“Can’t you stop her?” I plead with the others. Daisy shrugs and throws a man’s plaid bathrobe over Livia’s shoulders. As I follow the little band through the parlor, I see who’s been singing.
It’s the Reverend and Mildred Miller; Homer, the father; the horseman; and three other ladies kneeling in front of the sofa. Cypress, the grandma, breaks from the birthing team to join the prayer group, but I grab my worn wool coat and the rest of us press onward.
Outside, the temperature is not as cold as I’d thought, but the snow swirls around us like feathers. Then it occurs to me: what if by some miracle, the baby starts to come? I run back inside for a blanket, not that it’s likely to happen, but I’d rather be prepared.
Livia heads toward the split cedar fence with Daisy and Georgia, the three looking up as if they’ve never seen snowflakes before. The mother-to-be stops, reaches out to touch the inch of white on the rail, takes some and washes her face. She bends her head down and licks it with her tongue. The others, laughing, follow her example. It looks so fun, I’d like to do it myself, but someone has to be sensible.
Livia takes off her robe and steam rises up as the snowflakes fall on her hot body. She puts one foot up on the lower fence rail and leans back to catch the feathers in her mouth and that’s when it happens.
“Ugggggh,” she groans, as if she were the earth pushing a whole tree out of the ground. “Uggggggg!”
Both young women turn toward me, mouths open. “Get her back in. Get her in!”
We make it as far as the living room. Here, Cypress throws a quilt on the floor. Mrs. Miller puts a pillow under Livia’s head and I catch a healthy male child, already crying.
The preacher, Homer, and the horseman, who I later realize is Nate Bowlin, the guy who helped the preacher bring us some wood, stand in the corner, faces turned away, murmuring a prayer.
“Thank you, Lord Jesus!” says Cypress, taking the infant and wrapping it in a kitchen towel. “If you can’t shift the baby, shift the mother!”
The third stage of labor is a blur. I deliver the afterbirth, cut the cord, get Livia back in bed, and examine both the mother and baby. Then, while everyone celebrates with apple cider and sandwiches that Mildred has brought from her house, I slip out into the dark yard and walk toward the fence. Tiny flakes tickle my face as I look into the gray sky and let the tears come.
I have lived under the presumption that there is great pain in this life and you must move carefully or you will get hurt, but I see today that sometimes pain brings great joy, like labor contractions bring us the baby.
I walk over to the fence, lean forward, and lick snow off the cedar rail. And the joy makes up for it all.
January 8, 1935
Male infant, 6 pounds, 9 ounces, born to Livia and Homer Lewis of Hazel Patch. The labor was a hard one. I arrived and it seemed as if the birth would happen any minute—a crown of dark hair was already showing—but the mother pushed for two hours and still had no baby.
Embarrassed to have to do it, I asked one of the support ladies to run through the snow to call Patience for advice and she brought back the strangest suggestion. “If you can’t shift the baby, shift the mother.” It was Livia’s grandmother who interpreted the message. The midwife meant we had to try all kinds of positions until something changed.
I see now the wisdom in that. If I were with Dr. Blum and we had an obstructed labor he could just do a cesarean section and pull the baby out, but without a surgical option you have to be creative. The whole thing made me wonder how many of the cesareans we did were truly necessary if we had just let the woman out of bed and helped her to move and try different things.
In the end it was Livia who led the way. She insisted, despite my objection, on going out in the snow, and when she propped one foot up on the fence rail, something happened and the baby shot out.
There were a couple of minor tears near the top of the introitus, but they were superficial and didn’t need stitching. Blood loss was heavy, 400 cc, but I didn’t have to use Mrs. Potts’s hemorrhage medicine. Present, besides Livia and her husband, were her support team, Grandma Cypress and women friends Daisy and Georgia. (The Reverend, Mrs. Miller, and several other church members prayed for us in the living room.)
We were promised another load of wood as payment and Cypress presented me with a handwoven sweet grass basket, half as big as a washtub, something she had learned to make from her aunties when she lived in Charleston, South Carolina. I left feeling exhausted but elated, as if I were carried on the wings of great love.
31
January 19, 1935
“Scalpel,” Daniel orders, after shaving and then cleansing the bovine’s side with betadine. He holds his right hand out and I, like a good surgical nurse, hand him the knife. We are standing in a dim barn just off Salt Lick a few miles past Horseshoe Run. Walter Pettigrew, the farmer, holds a kerosene lantern over his head. His neighbor, a bull of a man named Mr. Simple, holds the rope around the Jersey’s neck.
The vet talks as he works. “If you have to do a cesarean section on a cow, try to do it with the animal standing. If they go down on you, it’s a lot more work and more dangerous too. For cattle, local anesthesia is sufficient.”
“I would have called you sooner, Doc,” Pettigrew interrupts, “but we ain’t got much money and what I have I need to feed the kids. I thought maybe if I left her alone she could do it.”
“I understand, Walt. Things are tough all over.”
“Now watch this,” Hester goes on. “I’ve cut through two layers of muscle with the scissors. . . . This is the hard part. . . .”
With his bare hand he reaches into the animal’s body clear up to his armpit and struggles around. All I can say is, delivering a 90-pound calf is much harder than a human infant.
Thirty minutes later, our gear already stored in the trunk of the Ford, we’re leaning against the back stall as the cow and her baby get acquainted. The calf butts her mother’s udders and latches on. Daniel laughs and nudges me with his elbow. “I love that. Never get tired of it.”
“So,” asks Walter, clearing his throat. “What do I owe you?”
“Twenty dollars for the surgery.”
“Whew! I ain’t got that kind of cash, Dr. Hester. Things are pretty tight.” The farmer rubs his face.
“I know,” Daniel responds. “I figure this time, we did the surgery for the fun of it. What do you say, Blum?”
Daniel’s kindness shames me. Why wasn’t I like that when I used to practice medicine? It’s not like I worshipped the Almighty Dollar; I just didn’t want to be taken advantage of . . . that’s how I was raised.
Now I see the other side of things. Being poor makes you more sympathetic to the poor.
Fall from Grace
The weather has cleared and it’s unseasonably warm for February, almost balmy, so I’m in a good mood until, on the way into camp, I’m almost run over by a covered CCC truck speeding out the gate. Somebody ought to be reported for reckless driving, I think, but when I recognize Captain Wolfe at the wheel with Boodean at his side, I know there must be trouble.
Mrs. Ross stands on the porch of headquarters with her hand over her mouth staring up toward White Rock Ridge.
Normally when I arrive in the morning, the men have already been at work for several hours in the garage, the carpentry shop, the kitchen, the sawmill, the forge, the stables, or out in the woods. Today, clusters of corpsman stand in groups smoking, all looking toward the mountain.
“What is it?” I ask Mrs. Ross, hurrying up the porch steps.
“An accident.”
“What sort of accident? I saw Captain Wolfe and Private Boodean speeding out of camp. They almost ran me off the road. Are they taking someone to the hospital? What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. That fellow over there . . .” She points across the compound. “The one with red hair sitting on the bench with the superintendent came down with the report that someone fell from the tower. Someone fell.�
��
Oh shit! I almost say, but I bite off my words before they jump from my tongue. “Did they take the stretcher? Should I try to go up there? I could get Private Trustler or someone from the motor pool to drive me.”
“No. The captain said for you to stay here. They did take the stretcher, and he wants you to be ready.”
Be ready. Be ready, I say to myself, but ready for what? I decide to pull out gauze and bandages in case there’s a wound. I also lay out casting material to prepare for broken bones, and a bottle of laudanum, which I most likely will need, in either case. Then I go back out on the porch and pace.
Major Milliken comes over and salutes me. “Nurse Becky. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Who is it? What happened?”
“Don’t know him. The kid who came down the mountain with the message is so upset, all I could get out of him was ‘A fall! A terrible fall!’ He gave me a name, though: Linus Boggs. Mean anything to you?”
“He’s been a patient here.” The white-haired guy with the giant pecker!
Five minutes later the sound of a vehicle speeding toward camp and honking its horn alerts us that the men are back. They screech to a stop in front of the infirmary.
Broken
“Nurse Becky,” Boodean yells. “Probable fracture of the left arm, head injury, and contusion to the torso. Pupils equal and reactive. Patient semiconscious but in pain.” His report is so organized and lucid he could be a physician in the emergency room of Massachusetts General.
“Bring him in. Boodean. Be gentle, there may be more injuries than are obvious.”
Captain Wolfe, Boodean, and a few of the others slide the stretcher out of the truck.
“You’ll have to fill out an injury form,” the supervisor calls. “This won’t look good. There’s been too many damn injuries in the CCC camps lately. You’ll have to fill out the DA128.”
“I’ll take care of it.” That’s my medic. Wolfe and Milliken stand back by the door.
“You know, gentlemen, I think Boodean and I will be fine now. As soon as I’ve made a full assessment I’ll come out and let you know the extent of his injuries so we can decide whether to get the physician at Camp Laurel or head for the hospital in Torrington.”
The two leave without comment and the room feels bigger.
“Mmmmmmm,” moans the patient, his straight pale hair matted with blood. “What happened?” He’s coming around and that’s good. He can help me figure out the extent of his injuries.
“You’re here in the infirmary at the CCC camp. Do you know your name, sir?”
“Sure, Linus Boggs from New Martinsburg, West Virginia. How’d I get here, what happened? I feel awful banged up . . . My arm! God, is it broke? And the back of my head? Hey, why’d you cut my shirt and trousers off, Boodean? Are you playing a joke on me?” He tries to sit up. “Oh, shit, that hurts.”
“Lie back down, Private. I need to do a full examination. Just lie there and be quiet. Do you need some pain medication?”
“Couple of Bayer wouldn’t hurt.” The medic gets up and gets the man two aspirin and with shaking hands gives him a sip of water. Boodean seems strong, but he’s just twenty years old, a kid, facing disaster and doing a great job.
“Okay, Boodean. I’m going to start my examination at the top and work toward the bottom. You make notes. First the head.” I pull up Linus’s eyelid and look at his very pale gray-blue iris, the color of the sky at dawn. “Pupils equal and reactive to light . . .” I feel his skull through the thick blond hair.
I move on down, checking both arms. I think I feel crepitus in his right forearm so I will probably set it. He can move both his legs and his reflexes are fine. I palpate his liver and kidneys and then his pelvis. That’s all I know to do, and while Boodean cleans the blood off him and attends to the young man’s scraped torso, I check his exam notes, add a few of my own, and then go out to Milliken’s office.
“Is he okay?” Mrs. Ross asks.
“I think so.”
Milliken and Captain Wolfe are sitting in the major’s office smoking their pipes. “He has a broken arm but it’s a closed fracture and not displaced, so a simple plaster cast should do it. Bruises will show by tomorrow.
“He needs to be observed, because he hit his head and we want to be sure there’s no concussion. Right now he’s lying in there talking to Boodean. He must have asked five times, ‘What happened?’ Short-term memory loss is common after trauma, but it’s Dr. Crane’s decision if he should be transferred. I guess we’re ready to call him. Can you get him on the shortwave radio, Mrs. Ross?”
The physician from Camp Laurel asks the appropriate questions. “Is he stable?” “Is he conscious?” “Are there any signs of internal bleeding?” “What are his vital signs?” His voice is low and clipped, a Midwestern man.
“Well, if there’s no change for the worse, I’ll come over tomorrow and see the young man,” he decides. “It’s my regular day. Sounds like he’s one lucky bastard and you are too, Major! No death report to fill out!” He chuckles like this is funny. “We had one here the other day. Hell of a thing, one of the lumber crew fell into the saw. Someone said he was drinking. He was dead before he got to the clinic.”
Captain Wolfe catches my eye and lets out a long sigh. It’s clear he thinks the physician is a jerk. I give him a small smile. After the adrenaline surge I’m exhausted, but I still have four hours of my shift to go and there are other sick men who need tending.
“Let me know if anything changes for the worse, Nurse Myers,” Dr. Crane orders. “The medic should stay with him tonight. I wouldn’t give him any laudanum. If the pain gets worse, I want to know at once.” The physician signs off, “Over and out.”
Starvation’s bell rings at the mess hall. “Dinnertime,” says Milliken as he pushes himself up with his pudgy hands. “Thank you, Miss Myers. Ready for some grub, Earl?”
“Would you like to join us, Becky?” the captain asks, using my first name. “You did a heck of a job in there.”
“Thank you. I’ll eat later. I still have to cast his arm. I’m just glad he’s okay. The boy must have crashed into a pine tree or something that broke his fall; otherwise I don’t know what would have happened.” (Actually I do know what would have happened: he would have broken his neck and died.)
I slip back into the infirmary, tell Boodean what Dr. Crane said, and send him off to the mess hall. Since it’s a clean break and the bones don’t need to be repositioned, setting the limb isn’t difficult.
I get out my plaster bandages, soak them in water in a white enamel bowl, and wrap the forearm from elbow to wrist until the limb is encased in a hard white sheath. Linus Boggs is almost asleep by the time I finish.
“How does that feel?” I ask him.
“Fine. Just fine.” The young man yawns.
“Any dizziness? How’s your headache?”
“Not too bad, Nursie. I just want to rest.”
“Okay then, Linus.” I let the Nursie pass. “I’ll be right here.”
The corpsman’s respirations are deep and regular and his color is good. Once or twice he snores. When he tries to turn his head he moans in pain. That is one lucky fellow.
32
Hero of the Day
An hour later, Boodean returns. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” he says. “The boys had a lot of questions. . . . Everything okay?”
“Fine. Did Starvation save me anything?”
“Of course! You’re the hero of the day!”
Crossing the muddy yard, I notice the balmy air has turned chilly but it doesn’t dampen my spirits. My training stood me well, and once I started the head-to-toe assessment, I knew just what to do.
As I enter the huge room, all the men stand and cheer, and I think about the warnings I got before I came to White Rock. There is nothing shady or rough about these fellows and I realize how fond of them I’ve become.
Wolfe is still sitting with Milliken at the officers’ table and he beckons me ove
r. In front of me is a plate of baked beans, white bread with butter, and collard greens.
“How’s he doing?” Milliken asks.
“Fine. Sleeping now. Did you hear any more about the accident?”
Captain Wolfe shakes his head. “There were four men on the tower, four on the ground. Nobody saw how it happened. Boggs was almost at the top, where they were constructing the cabin, and he must have slipped, maybe the wood was wet. He crashed down the ladder and through the scaffolding and then hit the ground. It’s amazing he lived. The cook left some apple pie in the kitchen. Want some?”
“Sure,” I say with my mouth full.
“Nurse Becky!” A carrot-headed corpsman waves frantically from the main double doors. I look up, trying to decide whether to swallow my pie or spit it out. “Come quick! Boodean says you have to come quick!”
Captain Wolfe and Major Milliken follow as I run across the compound, but I slam the infirmary door in their faces. Whatever’s happened, a crowd of observers isn’t going to help.
“What!” I ask, but I shouldn’t have bothered. Linus is seizing. Mouth stretched wide, he looks like he’s screaming but no sound comes out. His eyes are rolled back, showing the whites. His knees are drawn up and he keeps rubbing the left side of his head with his cast as if he’s trying to pull off a vise.
There’s no way I can get vital signs, nothing I can do but protect him from falling out of bed and hurting himself worse. Boodean is already trying to thrust a tongue blade, wrapped in gauze, crossways in his mouth, something he must have learned in his first-aid class.
“I didn’t do anything, ma’am. I swear I didn’t,” he defends himself, his eyes wide with fear. “I took his vital signs like you said and wrote them on the clipboard. I was just settling down to read the camp newspaper, when Linus made an awful noise. He was holding his head like it was going to explode and then he fell back and started shaking all over.”
The Reluctant Midwife Page 24
