Life Unveiled, by a Child of the Drumlins — Chapter 10 Part III - The Medic-Concluded
As the time approached for Laidlaw’s term to expire I began to be wretched, at first hardly realizing, much less acknowledging to myself, that it was because he was leaving.
I was even less friendly, less responsive, and, as the time drew near, more inclined to stay in my room than usual.
Dr. Reynolds, a keen little woman who was much about the hospital in those days, suspected the cause of my glumness.
One evening as she was calling on me and rallying me on moping in my room alone instead of staying down in the office, a knock on my door arrested her banter.
“Who’s there?
” I called.
The door opened a crack, and Laidlaw’s voice announced, “_I’m_ here--you are wanted down in the office.
” “Who wants me?
” “_I_ want you,” and with that he pushed open the door, and to his confusion (and mine) encountered Dr. Reynolds’s merry, mischievous eyes, the occurrence, of course, only serving to confirm her in her belief that there was something more than good-fellowship between us.
Laidlaw and James often rang my bell of an evening, summoning me to the office, when it was only they who wanted me.
They knew that I never dared disregard it, for fear it might be a call to the wards; once down there, I was usually easily persuaded to stay.
That night after Dr. Reynolds left, I went down, but when reading aloud was proposed, did not fall in with the proposition--the good times we had all had together were so soon to end--I was in no mood for reading aloud.
We sat near each other, each busy with his own book, or pretending to be.
Later, having dropped my book, I was looking out of the window, fearing Laidlaw would see my tell-tale face, when, presently, taking me by the shoulder, he gently turned me round facing him: “What are you doing, Little Arnold?
” “Thinking.
” “_Don’t_ think.
” It was all he said, but his tone, and my silence, were tacit acknowledgment--we understood each other better then, and after that he did not chide me, as he had before, for not caring that he was so soon to go away.
Those last days of his stay were very hard, and when the day came when he assisted at operations for the last time, and we were clearing up afterward as usual, we laughed a sort of hollow laughter, laughed at anything and everything; at the awkwardness of the stuttering little student, his successor--we tried to find funny things to talk about--anything so long as we kept away from what was uppermost in our minds, and allowed no silences.
When Laidlaw left, James was away on his vacation, and a likeable little German student, who was acting as substitute, was very acceptable to both of us, we three being very congenial.
When Laidlaw put out his hand to the German to bid him farewell, he attempted to be jocose, but failed sadly; then, “Take good care of Little Arnold, Old Boy,” he said, and, turning to me, drew me to him and would have kissed me; but, fond as I was of him, I couldn’t do that.
He looked pained.
By this time I could no longer control my tears; this surprised and perplexed him: “Why, why, why--Little Arnold, why, you _do_ care!
” and standing dumb for an instant, he wrung my hand and went slowly out and down the steps; and I--I felt I had lost my last friend.
I had to give way and weep in spite of the presence of the little German.
He was very good to me then, and always.
I think he then thought that it was a more serious attachment than it was; he chided me for not bidding Laidlaw a more affectionate farewell--could not seem to understand why I did not, since I cared so much about his going.
That evening, picking up a copy of Emerson’s essays I had been reading, and seeing it was the essay on Friendship, with a searching look he asked, “And is it only friendship that I see between you and Laidlaw?
” When I stoutly maintained that it was, he seemed half credulous, half doubtful, but in his naïve foreign way said appealingly, “Then, Little _Racker_, be _my_ friend, too.
” And we were warm friends after that.
In a few days came Laidlaw’s first letter; it gave me a thrill of joy, but I am bound to confess that even before it came (after the acuteness of the grief was over) I had grown surprisingly cheerful, so much so that I was ashamed of myself for not continuing to feel as wretched as when he went away.
I reproached myself, but all to no purpose.
Every day brought its duties; added responsibilities now fell on me;
the new interne had to be taught “the ropes”; and, while I missed my good friend at every turn, I could not mope and pine.
But I could not understand myself--how such wretchedness, such utter wretchedness, could be so short-lived!
A few weeks before my own term of service expired I had a hard time with septic infection--a serious inflammation in my thumb, probably contracted while assisting at an operation.
I was tired out, and the thing took a severe hold on me.
They temporized for a time, but finally decided I must take an anesthetic and have the nail removed and the deeper tissues thoroughly cleansed.
As we were short-handed at the Hospital, I dragged around when I should have been in bed.
I shall not soon forget the feeling I had on learning that I had actually to surrender myself to an anesthetic, to submit voluntarily to that which would rob me of consciousness.
It was horrible to contemplate.
It seemed such a momentous thing--not the operation, of course, but the taking of chloroform.
I wrote a letter home the night before, to be posted in case I did not survive.
One would have thought my year in the hospital would have made me more callous to such things.
I myself can hardly understand why it was so painful to me to face this experience--just like any other patient.
Somehow, I had always felt outside of such things, a mere spectator, though considering myself a sympathetic one.
But, until then, I had not dreamed what dread consumed the souls of the patients whom I had so lightly encouraged to submit to the inevitable.
Extracting a promise from “Polly,” the nurse, that if I showed any tendency to loquacity she would send everyone from the room, and would remember to tell me all I said, I braced for the ordeal.
That morning, omitting breakfast, visiting my patients as usual, I put up prescriptions, and helped prepare the amphitheatre for an operation that was to precede mine.
Then, looking in on the young patient before he went to the anesthetizing room, I told him I was going to give the surgeon a chance at me after his operation.
He said afterward that my cheery way of speaking made him ashamed of his trepidation, so that he went to his operation with more courage than he had believed himself capable of.
He little knew how I quaked internally--it was awful--that thought of having the chloroform steal away my senses!
After helping with that case, I slipped off to my room to get ready, expecting to return to the amphitheatre for my own operation; but, while I was undressing, “Polly” rushed in to say that Dr. Paxton would operate in my own room.
This was a relief.
Soon they came: Higginson, the new house-doctor, carrying the tray with instruments and dressings, James with the chloroform and the inhaler, and Dr. Paxton in his operating gown.
Lying down on my little white bed, with an outward semblance of composure, I inhaled the chloroform.
The surgeon listened to my heart, and, after assuring me it was all right, began himself to give me the anesthetic.
The first few breaths were not so bad; then I felt the stuff insidiously stealing through me.
“Ah!
how sweet it is,” I remember saying--a peculiar, sickish sweetness that I can never smell now without recalling the scene and my growing terror of the drug as its effects crept through me, faster and faster, and I impotent to stay its power.
I remember noting and analyzing my sensations as it progressed; remember the feeling of confidence in Dr. Paxton’s assurance that it was all right; then I opened my eyes and saw James bending over me.
He had the inhaler now, and was looking at me with such a pitying gaze that I felt sorry for myself, and told myself I must be careful or I should whimper, which would be disgraceful.
Still it kept stealing on, and yet I knew what they were all doing.
I
heard preparations; heard the new doctor stutter as he tried to ask about something, getting so tangled up that it made me want to laugh, but reminded myself I must not.
It was all so curious--to be able to think these things and yet to feel this creeping, creeping up slowly, surely.
Ah, now I am almost gone--an instant of rebellion--it must not be, I cannot succumb; but, following quickly, came the realization that it must be, and that I must not struggle.
Once more I opened my eyes and looked at them all--poor “Polly”!
the tears were streaming down her cheeks; and James looked wretchedly unhappy.
I knew that in another moment I should be beyond recognizing anything.
They said I gave a low, piteous cry (I seem to remember even this), and said, “I’m going now--watch my pulse!
” Even then I felt Dr. Paxton take my wrist, and assure me in a voice that sounded very far away, “It’s all right, Doctor, all right!
” The next I knew I found myself in my bed with my head turned in the opposite direction.
“Polly” was moving quietly about the room; and by my side sat Dr. James holding my hand, and smoothing my arm in a kindly way.
Scarcely a trace was left in the room of what had taken place there.
A feeling of incredulity, almost of indignation--had nothing been done to my thumb, then, after going through with all that!
I started to ask why they had not done it, but seeing my bandaged hand, and simultaneously becoming conscious of a newer sharper pain than I had ever felt, I had to believe that it was all over; but how could it be, and I not know it!
Then I began laughing!
I started to chide “Polly” for letting James stay in the room; but could not do so for laughter.
James tried to pacify me, talking as though I were a sick child--the same way I had talked to ether patients.
The oddity of this coming over me, I said, “I’m just like any other silly patient,” then laughed afresh; and the more I laughed, the less self-restraint I had.
But, impressed with the necessity of assuring them that I knew what I was about, I said: “I know what I am saying, and why you are laughing, but I don’t care--I know who you are, you are Dr. James, and you’re holding my hand, and I don’t care if you do,” and I laughed in reckless abandon.
“Polly” was distressed; she knew I would be angry later.
James looked delighted.
“Do you like it?
” he asked--the rogue!
“Yes, I like it--it feels so big and strong.
” How he shouted!
That shout sobered me.
In no time I was completely myself--no more aware than before, but with the Censor at the helm.
After that James used to try to squeeze my hand, reminding me that it was my real self that had spoken then--in wine (and chloroform) one speaks the truth.
Shortly after that two fingers on my left hand became infected, and again I had to be lightly anesthetized and operated.
By that time I was so much run down they kept me in bed for days, taking excellent care of me--a rather delightful experience.
The visiting physicians and surgeons called; the nurses were more than attentive; the Dispensary house-staff came over and read to me, and groaned to think they had been debarred from my operations.
Breynton said he would have liked nothing better than to have given “the little angel” the anesthetic;
and James told him he would have been welcome to the job, but mischievously added that he was willing to watch me come out of the chloroform.
It was much harder after that to keep James within bounds.
One day when “Polly” had gone from the room a minute, he grabbed up my hair which lay across the pillow, and winding it around his neck, buried his face in it for an instant.
Astonished and angered, I felt wronged and insulted.
Half-contritely, half-teasingly, he tried to laugh me out of my wrath, and “Polly” coming in just then, I was obliged to act as though nothing had happened.
On his good behaviour after that, he never transgressed so seriously again.
I could never think of that impulsive act of his without my cheeks burning with shame.
My own time soon came to leave the hospital.
The night before, I went over to the College, went in each empty room, lingered in the halls, and even down in the stuffy Dispensary quarters.
I thought of all that had happened during the time since Belle and I had first entered that building on that rainy October day, and wondered what changes would come before I should see the place again.
Even then the girl who had entered College seemed a different person from the one who was leaving Boston on the morrow.
In the same way I went about the hospital, loth to break with it all, and trying as it were to gather up the spent life I had lived there.
It was with a queer kind of satisfaction to note that they all seemed sorry to see me go.
I felt jealous of the new student, my successor; felt pained that I was no longer necessary; that the routine would soon continue as smoothly as ever.
As the hour drew near I felt tenderly toward everyone--patients, nurses, the janitor, the bell-boy, even the opinionated English nurse, “Wraggie,” for whom I had no real liking.
As they all crowded around the door-way at my leave-taking, and the other house-doctors came over from the Dispensary, I saw regretfully that Breynton was not among them; the night before he had said he would surely see me again.
But as the cab left the hospital grounds and I leaned out for a last look at the College, I saw Breynton signalling the cab-man to stop--he had stationed himself there at the entrance to say good-bye.
It touched me to see his altered manner--instead of his jovial hectoring ways, a big brotherly fondness and regret showed in face and voice.
A warm handclasp, then, as the horses started up, his wholesome smile shone out encouragingly, and he said in his old bantering way, “So _this_ is the last of the ‘Little Angel’!
” The cab whirled me to the station, the same station where Belle and I had landed three and one half years before when we had come to this strange city--the city I was now leaving with such a store of memories!
It had grown very clear, it always will be dear--my beloved Boston!
CHAPTER XI
