Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [4]
Being no more consistent than any other man, he saw no irony in this attitude and his own reliance on the latest medical hardware provided for him by the hospital, and which he used freely. When an operation was in progress the theater closely resembled the fires of hell. A furnace roared within the cast-iron stove, kept at fever pitch by a pair of bellows constantly pumping air into the open grate beneath it. From the mouth of the stove protruded the handles of several cauterizing irons, their heads embedded in the coals.
Close by stood the operating table where Treves would work, the stove casting a ruddy glow over him, the glistening of his face lit up by the oil lantern he worked by, held up by a nurse whose sole function this was.
The theater was well-furnished with a large sink and a cupboard stocked with dressings and other things a surgeon might need. Always included among these were several sets of manacles. Chloroform was commonly in use for operations, but the exact administering of the right dose was still a rough and ready business. All too frequently patients came round at the wrong moment (that is, if they had not died under an excessive amount), and then the manacles were useful.
Treves did not expect to have to use manacles in the operation he was performing today with the assistance of two fellow doctors, Mr. Fox and Mr. Hill. He had ordered the administering of a large dose to his huge patient, a bull-like laborer who had received a set of gear wheels in his chest that very morning. Fox had protested. Fox was an able doctor and Treves’ closest friend among his colleagues. As such he was one of the few of his peers who ventured to criticize him. Treves did not take kindly to criticism.
“I say, Freddie,” he’d said in his languid voice, “don’t you think that’s a bit—I mean it’s enough to kill him—”
“He can stand it,” said Treves briskly, as he tied on the black leather apron he wore for operations. “It’s coming round that would kill him with a wound like that.”
Hill placed a cotton mask over the man’s nose and mouth and applied the chloroform. The patient struggled for a moment, but soon his moans of agony subsided and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Treves examined the wound, which was fearful. The marks of gear wheels grew progressively deeper as they neared a great open gash in the center of the chest.
“How long has this man been here?” he demanded.
“Three-quarters of an hour,” Fox told him.
At the far end of the table two students held onto a rope that was tied to the patient’s legs. They were pulling on it with constant pressure.
“Hodges, Pierce, come closer,” Treves ordered them. “Mr. Hill, take hold of the rope, please.” He waited till the exchange was complete before addressing the students again. “It’s a machine accident. I expect you’ll be seeing a good deal of this.”
The two youngsters stared uneasily at the gaping wound, which bubbled bloodily every time the patient took a breath. Together Treves and Fox were doing an expert job of repairing the ripped chest. Treves chatted offhandedly as he worked.
“Abominable things, these machines,” he muttered. “One can’t reason with them.”
“What a mess.” Fox made a face of disgust. There was some part of his stomach that still rose up in outrage at a sight like this and had to be fought down. He felt ashamed of his weakness. A doctor should learn callousness. Look at Treves, a cold-blooded devil if ever there was one.
Treves glanced up at that moment and noticed the students’ faces, which were ashen.
“Irons please, Mr. Hodges,” he said curtly. There was nothing like forcing a queasy student to take a practical part in an operation to make him forget his own feelings.
As the operation progressed, Fox had to admit that Treves had been right about the chloroform. The man’s massive frame had borne it well. If anything, he was not sufficiently asleep, and as the work drew to a close an occasional groan was wrenched from him. But even Treves was not prepared to risk a larger dose. As he cauterized