"Ugh…"
The obstetrics ward, called a ward, was essentially like a prison.
Well…
Hospitals during this period were all like that.
A few dirty beds crammed into a narrow space, people locked in, and served barely edible food—that's a prison.
Of course, the obstetrics ward was the first to implement handwashing, and thanks to Joseph's near-obsessive attention, it had improved somewhat now.
It was clean.
"Does it hurt?"
"It must hurt. She's moaning."
"I meant, does it hurt a lot?"
"Doesn't it look like it hurts a lot?"
"Still, we should ask."
"I suppose so."
Other than that…
The windows located in hard-to-reach places, the beds crammed tightly together, and the completely unsorted patients made it a perfect 19th-century ward.
First of all, a doctor asking a patient so indifferently, "Does it hurt?" was also a problem.
Is this torture?
Even if I intentionally hurt someone and asked, I'd ask more sincerely than this.
"Here, feel it."
"Y-yes."
His attitude was problematic, but there was no time to deeply point out every minor detail.
Nor was there any leisure.
If we didn't intervene right now, she seemed likely to die.
Even though I'm almost a complete layman when it comes to obstetrics and gynecology…
'The amniotic fluid has already broken…'
If that mysterious-colored liquid soaking the sheets isn't amniotic fluid, what else could it be?
It would be fortunate if the fetal head was now positioned downward, but unfortunately, the patient's upper abdomen was very firm.
In an era without even X-rays, let alone ultrasound, more detailed confirmation was impossible, but this sensation was clearly the head.
So… what's now oriented toward where the amniotic fluid broke is the baby's feet.
This is called a breech birth, one of the worst types of difficult labor.
"What do you think?"
"The head seems to be up."
"Yes, that's right. Usually, in such cases… we wait, and if the head still doesn't turn, then we…"
"Then what do we do?"
I asked not to pick a fight but out of genuine curiosity.
Surely they must have done something, right?
They're doctors, after all.
"We pray."
"Ah, pray. And then?"
"And then, if it really doesn't work, we try to pull it out, but it usually doesn't work well."
Hoho.
Should I hit him just once?
Judging by his appearance, it seemed he'd already lost several patients, so one hit might be acceptable.
"There was a time we did a cesarean section… I don't even want to think about it."
But the moment I clenched my fist, Blundell's expression looked so pitiful that I couldn't do it.
Yes, where would you find a doctor who intentionally kills people?
They just don't know.
The problem is that the number is too high, and the period too long…
Given the times, it's also something that can't be helped on an individual level.
"Back then, there was no anesthesia or anything. The patient kept screaming… and then it got quiet, and when I looked, she hadn't just fainted but died. We barely managed to get the baby out, but by then, it was already…"
"Ah."
Blundell was suffering as he recalled the deaths he had experienced.
Actually, even in the 21st century, no doctor witnesses tragic moments as frequently as those in obstetrics and gynecology.
Wouldn't that be right?
Obstetrics is where both the mother and baby can die in a moment that should be full of joy and blessing—the birth of life.
In 21st-century hospitals, where difficult labor cases are even more common, it would have been even more so.
I quietly patted Blundell's shoulder and then turned to the patient.
A guardian, called belatedly, was also standing nearby.
"We need to perform a cesarean section."
"What?"
"You madman! Save my wife!"
He had seemed like a gentle person, but the moment I mentioned cesarean section, he snapped.
Calmly thinking about it, it was my fault.
I hadn't considered that during this time, cesarean section was synonymous with death.
But still, grabbing me by the collar and shaking me was a bit over the line.
"Ugh, that hurts."
"My wife is dying!"
"We're trying to save her, save her!"
"Don't make me laugh!"
I thought if this continued, I might really hit him.
Fortunately, Liston was also among our group.
"Ugh."
He was a bit late because he was tidying up the cadaver he had been practicing on and thoroughly washing his hands. As soon as he arrived, he grabbed the guardian's wrist.
Immediately, the guardian's face began to contort.
It must hurt.
No, it probably feels like dying.
I know Liston can bend iron bars like that.
"Gaaah!"
"It's true. We're trying to save her."
"Aaaaah! This wrist!"
"If I let go, will you listen quietly?"
"Y-yes, I will!"
"Good, then."
"Whew."
The guardian was instinctively examining his wrist, which had deep marks as if it had been pressed in a vise.
Probably, at this moment, he wouldn't even remember his wife or child.
It can't be helped.
That has nothing to do with love or anything; it's purely a pain-related reaction.
Anyway, like that, I was freed, and Liston bought time to explain.
"The era when cesarean section meant death is already over."
Those who know would know—now Liston is highly renowned as a famous doctor in London, and many people line up to be operated on by him…
But until just a few months ago, he had to actively solicit customers in the square.
It wasn't easy to amputate limbs without anesthesia.
Everyone avoided it, and Liston had to somehow persuade them to get it done.
Well, it was also to save lives, but he probably needed to do it to make a living.
Because of this background, Liston was very good at speaking, contrary to his appearance.
"There was a time like that before. But back then, there was no anesthesia."
"Ah, anesthesia."
"Yes. The professor you just grabbed by the collar is Dr. Pyeong, the one who created that very anesthetic."
"I-I'm sorry. But suddenly talking about cesarean section… opening the belly. Isn't that unrelated to anesthesia?"
"First, listen. Am I not speaking?"
"Ah, yes."
Seeing this, it's confusing whether he's good at talking or good at using his body.
Regardless of persuasion, he's making them listen, isn't he?
That skill…
'I don't think I can learn that.'
Is it intimidation?
Anyway, thanks to something similar, the patient and guardian were silently listening to Liston's words.
"We have already successfully performed more than ten abdominal surgeries."
That's a lie.
To be precise, it's eight.
We opened about three but found nothing, so we closed them again.
Two of those patients are now dead.
Ah, they didn't die because of the surgery.
We count those deaths separately.
Probably…
The cause of the abdominal pain was something else.
'Pancreatitis, arterial dissection… infarction, there could be many things. There could be cancer too…'
If we could have examined more thoroughly, we might have been able to diagnose it…
But so what?
Pancreatitis—even if we concede a hundred times, let's say we could somehow treat it.
Arterial dissection?
There's no point in looking; it just hurts the heart.
Infarction? Same thing.
Cancer?
What's the point?
Even in the 21st century, cancer remains unconquered.
'Fortunately, Mrs. Germain seems to be still healthy and alive… but it will probably recur someday.'
If it were a structure protruding externally, like breast cancer, we could at least attempt resection.
It's not for nothing that breast cancer wasn't the first attempted cancer resection…
But even that wasn't a definitive cure.
We can't even confirm if a safe margin was secured, and there's no chemotherapy or radiation therapy, right?
Cancers of internal abdominal organs, which are inevitably much more difficult, can't be touched, at least for now.
"In the past, people who would have died are now living perfectly well, that's what I'm saying. It's the same for your wife. I see the baby is positioned upside down. Do you know what the probability of the mother surviving in this case is?"
Anyway, Liston was still talking vehemently.
At the word "probability," even Blundell and I pricked up our ears.
"0%! 0%!"
And as expected, a lie popped out, making me think, "That's so Liston."
Isn't Liston the kind of man who can do anything for his purpose?
It's fortunate he's not a villain.
If he were, London would already be a hellfire.
"But with surgery, nine out of ten survive."
"Ah… have you done it many times already?"
"W-well, of course."
Another lie.
This is the first time!
At least he seemed to have a last shred of conscience, as he stammered slightly.
But anyone talking to Liston couldn't possibly be in their right mind.
It was absolutely true for those who didn't frequently encounter him, like Blundell and me.
The guardian was the same, so he just let out a sigh of relief.
"Ah… that's a relief."
"Yes, it's a relief. So leave it to us."
"Yes. Please…"
"Good, then."
When it was just Blundell and me, I thought we might not even get to surgery and just get beaten up…
But as soon as Liston joined, it went smoothly.
Not only the guardian but also the patient who was listening seemed persuaded and kept thanking us.
So we moved the patient onto a stretcher and headed to the operating room.
Since carrying the stretcher was the students' job, Blundell, I, and actually Liston, who should have been leading the way in moving the patient more than anyone, hung back slightly.
"Hey, you."
Liston spoke to the two of us following behind.
He had his arms around our shoulders.
It reminded me of my middle school days when I encountered bullies at Moran Station, and listening to the end, it was no illusion.
"Do well."
"Huh?"
"I always try to do well, but… you know. It's a difficult surgery."
"No, save her today no matter what. My reputation is on the line."
"What, what are you talking about? We're the ones doing the surgery, so why is your reputation on the line?"
"Exactly."
It was bewildering.
We're the ones doing the surgery, so why is his reputation on the line?
"I already assured the guardian. I said we've done it many times."
"So why did you lie?"
"Ah."
"Would we be able to operate now if I hadn't?"
"Well, no, we wouldn't."
"That's true, but…"
Hearing him out, it sort of made logical sense.
It's not that I like the logic, but it's persuasive.
Why?
Because since a while ago, the arm Liston has around our shoulders has been gradually tightening.
If I make a wrong move here, it might break.
"Save her no matter what. This isn't a request."
"Ah, I understand."
"We'll do that."
Is this Persuasion: Physical Skill?
Blundell and I, who had only practiced on cadavers, were now burning with the determination to save her no matter what.
After exchanging a glance, we thoroughly scrubbed our hands, put on gloves, scrubbed again, and headed inside.
Alfred, who could hardly be called anything less than an anesthesiology specialist, was waiting first.
"Shall we?"
"Hmm, do it."
"Let's do it."
With a creaking sound, the gas valve turned, and the patient was soon anesthetized.
Is that anesthetic gas safe?
It couldn't be.
It probably goes directly to the fetus, right?
It might not, but it's always right to imagine the worst medically.
"Let's hurry."
"But we have to save her no matter what?"
"That's why I said let's hurry. That anesthetic gas often kills people, you know?"
"Is that so?"
"Wouldn't a baby be weaker than an adult?"
"Oh, fuck."
Perhaps because it was so spot-on, Blundell also swore.