The physician was called Dr. Emily. They said she was a good doctor, and we were fortunate. I never once saw her face; she was always hidden behind a mask and spectacles. She was an infection specialistexcellent at germs, less adept at comforting hearts.
Throughout the time she tended my little girl, she never offered a soothing word. Her language was numbers and facts.
Whitecell count twelve, she said.
Is that good?
Its lower than before, but still above the normal range, and the fontanelle has settled. Its a bit dry.
Is it dangerous?
Ill prescribe a drug that will stabilise it
She spoke reluctantly, as the other parents in the ward peppered her with questions, demanding answers. Every sentence she uttered could later be turned against her, so she chose her words with care, each one guarded by an unseen legal mind.
Emily merely wanted to healin silence, without interrogation. Yet that was impossible. I could not tell whether I liked her or not; I was forced to trust her, for my daughters health lay in her hands. She never tried to win me over, to calm my panic, perhaps because that was not her role. She was there for infections, not hysteria.
I saw the fatigue in her eyes, reddened as if she had wept, behind her glasses. I stopped asking questions; all I needed to see was my daughter improving. The trend was positive. Two days prior she had been almost unconscious; today she sat, smiled, and ate an apple with appetite. Dr. Emily examined her, listened, gave a small nod and said, Well done, Lucy. She said nothing to meI asked nothing either.
After lunch a oneyearold boy arrived, very ill. Emily called the central hospital. The infectious ward had no intensive care, and the boy was in dire straits. The central unit curtly replied that it was a neuroinfection and that they had no beds, so we must manage ourselves.
A doctors day ended at three oclock. Emily had a husband and her own children at home, but the boy was suffering. She stayed, monitoring him, arguing with the central hospital for a neurologist and a specific medicine, arguing with her husband who wanted her home because the child was not hers.
The nurses fell silentthey were used to the senior staff disappearing after three. After three oclock the ward became a bit livelier.
The infant lay in the next cubicle with his mother, who talked loudly on the phone. I could hear every word: she was calling acquaintances, asking them to pray for Tommy, reciting long prayers, urging someone to tell the vicar so he might intercede, believing the vicars prayers would reach God faster.
Later that evening I heard Dr. Emily enter their room, telling the mother that the medicine had to be bought privately because the hospital did not stock it. She dictated a list, among which was Mexidol. The mother shrieked, We pay taxes! Treat our child! This is extortion! Ill sue you!
Emily said nothing and left. My own daughter also received Mexidol, which we had bought ourselves. I heard the mother on the phone with her husband, demanding that he bring icons and holy water.
I had spare vials of Mexidol. I slipped out into the corridortechnically forbidden, as the cubicles were isolatedto find Emily. I found her in the oncall room, reciting the same list to her husband, Victor, standing with her back to me.
Victor, bring it now. The boy can wait twenty minutes. Hes not a baby, she said.
Victors voice crackled on the other end, The pharmacy is open until ten. Then youll hear how Im a bad mother. I offered, Heres MexidolI have an extra vial. Let him not buy more.
Emily startled, turned, and for the first time I saw her face without a mask. She was strikingly beautiful.
Ah, thank you, she murmured, adding into the receiver, We dont need Mexidol, weve found it.
I slipped a tenpound note into the pocket of her coat.
Dont! she snapped, catching my hand. Its not for you. Its for Tommy.
She lowered her eyes. Thank you, she whispered, then corrected herself, You.
You, I corrected her, and slipped back to my own cubicle.
That night Tommys condition worsened. In my halfdream I heard Emily directing the nurses on which drip to set and how to bring his fever down, while his mothers prayers rose in the background.
When my daughter fell ill, a thousand people wanted to help. Roughly eightyfive per cent of those who offered aid prayed for her, gave me proper prayers, suggested confession, called for a vicar, lit a candle, and said, A mothers prayer can pull a child from the deepest sea. Five per cent suggested alternative remedieshomeopathy, osteopathy, acupuncture, Reiki, a folk healer. Ten per cent pragmatically gave contacts of good doctors, urging us to fly to Europe, because theres no proper medicine here, they said.
By morning Tommy improved. He slept soundly, feverfree, and his mother, too, fell asleep, her prayers silenced by snoring.
Emily had not slept at all. At nine oclock her new shift began, and she made her rounds. She entered our cubicle.
Whitecell count nine, she announced.
Thank you, I replied.
Thats good. The inflammation is receding.
Yes, I understand.
I asked nothing else, but I felt deep sympathy for her. Behind her glasses the eyes were red, as if she had been weeping. She moved on to other patients.
At three oclock her shift ended; Tommy was much better, cheerful, and eating well. Before heading home she stopped by his room to check that everything was in order. I heard her coax him gently, asking him to listen.
At that moment his mothers phone rang, and she exclaimed, Hes healed! Hes healed! I looked out of my window as Dr. Emily walked home, her steps heavy with exhaustion. She was an excellent infection specialist and, in my recollection, a good persona messenger of hope, if you will. She had beaten Tommys illness with her knowledge, experience, and antibiotics. She went home without thanks, the way the work demands, and the prayers of Healed! lingered in the ward.
