Obsession with Hygiene.
That's the best way to describe the current situation.
Since when did these lunatics care so much about cleanliness?
"Ow... my hands sting."
"Hah! If you want to kill miasma, you have to go this far!"
Honestly...
If it weren't for Liston, I would've punched someone.
'Well… I can't really argue.'
Who should I even blame?
I'm the one who made them soak their hands in chloride of lime.
Though I did dilute it and used soap for myself...
Now I'm paying the price.
'When I get back, I'll tell them that washing with soap alone reduces miasma significantly, and that disinfecting just the gloves is enough... Wait, no—that's not actually true, is it?'
But should I just let them keep doing this?
If soap alone were enough, we'd still be using just soap in the 21st century.
For routine patient care, soap is sufficient, but surgery...
This isn't surgery.
I used povidone instead.
And not just rubbing it on—scrubbing with a brush.
'Is this even necessary?... No, it isn't.'
Is it because my brain has been marinating in 19th-century thinking?
I feel like this is overkill.
No, I thought it was overkill.
For a brief moment!
"Alright... let's put on gloves."
"Who goes in bare-handed?!"
"Huh? Pyeong! You're too filthy!"
...
This is good.
Even if it's annoying that they're acting like this, it's still progress, right?
A 19th-century doctor who cares about hygiene?
Heh.
They've gone insane.
"Alright... Madame. There's probably miasma here."
"No, no! Wait a second!"
Even so, pouring chloride of lime directly on the wound is crossing a line.
It damages the skin.
The skin is a protective barrier.
If that's compromised, infections will only get worse...
"Why not?"
"We have to eliminate the miasma!"
"Right! This needs to be done!"
"No, no. Hold on... Not on the patient. She's already in pain."
How should I explain this?
The skin is a barrier...
I fumbled for words, and Liston just laughed.
"Haha! Since when does pain matter? Pyeong, we're on the verge of a great breakthrough. After dealing with cholera, it all clicked in my head. Once we present this in London... hahaha!"
A genius is still a genius, it seems.
Something just clicked for him...
The problem is, modern medicine wasn't built by just one or two geniuses like this.
Countless geniuses went through countless trials and errors to create modern medicine.
You can't do it alone!
"Uh... Professor. Oh, right! Alfred, senior!"
"Huh? Why me? I was keeping quiet. I didn't do anything."
They say desperation brings clarity.
For others, maybe. For me, my savior was... no, Alfred, my senior.
He was shaking his hands frantically, having suffered enough already.
Understandable.
I still feel bad about the urinary catheter incident.
But since I wasn't planning anything like that now, I could speak confidently.
"No, not like that. Show me your hand."
"My... hand?"
"See this wound here?"
"I do. Quite a nasty one. How'd you survive without amputation?"
The cut I got during dissection.
Liston frowned as he examined it.
The wound itself wasn't that deep, but I had kept scraping at it, leaving a nasty scar.
A small price to pay for survival...
'He's glaring at me.'
Either the pain was coming back or Alfred was just resentful—he shot me a venomous look.
Didn't matter.
What was I supposed to do?
"It was my fault. Anyway! So, when you get a wound, it rots, right?"
"Yeah, obviously. That's common sense. Get lucky and live, or die—or lose a limb."
"Why does it rot?"
"Huh? Why? That's... common... Wait. Rotting... Miasma causes that. You don't mean..."
Liston's gaze shifted from Alfred's hand to the patient's back.
The festering pus was impossible to miss.
"Yes, exactly. That's what happens."
"Hmm... That makes sense. But?"
"What does it mean to have a wound?"
"It means the skin is torn and bleeding."
Right!
Exactly!
Smart people are so much easier to teach.
I glanced at Blundell, who looked uncertain, and my three students, still confused, before continuing.
"Yes. My theory is this: When the skin tears, miasma enters through the gap. That's why wounded people rot."
"Oh... Oh! So if it's just on the surface, it's fine? Ah, right! Hmm."
"Which means, if the patient's skin is damaged, the risk increases."
"I see. Wait, then—what about our hands?! Are we going to rot too?! No, that can't be! My hands hold London's fate!"
Liston was practically having a meltdown.
How do I tell him that minor cuts on healthy people usually heal fine?
No idea.
Even selling Joseon wouldn't work here.
So I changed tactics.
"We wear gloves."
"Ah. Right."
The logic had holes, but given that their knowledge was the hole, they swallowed it whole.
"The conclusion is: We scrub. The patient gets something gentler. That's the plan."
"Right, right. So what do we use?"
Would a lie work?
"I tried distilled alcohol, and the miasma decreased."
"Alcohol? So those old methods actually had merit?"
"Ah... maybe."
"Huh. If you say so. Fine, let's use alcohol."
"Yes, yes."
It worked.
They bought it!
This must be what they call a "white lie."
As I watched their understanding of hygiene and germs slowly correct itself, I poured strong liquor over the patient's back.
If we only had wine, it wouldn't have done much, but thankfully, finding whiskey in Paris wasn't hard.
Drip, drip.
Anyway, after disinfecting the wound, I waited for it to dry and picked up the scalpel.
I almost made the first cut before Liston stopped me.
"Whoa, whoa. No anesthesia? You've got a cruel streak, don't you?"
"No, that's not it."
I just forgot.
When patients lie like this, they're usually already under...
But in this group, where my image is already warped, my explanation fell flat.
Instead, they all stared at me like I was a monster.
"She agreed, so it's fine... right?"
"You're telling her to endure it through sheer will. I went through that. I almost died, you know?"
Alfred, come on.
You did almost die, but it wasn't because of me—it was the wound.
I saved your life, and this is the thanks I get?
While I was flustered, Liston spoke up in an unusually gentle tone.
"Madame, this will hurt. Just for a moment. You can endure it."
"...Yes, I'll try."
It almost sounded like flirting.
Liston noticed my expression and shrugged.
"If you want to be popular, try being like me."
"That's..."
"Too hard for you. You're too cold-hearted."
"I'm not."
It was unfair.
But I couldn't argue.
Not when it's Liston.
Somehow, just looking at his face made my resentment and anger vanish.
"Alright, Madame. This will hurt."
"It... really does. This friend of mine... haha."
Ignoring Liston, I made a quick incision with the scalpel.
"Ngh—!"
A groan escaped the patient as foul-smelling pus oozed out.
"Gauze."
"Gauze? Oh, this."
Leaving it alone would've been better than before.
But I had to squeeze.
Only then could I get it all out.
Thankfully, after dealing with cholera, I'd prepared some supplies—including something resembling gauze.
Just clean cloth scraps, but...
"GAAAH!"
"Pyeong! What the hell are you doing?!"
I grabbed the scraps and squeezed the pus from both sides.
The remaining pus gushed out—along with the patient's scream.
Everyone was horrified.
Especially Liston.
For all his bravado, he's probably the most concerned about patient pain in the world.
Why do you think he used that blade?
Why do you think he amputated in 30 seconds?
He wanted the pain to last only that long.
"This is how she lives."
"This is how she lives?! This is monstrous! If I'd known, I'd have given her anesthesia!"
"Huh?"
"You do this but refuse anesthesia... unbelievable."*
This from the man who casually saws off limbs.
Seeing him look at me like I'm the cruel one is just... unfair.
I'm literally trying to save her life...
"I-I'm alright."
Sophie Germain, true to her resilient nature, remained composed.
"I'll need to squeeze a few more times. Can you bear it?"
Sorry, but there's still pus.
In an era without antibiotics, an abscess like this could easily kill. I had to remove it all.
"Ah."
Sophie Germain paled. Liston leaned in and whispered in my ear:
"If I ever need someone tortured, I'm calling you."
I wanted to retort, but given how much this did look like torture, I stayed quiet.
I kept squeezing until every last drop of pus was gone.
Then came the dilemma.
'Should I suture it?'
With antibiotics, sure.
But without them, stitching this up might just breed more infection.
And this patient still needs a mastectomy, right?
If her weakened body gets infected, she'll die immediately.
"Let's leave it open for now."
"Huh? You're leaving the wound open?"
Thankfully, I had a ready explanation this time.
Again, thanks to Alfred.
"Senior, explain."
"Alfred?"
Under Liston's expectant gaze, Alfred instinctively tensed before realizing it wasn't a threat and spoke up.
"Ah, well... Thinking about it now, squeezing the wound doesn't get rid of all the miasma."
He looked traumatized just remembering.
"Then?"
"Weirdly... pus kept coming out for days. If we stitch it up now, we'd have to cut and squeeze again."
"Ugh. No thanks."
"Yeah. So... back then... a whole week? Honestly, I wanted to kill Pyeong."
"Understandable. Even if it's treatment... But if it rots, we have no choice. Madame, can you—oh, she fainted."
Liston gave me an accusatory look.
"Did she pass out from pain?"
"No, she was fine until you mentioned more squeezing... That's probably why."
"Ah."
I kept getting the feeling I was doing the right thing the wrong way.