By late afternoon, the ward buzzed with activity. My fellow nurses and I were exhausted from stumbling our way into some sort of routine, learning care techniques that were new to many of us, and treating a disease some of us had never seen before. We knew this was only the beginning. More patients were on their way.
I was a little bit in love with Carol Ann by the end of that day. She was a very sick girl, but not so sick that she couldn’t respond to the funny stories I told her as I wrapped her legs in the hot wool packs and exercised her stiff limbs, trying to keep her mind off her pain and fear. But her giggling could give way to tears in an instant. How was I going to leave her at the end of the day when she’d finally gotten attached to me?
The night nurse who came in to take over for me scared her. I doubted the little girl had ever met a colored person before and she screamed and clung to me as I tried to leave. So the nurse, Betty, and I sat together with her, singing songs from behind our masks for nearly an hour while Carol Ann grew more comfortable with Betty, and I knew the emotional component was going to be as important, as critical, as the physical in our patients’ recovery.
*
A volunteer drove me home that evening. Ruth was already in bed—or at least in her room—by the time I arrived, and Henry was still working, either at the hospital or the factory. I didn’t know where he was. I’d lost track of him sometime during the day.
A letter from Gina was propped up on the small table in the foyer and I carried it upstairs. I was a sweaty, grimy mess and more tired than I could ever remember being, so I took a much needed bath before settling into bed to read the letter. It was short, full of how much she missed Mac. She was worried about him. In his last letter, she told me, he’d written that he would never be the same after all he’d seen and done.
And I found the doll you asked for, she wrote. It’s very cute and I’ve already mailed it, so you should have it soon.
I smiled to myself. It would be a while before I’d be able to take the doll to Jilly. My life was too full right now. My life was too full. I could barely believe it.
By Sunday evening, the Hickory Emergency Infantile Paralysis Hospital had sixteen very sick and frightened young patients, two doctors, twelve nurses, one epidemiologist, two physiotherapists, and dozens of meals provided by women in the community. When I left that Sunday night, as Betty and the other colored—and a few white—nurses came in for their night shift, I was exhausted to the point of tears and I had not felt so happy, so simply in love with my life, in a very long time.
63
July 1, 1944
Dear Gina,
I’m amazed that news of our fledgling hospital has reached Baltimore! I guess Hickory is really on the map now. Down here, the papers are saying that the building and staffing of the hospital in fifty-four hours was “miraculous.” We’re still getting donations of money and goods every day from the people in town and from business owners. Henry donated countless tables and chairs from his factory. The hospital kitchen is finally functional and filled with cooks from the area (along with some female prisoners), to the relief of the all the ladies in the community who’ve been making meals in their homes day and night for the patients. We need more wards, and military hospital tents are on their way to serve that purpose. Yesterday, the men, including Henry and Zeke, the custodian at the factory, built walls and floors to support them. And the patients keep coming. And coming and coming.
You said you feel dumb, but please don’t. Unless someone’s had personal experience with polio, they’re not going to know much about it. Most cases are minor and seem a bit like influenza, with nausea, sore throat, fever, and pain. Those children usually get better in a week or two. But the children with polio you often hear about are the more dramatic—and fortunately rarer—cases with central nervous system involvement. That’s where the paralysis comes in and it usually takes many months for those patients to recover. Some of them never do. We have quite a few of those cases at the hospital.
I love my work, Gina! I spend the mornings taking care of this darling little girl, Carol Ann, and a second patient I was just assigned, a thirteen-year-old boy named Barry. They both have paralyzed legs, so I spend a lot of time applying hot wool to their useless limbs. My hands will be red and raw for the rest of my life! In the afternoons, I work in the admissions tent, and I’m also being trained to work with the iron lung. That machine terrifies me, and between you and me, having the responsibility for a patient who needs the respirator (iron lung) frightens me. Why they selected me for that training, I have no idea, but I think it’s good for me to learn something new and challenging.
You asked how the iron lung works. Have you ever seen a picture of one? It’s a long steel airtight tube. Only the patient’s head sticks out, and a rubber diaphragm prevents air from leaking out of the machine around his neck. A pump changes the pressure inside the tube so that the patient’s lungs are forced to expand or contract. In other words, it makes the patient breathe. Yesterday, a twenty-seven-year-old man, by far our oldest patient, was brought in with chest paralysis and he is now in the iron lung. The thought of being locked in that airtight tube makes me feel panicky, but our patient is frankly too ill to care. The sound of the lung, the rhythmic whooshing, has quickly become the background noise of the ward.
I’m proud of my husband, Gina. He’s working so hard, at both the factory and the hospital. When I see him working on one of the buildings—not for money, but out of dedication to his town—I’m touched. He’s exhausted and so am I. But right now, I can honestly say I’m happy and I believe he is too.
I must get to the hospital. I hope this dreaded disease is nowhere near you in Baltimore!
Love,
Tess
64
I was working in the admissions tent that Thursday when I looked up to see Honor yank open the screen door and Zeke rush inside, Jilly limp in his arms. I’d been cleaning our thermometers and I got immediately to my feet, thinking, This is impossible. It had been weeks since Butchie died. Could the virus still be in their house?
I rushed over to them. I wasn’t sure they knew it was me, since I was covered in a long protective gown, surgical cap, and mask. I pulled the mask down so they could recognize me. “What are her symptoms?” I asked, slipping the mask back in place.
“She woke up this morning burning up and hurting all over,” Honor said. Her hair was tucked under a yellow kerchief and the skin around her jade-colored eyes was swollen. I could tell it was a struggle for her to get the words out. “It’s like it was with Butchie,” she said, her voice breaking.
“Put her on this cot, Zeke,” I said, stepping over to one of the cots we used for intake. “Dr. Matthews is behind that curtain with another patient”—I pointed to the small curtained area in the rear of the tent—“but he’ll be out very soon.”