The Doctor

It was a quiet, subtle morning when I awoke. In my small bedroom, it didn't take long for the brisk wind of the night to lay its head on my floor. I slipped my frozen feet into my slippers, and slowly walked to the fireplace across from my bed. I sheepishly looked over at my desk, the mountains of my reports and files threatening to collapse. I started the fire without a huge amount of complications, and eventually made it over to my desk to start filling out files. The reports and files of my patients were very important to keep in order and ready for future reference; I really had to work on the orderly part of it.

I was a doctor, even though many people thought that a woman could never handle such a position. But I've proven otherwise so far. I had taken me awhile to find stable ground as a doctor, but I made it work. Treating people and healing them from sickness had always been something I was interested in. My mother had a way with her herbs, and it seemed like magic to my innocent eyes. I was determined to help people ever since, and I loved it, even though it came with a lot of paperwork.

At around mid-morning, while I was downstairs folding my husband's laundry, I heard a knock at the door. "Come in!" I called out. A moment later, I heard footsteps rustling to the main room of my home.

"Please," a woman cried from behind me, "I need you help. I know it's not in your expertise, but my son is possessed with a demon! Please, if there's anything you can do."

I turned around, setting the piece of cloth in my hand into the basket. "Of course, let me grab my bag, then show me the way."

She nodded, and politely stood aside for me to run up to my bag.

The boy looked absolutely miserable. He was deathly pale, slick with sweat, and making a horrible noise from his throat. I also noted how he had a rash on his arms and parts of his legs. "The devil has burned my precious son! Please, help him before it's too late!" The mother moaned. I didn't answer her. I walked carefully towards the boy, touching his forehead with the back of my hand. Hot to the touch, just as I thought. I pulled the collar of his shirt down to look at his chest. Weight loss, most likely from loss of appetite. "How long has he been like this?" I asked the mother, who was now sobbing behind me.

"Ever since he rode down with his Uncle James to Boston."

I look back down at the boy's face. This was definitely not the working of Lucifer, I concluded. This was a serious case of typhoid fever, which can be contracted in populated areas with poor hygiene. What a more perfect breeding area than Boston.

"I know how to treat him," I said, more to the mother than me, "it'll take awhile for the medicine to cycle through, but it'll help." I took two bottles out of my bag, and set them on the nightstand beside the boy. I pour a small glass from one of the bottle. Quinine, a medicine that treats malaria, but can also help cure the fever, and eased the boy's head up with my free hand. "Here," I coaxed, "it'll make you feel better. Drink." The boy took it a couple sips at a time before lying back down in exhaustion.

I turned back toward the mother. "He has typhoid fever. He probably got it while travelling to Boston." I grabbed the bottle and handed it to her. "Give him a glass of this a day. Also, make sure he gets plenty of fiber. He needs to drink a lot of water, and make sure everything is thoroughly cleaned everyday. I'll be checking in in a week or so to see if he's gotten any better, but other than that all you can do is let him rest and drink water."

The mother shook my hand with much enthusiasm. "Thank you so much," she praised, "thank you, thank you."

I smiled at her, then grabbed my bag and headed towards the door. "I hope your son gets better."

I got home to the laundry done and a content husband knocked out on the couch, his collar undone and an empty bottle still in his hands. I rolled my eyes before walking over and putting a blanket off of him and removing the bottle from his large hands. I made it upstairs and stripped off all my clothes excluding my petticoat. I sat down and sighed deeply as I took another report sheet out and started writing down the boy's case. I would never miss the paperwork. But who knew what would've happened if she called a priest instead; the boy would've suffered so much more.

I ended up staying up all night working on reports, thoroughly reading through the reports before completing them. I was proud of myself when I put the last report in my cabinets in my work space downstairs. I crawled into bed with my husband, who moved from the couch late at night, and slept soundly.

The next morning I spent most of the time wandering about the house, looking for things to do. I stocked my medicinal cabinets, mended and made new bandages for future patients, and even cleaned the table where patients come from farther towns. In the afternoon, though, patients came through, usually saying how they got themselves cut and got infected. I would make an incision at the site and pull out the irritant, then wrapped it all up after lathering it with ointments. I was content removing pus and splinters, getting rid of ingrown toenails or stomach pains.

It was about evening when a band of men came in. They all came and stood in front of the table while I was briefly recording the day's work.

"You the woman?" One grumbles, putting a hand on the table.

"I wouldn't put my hand on that, someone earlier today was spitting up mucus resulting from a case of bronchitis." I said, standing up and walking over to the table with them, "And yes, if you're referring to me as the doctor."

"You should be ashamed of yourself," another one said, "That boy you treated for typhoid fever? He doesn't seem to be any better. Well, your apparently the all-knowing doctor, can you explain this one?"

I slightly rolled my eyes before answering. "Well, typhoid fever can't be cured overnight. It takes several days, maybe even weeks, to recover. The boy just started taking medicine yesterday, so of course he wouldn't be better today. He needs time and rest." I walked back to my little desk, and added, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to finish." I had no idea how long they stayed, but I made sure to hold my chin high and not let those men's taunts distract me. As long as I knew what I was doing, it didn't matter what other people said or acted towards me. My actions would prove to them that I was a good doctor, and their words couldn't change that fact.