The Reluctant Midwife (24 page)

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.

“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.

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 over. 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 seizure lasts ten minutes and then Linus Boggs from New Martinsburg is dead.

It's dark by the time I cross the Hope River, and the campfires of the homeless under the bridge throw flickering light on the stonework. I'd stayed two hours after the boy expired, cleaned up his soiled underclothes, washed his body, and with Boodean's help wrapped him in a clean sheet for the undertaker. Then I finished my nurse's notes, filled out the death report, and called Dr. Crane on the shortwave radio.

“You did what you could,” the physician said, trying to comfort me. “It wouldn't have mattered if I'd been there. Without a neurosurgeon and an operating room, he couldn't have been saved. Even if you had tried to get him to Torrington, that's a three-hour drive and he would have seized and expired in the truck. You did what you could,” he said again. “I'll contact the next of kin.” And that was the end of it.

Now I walk through the Hesters' side yard toward the house, carrying my little black medical bag. Daniel and Dr. Blum are waiting on the porch and don't say a word, not that the doctor ever says much.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daniel asks, gently leading me inside. I shake my head no. “Mrs. Stenger called,” he goes on. “She heard about the boy's death from Sheriff Hardman, who got the shortwave radio call and had to notify the mortuary. . . . Patience wants you upstairs. Can you take her some tea?”

This seems like an odd request, but ever the nurse, I carry the tray up to her room. The midwife is waiting for me.

“Sit here,” she commands, patting the side of the bed. I haven't the strength to argue. “Did you eat?”

“I'm not hungry. . . . Oh, Patience. He shouldn't have died,” I let
loose the tears. “I went to lunch, so sure I'd done a good job and that he was going to be okay. I set his arm in a cast and everything. The physician at the other camp said his death was inevitable, that I wasn't to blame, but it shouldn't have happened. He was just a kid, really.”

Patience pours hot water in a cup, but forgets the tea ball, and instead takes a cloth, dips it in the warm water, and wipes my face. Tenderly, she wipes my hands and neck. She pulls up my sweater and undoes my bra. She drops a long white flannel nightgown over my head, like I'm a child, and pulls me down on her bed.

“You can sleep here.”

“I'll be better downstairs.”

“No, you won't. You'll sleep with me. It's healing to lie next to someone after a great loss. Once I had a woman die in labor; she seized too. Eclampsia. I slept with Daniel that night. He washed the death off me.”

There's no arguing with the midwife. We sleep together in her bed, both in our flannel gowns, Daniel politely taking the sofa.

In the night I dream of falling. Linus and I are falling from the tower. The earth is rushing toward my face, but Patience catches us.

“I'm so glad you don't have to go to the CCC camp for a few days, Becky. It was nice of them to give you the time off. You need to rest,” Patience says. We are all up in the Hesters' bedroom listening to her read a bedtime story from her Hans Christian Andersen book, and Danny, in his blue footie pajamas, is snuggled between his mother and father where he can see the pictures. Blum and I sit in the extra chairs.

Patience is right. I need the rest, but not just sleep. Since Linus's death, my confidence has gone and I find myself expecting disaster wherever I turn.

“Once upon a time, an old poet, a really nice and kind old poet, was sitting cozily by his potbellied stove eating apples . . .” The phone downstairs rings shrilly two times and a cold dread runs through me.
Not a birth. Not a birth
. After Linus's death, I feel so weak, as if all the courage has drained out of me. There's no way I could go out in the cold and face another mother alone.

Daniel groans, jumps off the bed, and stomps down the stairs to the telephone. “Hester here. . . . How long? . . . Okay. . . .” I can't hear what's said on the other end, but he clumps back upstairs. “Well, Blum . . . looks like we're needed.”

“Oh, hon, do you have to go out?” Patience asks.

The vet shrugs. “It's one of Walter Schmidt's sheep, his prize ewe. You know him, hon. His wife died of pneumonia a couple of years ago and he's raising his boy and taking care of the farm alone. The ewe is carrying triplets. Huge. Why don't you come, Becky? It will be fun and it won't take long. Patience will be okay for a little while, won't you, babe?”

“That's okay. I'll stay and put Danny to bed,” I offer.

“No, go,” insists Patience. “It will do you good, after witnessing death, to witness new life. It will be healing. Danny's almost asleep already. Just take him to his crib, Daniel.”

I've had an afternoon nap and everyone has been so kind to me, I have no good excuse to stay home, so thirty minutes later, Daniel, Dr. Blum, and I pull into a small farmyard on Elk Run. In the clearing, the lights of the Ford illuminate a henhouse, a barn, and a two-story log dwelling, and I'm surprised at the humble setting. When Hester mentioned the
prize ewe
, I'd assumed we'd be going to one of the bigger spreads.

The vet gets out his doctor's bag and hands it to Blum, then the two men head for the barn. I follow, unsure what my role will be.

“Hello!” Hester booms out. “Hello!”

A child wearing a woolen knit cap and a plaid wool jacket peeks out the double barn doors. Inside, there's a kerosene lantern hanging from a beam and in the center of the circle of yellow light a farmer kneels next to the biggest sheep I've ever seen, a strange creature with strings of long, curly wool hanging all over it.

“Is the lamb dead, Pa?” the little boy asks.

“No, watch. It's still wiggling.” He turns toward the door.
“Hester, thank God you're here. Hated to call you at night, but this ewe is really suffering. She's the one I got at the auction last year, a Leicester Longwool. Can't afford to lose her. Been laboring now for five hours. I can't get her to stand on her feet and she's stopped straining, a bad sign.”

“Have you been inside to feel around?”

“Yes, but only once. I remember what you told me when you came out to help with the foal last spring. A farmer should go in once and if he can't figure out what to do,
right then
, he should call the vet.” He sits back on his haunches and smiles, and I notice one of his front teeth is missing. Except for that, he's a handsome man with a brown mustache who reminds me a little of Hemingway. “I know it will cost me an arm and a leg, but I can't find the head and there's three legs presenting.”

Daniel throws his coat to me and hangs his hat on a post, then walks over and squats next to a bucket of steaming hot water and begins to scrub his hands and arms with a bar of lye soap. “These are my assistants, Dr. Blum and Nurse Myers. You know them?”

The farmer looks over, but the sheep is so exhausted she doesn't even lift her head. “Nice to meet you. I've heard you were back,” he says this to Blum and then tips his hat to me. “Nurse Myers . . . This is Martha.” He stokes his ewe's head and puts his forehead to hers.

“I'll need the rope in the trunk, Becky. Can you get it, please?” Blum is now taking his turn soaping up. “Oh, and bring the old blanket.”

Now I see what my role is. Gopher!
Go for this. Go for that
.
I push open the big doors and the little boy follows. “Can I help you?” He's a pleasant little fellow of about seven, who wears tiny spectacles and his voice is deeper than what you'd expect.

“What's your name?”

“Petey. Peter Schmidt, I mean.”

I open the trunk of the Ford and feel around in the dark for the blanket. The ropes are harder to find. They turn out to be a bundle of cord and I hand this to Petey. As we reenter the barn, the doctors are waiting. The little boy hands the cord to Dr. Hester, who hands it to Blum. I shake out the old wool coverlet. “Here?”

“Little more toward her back side.” The vet points with his boot as he rubs some lubricant on his right hand, all the way to his elbow, then lies down on his side on the old lap robe. With the three-foot-long cord, a slipknot at the end, he works his way into the ewe's vagina.

“Well, this is a
challenge!”
He smiles his crooked smile. “Good thing you called me. It's going to be tricky. The first thing I have to figure out is which lamb the legs belong to.” I'm surprised when Petey comes over and leans up against me. Maybe he misses his ma, I think, imagining what it would be like to be the mother of such a child.

“Baaaaaa!” Martha cries. “Baaaaaaaaaa!” She struggles to get up, but Blum and Mr. Schmidt hold her in place. The farmer whispers something into her ear to keep her calm. Other than her cries there's only the hiss of the Coleman and the snorting and footfalls of other larger animals in the dark recesses of the barn.

“Mmmmmmm,” the vet moans. “She's straining against me. Trying to push my arm out. This is a real puzzle. Another rope please.”

Blum fixes a loop at the end of another cord and hands it over. If I ever had any doubt that Isaac can understand, it's obvious that he does. He even anticipates what the vet will need next. Daniel screws his face up as the ewe tries to expel him. “Baaaaa!” She shakes her head and almost gets up.

“Let her,” Daniel orders. “Let's see what happens.” Blum and Schmidt back off as the sheep springs to her feet. Hester still holds the ends of the cords. “I've got them attached to two fetlocks that I
think
are from the same lamb, so let's hope I'm right. We'll let her strain again and see if we can help her.”

I look at my watch. It's now ten
P.M.
Petey yawns, but Daniel's guess is right: the first lamb comes out with traction from the cords and the next two lambs follow without a problem. In a little more than thirty minutes, three miniature sheep are wobbling around in the straw, trying to get to their mother.