Cherry Ames 02 Senior Nurse (12 page)

She got Mom back into bed. The old lady was exhausted from her adventure.

Later that evening, when the rest of the ward was asleep, they had a little talk.

“I’m not just an old fool,” Mom said soberly. “But I’m an old work-horse that’s used to the harness, and I can’t abide lying here idle, specially when I see you with your hands full. But if I hinder you more than I help you, you just speak up.”

“I know how you feel,” Cherry said. “And now that you’re getting well, you need a little change. If one of the nurse’s aides on day duty has time, she might take you for a tour in a wheel chair, or up to the sun roof.”
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Cherry tried to make it sound tempting, but Mom shook her head.

“You don’t have to coddle me. I’ve seen too much real trouble in my time to need a stick of sugar candy. I’ll get well and on my own two feet because,” Mom said slowly,

“maybe I’ll be seeing some real trouble again right soon.” Cherry wondered what was worrying the old lady.

She wondered, too, if Mom wanted to talk and get it off her mind, as patients sometimes did with their nurses.

But Mom closed her mouth in a tight, determined line. Cherry, of course, did not pry.

That was the last Cherry saw of Mom for the next week, except for a few occasional minutes. One morning she saw the notice on the bulletin board: Ames, C., to O.R. Here it was! Cherry sent word to Mom via one of the ward juniors—she could just imagine Mom’s hearty “Good luck!” ringing in her ears—and ran off.

It seemed to her that the elevator had never ascended so slowly.

For all her eagerness to go on Operating Room, Cherry felt a little panic too. She remembered sensational things she had read in the newspapers or had seen in the movies—fearful things, secret masked figures in white with sharp eyes, hints of morbid drugs and cruel instruments and lurking death. Could Operating Room really be like that? And her classmates had brought back such weird, conflicting reports. The elevator door
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opened. Cherry stepped out. Her hands were cold with nervousness.

Cherry got over her nervousness in the first five minutes. This was no dire half-world—this was the sane, efficient hospital going about its miraculous business. Surgery was simply a more miraculous branch of medicine, its daring equaled by its skill and by its strict techniques. Cherry, of course, had seen O.R.’s before, but now they were her personal business!

The white-tiled Operating Rooms were furnished with a high long table under a powerful center lamp and smaller wheeled tables for adrenalin, hypodermics, morphine, and for sterile trays of instruments, solutions, and gauze. Down the hall there was the Instrument Room, the walls of which were lined with instruments.

Daylight flooded in through enormous windows. Just off the Operating Rooms were one or more small tiled rooms with sinks for scrubbing up. The air was sweet and warm, and smelled faintly of ether and soap and water. Also on this floor was the blood bank. Cherry found it all highly reassuring and fascinating.

“May I assist on an operation today?” she eagerly asked the regular operating nurse.

The graduate nurse smiled at her ruefully and handed her a list. “You may read this list of the day’s scheduled operations. Come into my office and I’ll explain about making supplies. Then I’ll show you what the various
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surgical instruments look like and tell you how they’re used and how you are to sterilize them. Then you may,” she cocked an amused eye at her bewildered student nurse and grinned, “set up a nurse’s table for a tonsil-lectomy.” It was an anticlimax.

“But not assist at an operation?” The operating nurse shook her head. “For the first few days, you’ll just set up tables, and make supplies and drains to use in O.R., and generally keep your eyes open. You’ll be a ‘dirty nurse’—not sterile—you’ll be a messenger who goes in and out of O.R. without contaminating anything. Later on, I’ll teach you how to put on a sterile gown and set up a sterile table and help drape a patient and handle general supplies. And
then,
at long last, the supervisor will assign you to jobs helping the surgeons.” Cherry looked woebegone. “But right now you can watch an operation.”

“Watch what?” Cherry breathed.

The nurse laughed outright. “In there.” She pointed to a swinging door with a high glass window. “The surgeon will lecture as he operates.” Cherry found that this Operating Room had seats built up around it, like a miniature balcony at the theater.

Some of her classmates were already there, waiting.

Whispered information was passed from one nervous student to another: “It’s going to be a simple appendix.”

“Who’s the surgeon?” “Don’t know but I heard it’s
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someone important.” “I wonder if I can stand the sight of blood.” “Oh, there’s Ames! How’s your friend Dr. Upham, Cherry?” “Hush! They’re wheeling in the patient.”

Everyone fell silent as two orderlies gently rolled in a table bearing the unconscious patient. The man had not come from the ether room, so Cherry knew he must have had that wonderful Avertin, an anaesthetic administered rectally. The two orderlies placed the patient on the operating table. He was dressed in the short hospital gown and operating room boots. An operating nurse came in, in sterile gown, mask, gloves, and cap which completely covered her hair. She did not touch the patient. A non-sterile nurse—the “dirty nurse”—

checked the patient’s pulse and respiration and seemed satisfied. A sterile nurse was preparing trays, lifting sterile things which the surgeon would need onto a sterile tray with sterile forceps. Cherry was sharply aware of how the element of infection, or hemorrhage, or shock, or any other risk, was held rigidly in control.

Then the interne entered, held the door open respectfully, and the surgeon came in. Cherry blinked and looked again. The surgeon was Dr. Wylie! He was wearing cap and mask. He glared at the class and at the assisting nurses, a formidable stocky little figure with icy gray eyes showing over the mask. A nurse helped him
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into his sterile coat, then slipped sterile rubber gloves over his steely fingers.

Cherry speculated fleetingly as to why a world-famous surgeon with a limited leave should bother to do this simple operation and give this lecture. Perhaps it was a whim. Dr. Wylie had a lot of stubborn whims and fixed ideas, Cherry recalled with a grin and a slight shudder.

They started. A cradle of sterile sheets was set up around the patient. The operating nurse exposed a small abdominal area, and swabbed it. The second nurse kept constant check on the patient’s condition. Dr. Wylie explained each step. Then the interne made the incision. Cherry had thought she would jump when that happened, but the incision was quick, sure, clean, Clamps were applied to the sides of the cavity so the surgeon could work freely.

Dr. Wylie started to work, lecturing to the class at the same time. Cherry followed it well. What amazed her was the way Dr. Wylie would stick his hand out, without a word, without turning away from the patient, and the operating nurse would put in his hand the right instrument or a swab or solution. How did she know and anticipate just what the surgeon needed at every minute or two of the quick, deft, ever-changing job?

“That’s what I’m up here to learn to do,” Cherry realized, and hoped devoutly for powers of intuition.

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From her high seat behind glass, Cherry could see the surgeon’s hands moving among the complex living parts. Now they moved lightly and delicately; now they applied an instrument, carefully, quickly; now they tugged with real power. Dr. Wylie’s voice grew a little breathless as he lectured. Occasionally he muttered an order and the nurse stepped up to wipe, to apply solution, and once to give adrenalin.

Then the real work was over, the incision was closed, and the wound was dressed. Orderlies lifted the patient from the operating table to a wheeled table and, accompanied by another nurse, carried the man back to the ward. Dr. Wylie stripped off his mask and rubber gloves.

“Questions?” he barked.

The class sat paralyzed under his fearsome glance.

No one spoke.

“Hah! No questions,” he said scornfully. He turned on his heel and strode out, his long white coat flapping harshly, as Cherry remembered so well.

After he had left, the class relaxed a little. The interne was still there. “Any questions?” he asked, and pretended to glare at them. The class laughed uproariously, and this time they had questions, lots of them.

When Cherry went back to the ward that afternoon, Mom called her over eagerly.

“How’d your first day go?” she asked.

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Cherry felt a rush of gratitude as she stood beside the bed. Mom was really interested, really understanding. “It was pretty exciting. But I don’t really have a job yet, not until next week when I go in on an operation.”

“Next week! My, I’d like to be in your boots then!” She took Cherry’s hand in hers. “Operating nurse, no less! But mind you don’t wear yourself out with the excitement.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Cherry laughed back, “and how are you?” She routinely picked up Mom’s chart from beside her bed, and scowled at what she read. “Why, Mom, what kind of behavior is this?”

“I feel fine,” Mom insisted staunchly.

“Not according to the chart,” and Cherry put it back.

She felt the concern she would feel for any patient, and something extra for Mom besides.

As for Dr. Wylie, Cherry met him, wearing his khaki uniform, several afternoons later in Dr. Fortune’s laboratory. Lex was there, too, quite subdued in the presence of the famous surgeon. Cherry had told Lex of her scrapes and adventure with Dr. Wylie in her first year at Spencer, so he winked at her expectantly when Dr. Joe said:

“You remember Cherry Ames, don’t you?”

“Certainly.” Dr. Wylie shook hands with her. “Noticed her in Operating Room the other day. How are you, Miss
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Ames? Still using that rouge, I see. Don’t expect me to show you any favors on Operating.” But his sharp features cracked in a cordial smile.

“I was about to explain to Dr. Wylie and Dr. Upham,” Dr. Joe said, with his gray hair standing on end, “about an important discovery I made. Sit down, my dear, and listen too.”

Cherry wanted to tell Dr. Joe that his thinking she could understand anything Dr. Wylie or Lex understood both complimented and frightened her.

But she sat down obediently enough beside Lex and listened.

“You know, Cherry, that illness is caused by infection, by germs or bacteria entering and lodging in the body—

unwanted and dangerous lodgers, I might say,” Dr. Joe started. “Our problem is how to kill the germs.”

“Remember the magic bullet?” Lex spoke up. “The great researcher, Paul Ehrlich, wanted to find something you could just shoot at the bacteria.”

“But he never found it,” Dr. Wylie said dryly. “And no one else has been able to find it.”

“Aren’t,” Cherry said uncertainly, “aren’t those new sulfa drugs powerful germ-killers?”

“Good girl,” Dr. Joe said approvingly. “Sulfa seems nearly like a miracle. But penicillin—–”

“But penicillin!” Lex interrupted excitedly. “It’s even better. Why it can—–”

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“Penicillin!” Dr. Wylie exclaimed and leaped to his feet. “It saves lives that sulfa can’t save! It goes on when sulfa breaks down!”

“Penicillin!” Cherry joined in the general excitement.

That was the wonderful drug everybody was talking about! She remembered reading about it. “I know!” Cherry’s eyes danced with excitement. “That’s the drug that was found by British researchers . . . and only very little of it can be made at a time . . . and the government controls the distribution because every speck of it must go to our boys in the armed forces

. . . and it must be kept a secret from the enemy . . .

and only a few researchers in America are allowed to have it for research work . . . and they’re working hard to find a method to produce it in large quantities and . . . and . . .” Cherry stopped breathlessly. She puzzled a moment, then asked, “But what
exactly
is penicillin?”

“Bravo, Cherry!” cried Lex. “What
exactly
is penicillin?

It’s a mold that puts a chemical vacuum around the germs and cuts them off from their oxygen supply so that they can’t breathe. Hence our little enemies die of asphyxiation.”

“That’s Penicillin A which Dr. Upharn just described,” Dr. Wylie further explained. “Only recently, Penicillin B was found at the St. Louis University. Penicillin B, Miss Ames, surrounds the bacteria with too much
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oxygen, instead of too little like A, and literally burns the germs alive.”

“And when we learn how to handle A and B

together,” Dr. Joe declared, “it will be one of the greatest victories in man’s fight against disease.” Dr. Joe’s tired eyes shone as he stood there, clutching a laboratory report in one hand and a test tube in the other.

All eyes were glued on him. “And, gentlemen—” he paused and there was a moment’s expectant silence—

“I have found a way to synthesize new members of this acridine group, more potent than either A or B, into a
new
penicillin-like chemical, so that it can be produced commercially by a pharmaceutical house—

not just in the laboratory.”

Cherry was not quite sure that she understood, but she did know that big things for the future of medicine were going on in Dr. Joe’s laboratory,
at this very moment.
She shook her head dazedly.

“That means, Cherry,” Dr. Joe continued, “that we can take it out of the laboratory and make it commercially in large quantities and fairly cheaply. In time this wonder-chemical will be available to everybody.” A stunned silence followed his announcement. Lex let out a low whistle and Dr. Wylie said slowly, “But no one as yet has been able to achieve that synthesis. Are you sure, Fortune?”