearly more than he could bear.

  Miss Cantrell entered the room just then, closing the door quietly behind her. “Ida Beth is somewhat better now. I helped her clean up the operating room and showed her my system of organization, and she—Dr. Russell, are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.

  She moved to his side, loosening his necktie and wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. Then she stepped to the cupboard and pulled a small bottle of opium from it.

  “Take this,” she said, pressing the edge of a spoon to his lips.

  He wanted to refuse. He’d seen far too many opium addicts in his day, and he knew such stuff could ruin his career. But he trusted her judgment, so he swallowed obediently.

  “I’m writing down how much I just gave you,” she said, pulling a sheet of paper toward her. “You’ll need to determine whether you’ll take it only when the pain is intense, or if you’ll take smaller doses when the pain is moderate.”

  Bless her for focusing on logic right now.

  She set the pen down and regarded him. Then she loosened the button on the cuff of his sleeve. “I don’t know if the constriction here is adding to the problem, but it’s worth a try, at any rate,” she said. He recognized her voice as the matter-of-fact one she used when dealing with a patient in crisis. “And a little fresh air certainly never hurt anyone.” She opened the window, then sat down, looking at him expectantly. He knew she was waiting for orders, but he had none to give her.

  The opium began to work, and he took a deep breath as the edge of pain dulled. “Thank you,” he said when he could manage it.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “It seized while I was trying to write down the patient’s name. Then Dr. Dearing shook my hand.”

  “And you let him?” Her tone was incredulous.

  “I was being prideful. I figured it was less harmful than the risk of offending him.”

  “What’s your opinion now?”

  He chuckled. “I think my hand-shaking days are over. At least when my condition is acting up.”

  She moistened her lips, then said, “And what other days are over, Doctor?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” He’d been hoping in the back of his mind that the tremors during surgery were just a fluke, but the incident with the cup of punch seemed to belie that, and now this . . . Only a few things had to hurt to heal, and he doubted this was one of them. “I’m going to speak with Dr. Wentworth about it tomorrow. Will you come with me, Irene?”

  She looked at him, her eyes soft. “Yes, Frank. I will.”

  ***

  “Oftentimes, the doctor needs to maintain professional distance from his patients so he can focus on curing their ailment. The nurse’s job is to fill in that gap. She provides the patient with the personalized care they need to feel confident in their treatment. Your first step in doing this is to memorize your patient’s name.” Irene pushed down the irritation she felt from the night before. Dr. Dearing was a good physician who did his best to provide excellent care for his patients, but not even Ida Beth had referred to the patient by her name—that seemed to be the last thing on everyone’s minds, but it was always the first on Irene’s.

  She and Dr. Russell had stayed at the hospital until Dr. Dearing was finished writing a telegram to Carol Green’s husband. Then they walked back to the house slowly, Dr. Russell carrying the now-empty picnic basket, a feeling of solemnity between them. Mrs. Everett must have been watching for them through the kitchen window, as she’d come out to greet them, take the basket, and bustle them inside to the tea and biscuits she had ready for them, both hot. That in and of itself was a miracle she performed over and over again.

  After eating, Irene had gone straight to bed and slept the night through, then eaten an enormous breakfast. Even with that, she still felt fatigued, and struggled to keep the sound of it out of her voice.

  “Calling your patient by name each time you see them will increase their confidence in you. If they’re a long-term patient, you might learn the names of their children or grandchildren, and asking after them will also lead toward creating a good relationship. Our patients are people, and they’re potential friends. Treat them as you would anyone you hoped to be friends with, but again, remember to maintain certain polite boundaries.”

  The girls in the room laughed. “Like Libby did with Mr. Franklin?” Sophie asked.

  “I can’t stand in the way of true love, but I would say that under normal circumstances, you should maintain better boundaries than she did.” Irene chuckled too. She knew Libby had tried not to fall in love with her patient, but the heart wanted what the heart wanted.

  “All right, let’s move on. Today we’re going to discuss what the nurse should do if the doctor suddenly becomes incapacitated in some way while treating or operating on a patient.” This topic wasn’t one she’d included in her lesson plan, but after the events of the last few days, it seemed important. Her students had to be prepared for every possibility, and this was certainly one of them.

  They spent the next hour discussing all the possible scenarios, including what to do in the middle of a surgery if the doctor froze or was ill in some way. The students provided excellent answers to the questions she posed, and by the time class was over, she felt confident that they knew what to do—get the doctor to a sitting position, make sure the patient wasn’t in immediate danger, and then seek help from another doctor. She crossed her fingers that if one of her students should encounter this problem, another doctor would be available—sometimes there was only one at the hospital at a time while the others were out seeing patients or attending to things at home. Over at St. Timothy’s, there was more staff on call, but these girls worked at both hospitals, and she couldn’t guarantee them an ideal situation.

  “I believe we’ll wrap up for today. You know your assignments?” she asked.

  The students nodded.

  “Excellent. Let’s go in to lunch.”

  The girls filed into the dining room, Irene right behind them. Dr. Russell was already there and rose when they came in. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them. “I trust you had a good class today.”

  “We did,” Phoebe answered. “Miss Cantrell taught us what to do if the doctor gets sick during surgery.”

  His eyes flicked over to Irene, then back again. “That’s extremely useful information,” he said mildly. “I’d appreciate it if all my nurses knew what to do. It’s rather comforting, actually.”

  “She said that while the patient is important too, the nurse’s very first responsibility is to the wellbeing of the doctor,” Phoebe continued.

  Irene’s cheeks grew hot, and she looked down at her plate.

  “And that’s why I’m the luckiest doctor I know,” he replied. “I’ve been thinking quite a lot lately about Miss Cantrell and what good care she takes of me.”

  “I wonder what Mrs. Everett made us for lunch,” Irene said brightly, not wanting to have that particular conversation yet again. It always embarrassed her, especially when she felt she wasn’t doing
anything out of the ordinary, anything a good nurse wouldn’t do. She just hoped he never realized that her motivation wasn’t so much her desire to do a good job, but her desire to be there for him.

  Mrs. Everett brought in a tray of fruit, cheese, and sandwiches, and everyone helped themselves from the plates that were passed around. “Oh, Dr. Russell, you got a note a moment ago. Dr. Wentworth says he can see you at one o’clock.”

  “Excellent,” Dr. Russell replied as he put a sandwich on his plate.

  “You aren’t feeling ill, are you, Dr. Russell?” Jeanette asked. “I’m assisting Dr. Wentworth today, and I’ll be more than happy to do whatever I can to help.”

  Dr. Russell let out a long breath. Irene was aware of his every movement, almost his every thought, as he mulled this over. “Miss Cantrell, are your students ready for a surprise examination?”

  That wasn’t at all what she expected him to say, but she went along with it. “I suppose that all depends on the subject matter, but yes, I’d say they’re ready.”

  He looked along the length of the table. “Who can tell me what they know about the condition known as neuralgia?”

  As the meal progressed, the girls gave their answers, and Dr. Russell either corrected their information or added to it. Irene was impressed by how much they knew—they hadn’t discussed the topic much in their lessons so far, but it was obvious that her students were learning from their experiences at the hospital and also from the extra reading she assigned them. It made her heart warm to see them demonstrating their new knowledge.

  “Dr. Russell, why are we discussing this particular thing right now?” Tess asked as they were finishing up with cake.

  “Because Miss Anderson asked why I was seeing Dr. Wentworth this afternoon. It would appear that I have neuralgia, and I was curious to see what you knew about it.”

  He spoke casually, but all the girls looked at him in shock.

  “You just told us there’s not a cure,” Meg said, her fork suspended in midair. “What . . . what does that mean for you, Dr. Russell?”

  “It means that if this is truly what I have, I will simply learn to live with it,” he replied. “Come now, it’s not the end of the world. It’s a painful condition, but it’s not constant, and there’s nothing that says I can’t enjoy my life otherwise.”