I remember the doctors name was Eleanor Smith. They said she was a fine physician, and we were lucky to have her. I never saw her face; she was always behind a mask and a pair of spectacles. She was an infectiousdisease specialistexcellent at germs, terrible at consolation.
Throughout the months she tended my daughter, she never offered a soothing word. Her conversation was a litany of numbers and facts.
Leukocytes at twelve
Is that good? I asked.
Its lower than before, but still above the normal range, and the fontanelle has begun to close. Its quite dry.
Is that dangerous?
Ill prescribe a medication that should stabilise it
She spoke reluctantly. Parents whose children lay in the ward peppered her with questions, and she had to answer. Every sentence she uttered could later be turned against her, so she chose her words with the precision of a lawyer. She wanted only to heal, silently, without interrogation, but that was impossible.
I could not tell whether I liked her or not; I was forced to trust her, for my daughters life rested in her hands. She never tried to calm me or quiet my panicperhaps she felt that was not her job. She was there to treat infection, not hysteria.
I could see Eleanor growing weary. Through her lenses I caught a flash of red, as if her eyes had been weeping. I stopped asking questions; I could see the improvement on my own. Two days earlier my child had hovered on the brink of unconsciousness; now she sat upright, smiled, and ate an apple with appetite.
Eleanor examined Emily, listened to her chest, gave a small wink, and said, Well done, Emily. She said nothing to me, and I didnt press. After lunch a oneyearold boy arrived, very ill. Eleanor rang the central hospitalSt. Thomassbecause the infectious ward had no intensive care. The boy, Thomas, was in a dire state. The central unit brusquely replied that he had a neuroinfection and they had no beds, so we must manage ourselves.
A doctors shift ended at three oclock. Eleanor had a husband and her own children waiting at home. Yet Thomas was in critical condition. She stayed, monitoring him, demanding a neurologist and a specific drug. She argued with the central unit, then with her husband, who urged her home, saying the child was not theirs. The nurses fell silent; they were used to the senior staff disappearing after three, leaving the ward to run itself.
Thomass mother, Mrs. Clarke, was in the adjoining bay, her voice clear on the phone. She called acquaintances, begging them to pray for her son, reciting fortyseven prayers, asking someone to go to church and tell the vicar to intercede, believing the vicars prayers would reach God faster than ordinary parishioners.
I heard Eleanor enter their bay in the evening and tell Mrs. Clarke that the medicine had to be bought privately because the hospital did not stock it. She dictated the prescription, among which was Mecidol. Mrs. Clarke shrieked, We pay our taxes! Treat the child! This is extortion! Ill sue you! Eleanor said nothing and left.
Emily was also receiving Mecidol, which we had bought ourselves. I heard Mrs. Clarke call her husband, complaining about the doctor and asking him to bring icons and holy water. I had a few spare vials of Mecidol, so I took one packet and slipped into the corridora place where patients were not supposed to wanderto find Eleanor.
She was in the oncall room, dictating a drug list for Thomas to her husband, Victor, with her back turned to me. Victor, bring it now. The boys will be alone for twenty minutes. Not little. Victors voice crackled on the line, The pharmacy is open till ten. Then youll hear how poor a mother I am. I called out, Heres MecidolI have an extra. Let Thomas not buy another. Eleanor jumped, spun around, and for the first time I saw her face without a mask. She was strikingly beautiful. Ah, thank you, she said, adding into the receiver, Mecidol isnt needed; we have it. I slipped a thousand pounds into the pocket of her coat. She yanked my hand back, Dont be mad, you dont need tothis is for Thomas. She lowered her eyes, whispered, Thank you, and corrected herself, For you. I corrected her again, For you, and returned to my bay.
That night Thomas worsened. In the halfasleep hours I heard Eleanor directing the nurses on which drip to set and how to bring down the fever, while in the background Mrs. Clarke mouthed prayers. When my own daughter fell ill, a thousand people offered help. Roughly eightyfive per cent of those who wanted to assist prayed for Emily, suggested the right prayers, urged confession, asked for a vicar to visit, or lit a candle, saying things like A mothers prayer from the depths of the sea will bring her child back. Five per cent proposed alternative therapieshomeopathy, osteopathy, acupuncture, Reiki, a local healer. Ten per cent pragmatically gave me contacts of reputable doctors and advised me to fly to Europe, claiming the NHS cant do everything, you know.
By morning Thomas improved. He fell asleep, his temperature fell, and his mother dozed off, the only sound now his snore, not a prayer. Eleanor had not slept a wink. At nine oclock she began her new shift, making rounds. She entered our bay and announced, Leukocytes at nine. I replied, Thank you. Thats good. The inflammation is receding. I understand. I asked nothing, but I felt a deep sympathy for her. Behind her spectacles her eyes were red, as if shed been weeping. She moved on to the other patients.
At three oclock her shift ended. Thomas was much better, awake, cheerful, and eating well. Before she left for home, Eleanor visited their bay once more, checking that everything was in order. I heard her gently coax the boy to let her listen to his breathing. At that moment Mrs. Clarkes phone rang, and she exclaimed to someone on the line, HES HEALED, HES HEALED!!!
I looked out of my window as Dr. Eleanor Smith trudged home, her gait heavy with exhaustion. She was a superb infectiousdisease doctor and, in my eyes, a good human beinga messenger of compassion, if you will. She had vanquished Thomass illness with her knowledge, experience, and antibiotics. Now she walked home, drained and without thanks, because that is the way of the work. Healed
