I had assisted with many of them during my medical school rotations in 2001, not to mention my nurse’s surgical training in 1941. “Yes,” I said simply.
“Good. I’ll be going off duty soon, and Dr. Philips cannot abide incompetence.”
Despite my confidence and experience, I still felt a twinge of nerves at the thought of working with him. Part of me wanted to prove something—to him and to me. I didn’t even know him, but from the few conversations I’d had with nurses who did, I’d learned he was exacting, tactless, and brilliant. In 2001 I had already proven myself, though people constantly challenged me. For reasons I couldn’t identify, I wanted Dr. Philips to know I was capable too.
The time passed quickly as I prepared the room and gathered the surgical instruments Dr. Philips would need. I was often teased for my love of order and precision outside the hospital, but in the operating room, it was an essential skill.
At the appointed time, the operating room door opened, and Dr. Philips entered. I wore my white face mask and my standard-issue nursing uniform. I also had a white cap covering my hair. But the moment he entered the room, he stopped and stared at me.
I hadn’t expected him to recognize me, covered as I was and having only briefly met, but he did.
“Nurse Hollingsworth,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Without responding, I moved away from the surgical instruments and went to the white gowns hanging on a nearby hook. I took one and turned to Dr. Philips, ready to help him into the gown so we could begin the surgery.
He slipped his arms through the gown and turned so I could tie it in the back. He was also wearing a white mask and cap,but his blue eyes were unmistakable. “I specifically requested not to work with you.”
His words struck like a serpent. “Do you have an objection to me, Doctor?”
“Several, in fact.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Yet what I know indicates that you are the last nurse who should be assisting me in the operating room.”
I glanced at the other nurse, but she had her back to us against the far wall and didn’t seem to notice—or care—about our conversation.
My cheeks were warm with embarrassment, but I lifted my chin and met Dr. Philips’s stare. “I’m not certain what you’ve heard, but I can assure you it’s not true.”
“It’s not true that you were allowed into the navy a year early because you have a connection to Rear Admiral Stark?”
“How does that make me incompetent?” I asked quietly, hoping the other nurse wouldn’t hear. “It’s a silly policy. If someone has passed their studies and has a full understanding of their duties, what does age matter?”
“Bending rules and doing things out of order are dangerous in an operating room. Behavior is the best indicator of character, and I’ve found yours lacking.”
My mouth slipped open at his comment, and all I could do was stare. Just the day before, Mr. Cooper had commended my character. If Dr. Philips only knew my reason for bending this particular rule, perhaps he’d realize I had an honorable motive for my behavior.
He turned away from me and approached the instrument table. He stood for a moment looking it over and then glanced up. “Who set out these instruments?”
I lifted my chin. “I did.”
He didn’t respond but silently moved a few tools around to suit his taste.
When the patient was finally rolled into the room, I was ready and waiting near the instruments to hand them to Dr. Philips as he needed them. The anesthesiologist was there, as were two other nurses who had joined us. Soon they had the patient under anesthesia, and it was time to perform the surgery.
For several minutes, I watched Dr. Philips, impressed with his skill. He worked with sure, steady hands and a furrowed, concerned brow. From time to time, he asked for different surgical instruments, which I handed to him without hesitation.
After he opened the patient’s abdomen and made an examination, he paused. “It looks like peritonitis,” he said to the room at large, disappointment in his voice. For all his gruffness, his entire demeanor softened when he spoke of the diagnosis. “The appendix has ruptured, and the infection has spread throughout the abdomen. We didn’t get here in time.”
There was a quiet hush in the room, and I knew what each of them was thinking. The patient was going to die. Once the appendix ruptured and the infection spread, it had become a life-threatening illness.
But I knew something from my medical history class they didn’t, something that was not yet widely known.
“Doctors in Europe are having success treating peritonitis with antibiotics. Perhaps it would help Private Edmund to administer sulfonamide after you remove the appendix.”
Four sets of eyes turned to me, but it was Dr. Philips’s that seemed to bore a hole into my soul. Did anyone else ever question or challenge him?
“Sulfonamide?” he repeated.
