he’d fallen, strangely enough.
“Scissors,” the doctor called.
Ozzie handed him the tiny pair of surgical scissors from the tray. The patient didn’t move as the doctor snipped them one by one.
The patient was handsome, in a rugged way. His hair was fiery red, and though he was a head shorter than the orderlies who had dragged him in, he was strongly built. Judging from the scars along his arms, he had spent a good deal of time with furnaces.
Ozzie pursed her lips. It was most likely another case of Stoker’s Madness. She hoped he was one of the lucky ones who hadn’t listened too long and let the voices get too deep.
Gloriana had the most cases of Stoker’s Madness in the nation. New York and all those men from foundries in Ohio and Pennsylvania jockeyed for second place, but the huge plants and the railroads throughout Gloriana’s progress came at an unfortunate price. In days past, the madmen had been locked away in the old hospital or hanged, considered casualties of progress.
The famous Dorothea Dix had come through the state five years before and found conditions deplorable, dank holes with mold and little light. Like most of the girls of society, Ozzie had gone to listen to her speeches calling for care and comfort for the afflicted. Unlike most girls, Ozzie wasn’t satisfied only raising a few dollars with tea cakes and raffle tickets.
“Pliers,” the doctor said.
Ozzie placed them in his hand and took the scissors from him. The blades had muddy stains from where they had cut the dirty stitches. She would wash them. People might think it was a waste of good well water since they hadn’t gotten any blood on them, but Ozzie didn’t care. The patients deserved clean instruments. Even Galen the Greek physician in ancient Rome boiled his tools.
The thought made Ozzie wince. She could already hear people tell her, “You read too much.”
Reading too much, as if there was such a thing. Benjamin Franklin endorsed it, and so did Mrs. Andrew Jackson when she taught her husband, the president. Still, people said it distracted her from things a young lady should be thinking about: managing a home, snagging a husband, raising up children. Maybe reading could help her with that. Or maybe she didn’t want that at all.
“There,” Dr. Sims said. He stood back and took a deep breath. “Bandage him, nurse.”
Ozzie nodded and stepped forward. There were a few drops of blood from there the stitches had been pulled, but the shoulder looked well enough. She probably wouldn’t even need to put on a new one when it came time to change the bandage.
The patient groaned softly. Ozzie froze. The orderlies stepped forward.
They hadn’t used enough ether. It was such a tricky thing. Too much, and they could have killed him, but too little wouldn’t have much of an effect.
“He’s waking up,” Ozzie said.
“Let him,” Dr. Sims told her.
Ozzie frowned. Bandaging a sore shoulder wasn’t going to be a delightful thing even with a haze of ether over his mind.
“Perhaps a little more might ease—,” she began.
“Nonsense,” Dr. Sims interrupted. He took the glass ether bottle and put it into the wooden supply cabinet. A little, metal skeleton key latched the door shut, and he tucked it into his pocket.
A fire boiled up inside Ozzie, but she pursed her lips and quenched it. There was no use arguing. She was just a nurse. All arguing would do was let the patient wake up further from his stupor and make bandaging his wound all the more painful.
She set to work with her steady hands. They were calloused, and the nails were short. They were the hands of a girl who was willing to work, not one whose only additions to the household were a few needlepoint trinkets. Ozzie wore gloves at home. Her mother always swooned when she saw how rough her hands were.
Ozzie set a pad of clean cotton against the red spots on either side of the healed-up cut. She wasn’t quite certain what could have made it. It was not
“Scissors,” the doctor called.
Ozzie handed him the tiny pair of surgical scissors from the tray. The patient didn’t move as the doctor snipped them one by one.
The patient was handsome, in a rugged way. His hair was fiery red, and though he was a head shorter than the orderlies who had dragged him in, he was strongly built. Judging from the scars along his arms, he had spent a good deal of time with furnaces.
Ozzie pursed her lips. It was most likely another case of Stoker’s Madness. She hoped he was one of the lucky ones who hadn’t listened too long and let the voices get too deep.
Gloriana had the most cases of Stoker’s Madness in the nation. New York and all those men from foundries in Ohio and Pennsylvania jockeyed for second place, but the huge plants and the railroads throughout Gloriana’s progress came at an unfortunate price. In days past, the madmen had been locked away in the old hospital or hanged, considered casualties of progress.
The famous Dorothea Dix had come through the state five years before and found conditions deplorable, dank holes with mold and little light. Like most of the girls of society, Ozzie had gone to listen to her speeches calling for care and comfort for the afflicted. Unlike most girls, Ozzie wasn’t satisfied only raising a few dollars with tea cakes and raffle tickets.
“Pliers,” the doctor said.
Ozzie placed them in his hand and took the scissors from him. The blades had muddy stains from where they had cut the dirty stitches. She would wash them. People might think it was a waste of good well water since they hadn’t gotten any blood on them, but Ozzie didn’t care. The patients deserved clean instruments. Even Galen the Greek physician in ancient Rome boiled his tools.
The thought made Ozzie wince. She could already hear people tell her, “You read too much.”
Reading too much, as if there was such a thing. Benjamin Franklin endorsed it, and so did Mrs. Andrew Jackson when she taught her husband, the president. Still, people said it distracted her from things a young lady should be thinking about: managing a home, snagging a husband, raising up children. Maybe reading could help her with that. Or maybe she didn’t want that at all.
“There,” Dr. Sims said. He stood back and took a deep breath. “Bandage him, nurse.”
Ozzie nodded and stepped forward. There were a few drops of blood from there the stitches had been pulled, but the shoulder looked well enough. She probably wouldn’t even need to put on a new one when it came time to change the bandage.
The patient groaned softly. Ozzie froze. The orderlies stepped forward.
They hadn’t used enough ether. It was such a tricky thing. Too much, and they could have killed him, but too little wouldn’t have much of an effect.
“He’s waking up,” Ozzie said.
“Let him,” Dr. Sims told her.
Ozzie frowned. Bandaging a sore shoulder wasn’t going to be a delightful thing even with a haze of ether over his mind.
“Perhaps a little more might ease—,” she began.
“Nonsense,” Dr. Sims interrupted. He took the glass ether bottle and put it into the wooden supply cabinet. A little, metal skeleton key latched the door shut, and he tucked it into his pocket.
A fire boiled up inside Ozzie, but she pursed her lips and quenched it. There was no use arguing. She was just a nurse. All arguing would do was let the patient wake up further from his stupor and make bandaging his wound all the more painful.
She set to work with her steady hands. They were calloused, and the nails were short. They were the hands of a girl who was willing to work, not one whose only additions to the household were a few needlepoint trinkets. Ozzie wore gloves at home. Her mother always swooned when she saw how rough her hands were.
Ozzie set a pad of clean cotton against the red spots on either side of the healed-up cut. She wasn’t quite certain what could have made it. It was not
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