After helping with that case, I slipped off to my room to get ready, expecting to return to the amphitheatre for my own operation; but, while I was undressing, “Polly” rushed in to say that Dr. Paxton would operate in my own room. This was a relief. Soon they came: Higginson, the new house-doctor, carrying the tray with instruments and dressings, James with the chloroform and the inhaler, and Dr. Paxton in his operating gown.
Lying down on my little white bed, with an outward semblance of composure, I inhaled the chloroform. The surgeon listened to my heart, and, after assuring me it was all right, began himself to give me the anesthetic. The first few breaths were not so bad; then I felt the stuff insidiously stealing through me. “Ah! how sweet it is,” I remember saying—a peculiar, sickish sweetness that I can never smell now without recalling the scene and my growing terror of the drug as its effects crept through me, faster and faster, and I impotent to stay its power. I remember noting and analyzing my sensations as it progressed; remember the feeling of confidence in Dr. Paxton’s assurance that it was all right; then I opened my eyes and saw James bending over me. He had the inhaler now, and was looking at me with such a pitying gaze that I felt sorry for myself, and told myself I must be careful or I should whimper, which would be disgraceful. Still it kept stealing on, and yet I knew what they were all doing. I heard preparations; heard the new doctor stutter as he tried to ask about something, getting so tangled up that it made me want to laugh, but reminded myself I must not. It was all so curious—to be able to think these things and yet to feel this creeping, creeping up slowly, surely. Ah, now I am almost gone—an instant of rebellion—it must not be, I cannot succumb; but, following quickly, came the realization that it must be, and that I must not struggle. Once more I opened my eyes and looked at them all—poor “Polly”! the tears were streaming down her cheeks; and James looked wretchedly unhappy. I knew that in another moment I should be beyond recognizing anything. They said I gave a low, piteous cry (I seem to remember even this), and said, “I’m going now—watch my pulse!” Even then I felt Dr. Paxton take my wrist, and assure me in a voice that sounded very far away, “It’s all right, Doctor, all right!”
The next I knew I found myself in my bed with my head turned in the opposite direction. “Polly” was moving quietly about the room; and by my side sat Dr. James holding my hand, and smoothing my arm in a kindly way. Scarcely a trace was left in the room of what had taken place there. A feeling of incredulity, almost of indignation—had nothing been done to my thumb, then, after going through with all that! I started to ask why they had not done it, but seeing my bandaged hand, and simultaneously becoming conscious of a newer sharper pain than I had ever felt, I had to believe that it was all over; but how could it be, and I not know it! Then I began laughing! I started to chide “Polly” for letting James stay in the room; but could not do so for laughter. James tried to pacify me, talking as though I were a sick child—the same way I had talked to ether patients. The oddity of this coming over me, I said, “I’m just like any other silly patient,” then laughed afresh; and the more I laughed, the less self-restraint I had. But, impressed with the necessity of assuring them that I knew what I was about, I said: “I know what I am saying, and why you are laughing, but I don’t care—I know who you are, you are Dr. James, and you’re holding my hand, and I don’t care if you do,” and I laughed in reckless abandon. “Polly” was distressed; she knew I would be angry later. James looked delighted. “Do you like it?” he asked—the rogue! “Yes, I like it—it feels so big and strong.” How he shouted! That shout sobered me. In no time I was completely myself—no more aware than before, but with the Censor at the helm.
After that James used to try to squeeze my hand, reminding me that it was my real self that had spoken then—in wine (and chloroform) one speaks the truth.
Shortly after that two fingers on my left hand became infected, and again I had to be lightly anesthetized and operated. By that time I was so much run down they kept me in bed for days, taking excellent care of me—a rather delightful experience. The visiting physicians and surgeons called; the nurses were more than attentive; the Dispensary house-staff came over and read to me, and groaned to think they had been debarred from my operations. Breynton said he would have liked nothing better than to have given “the little angel” the anesthetic; and James told him he would have been welcome to the job, but mischievously added that he was willing to watch me come out of the chloroform. It was much harder after that to keep James within bounds. One day when “Polly” had gone from the room a minute, he grabbed up my hair which lay across the pillow, and winding it around his neck, buried his face in it for an instant. Astonished and angered, I felt wronged and insulted. Half-contritely, half-teasingly, he tried to laugh me out of my wrath, and “Polly” coming in just then, I was obliged to act as though nothing had happened. On his good behaviour after that, he never transgressed so seriously again. I could never think of that impulsive act of his without my cheeks burning with shame.
My own time soon came to leave the hospital. The night before, I went over to the College, went in each empty room, lingered in the halls, and even down in the stuffy Dispensary quarters. I thought of all that had happened during the time since Belle and I had first entered that building on that rainy October day, and wondered what changes would come before I should see the place again. Even then the girl who had entered College seemed a different person from the one who was leaving Boston on the morrow. In the same way I went about the hospital, loth to break with it all, and trying as it were to gather up the spent life I had lived there. It was with a queer kind of satisfaction to note that they all seemed sorry to see me go. I felt jealous of the new student, my successor; felt pained that I was no longer necessary; that the routine would soon continue as smoothly as ever. As the hour drew near I felt tenderly toward everyone—patients, nurses, the janitor, the bell-boy, even the opinionated English nurse, “Wraggie,” for whom I had no real liking.
As they all crowded around the door-way at my leave-taking, and the other house-doctors came over from the Dispensary, I saw regretfully that Breynton was not among them; the night before he had said he would surely see me again. But as the cab left the hospital grounds and I leaned out for a last look at the College, I saw Breynton signalling the cab-man to stop—he had stationed himself there at the entrance to say good-bye. It touched me to see his altered manner—instead of his jovial hectoring ways, a big brotherly fondness and regret showed in face and voice. A warm handclasp, then, as the horses started up, his wholesome smile shone out encouragingly, and he said in his old bantering way, “So this is the last of the ‘Little Angel’!”
The cab whirled me to the station, the same station where Belle and I had landed three and one half years before when we had come to this strange city—the city I was now leaving with such a store of memories! It had grown very clear, it always will be dear—my beloved Boston!