He looked over his work as she writhed in pain. Bright, pink flesh opened up into a magenta blossom, looking almost like art contrasted against the richness of her black skin. He sniffed over the air, his neatly manicured pyramid mustache twitching under his nose. He didn’t smell illness, and there was no visible seepage or any other indicators of infection. “I think this is going to be just fine,” he said while looking over the top of his oval glasses. “It is actually healing up very nicely. It looks a lot worse than it really is.”
What were once luxuriant, ebony hues that made up the complexion of her face were flattened to ailing and lackluster grays. Her eyes were sunken and dulled. “Imma not gonna make it, Doc,” she panted between breaths.
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll pull through,” he assured her. “You lost a lot of blood during the procedure, but get some rest and before you know it, you’ll be up and around in no time.” It sounded more like wishful thinking than actual fact.
“Not dis time,” she breathed. “Dis time’s de las’ you gone be cuttin’ up on me.”
“I was as careful as I could be,” he assured her. “I must’ve mistakenly nicked a uterine artery,” he said as some sort of confession. “I once saw Dr. Marion Sims explain at a lecture in Alabama that uterine arteries can spontaneously rupture during child birth, so it is not out of the ordinary. But, look,” he explained, “I never put you through the stresses of childbirth. Each child with you was delivered by Cesarean. The wound itself may be deep, but it isn’t as bad as it looks. It will heal from the inside out. You know that. You’ve been here before. There doesn’t appear to be any more internal bleeding, so we’re good that way. We’ll watch for infection in this open flesh, but I’m confident that you’ll be fine. Do you trust me?”
She didn’t answer. The question was too evil and sadistic. How could she trust him after all the experimental, torturous surgeries he performed on her? All the pain he caused her and the others, especially Venus, and Ophelia, his trusted subjects. She laid her head to the side and tried to seek refuge in sleep. Ignoring him was the best that she could do.
The surgeries were meant to be experimental but not torturous. Instead, his intention was the exact opposite. He wanted to be helpful, nurturing, and innovative in the field of medicine. He was never menacing, at least, that wasn’t his intention, and though he was never loving, he gave the courtesy of being gentle. In a twisted turn of medical ethics, the surgeries that were done without the added expense of anesthetic, even though morphine and chloroform was readily available, were intended for the greater good of the nation and the medical field at large.
He personally witnessed black women show a reaction to pain, but all of his study taught otherwise. He was a man of science, and science has determined that the negro was not the same as the white man. Pain sensors are dulled. Survival takes precedence over petty sensations of pain. How else could they meet maximized production quotas in such inhospitable conditions? West Africans, who were vital to the cultivation of rice in the swamps of South Carolina plantations, survived brutal summers when all white men left the dangerous swamps to the black slave drivers because disease-carrying mosquitoes infested the rice fields. Only sub-humans could survive such conditions. True, many died but much more survived, and the production suggested that they thrived. His anecdotal evidence of pain effecting the negro the same as white people was overshadowed by his readings. He had to trust the science and focus his work, not on negro health and safety but on the advancement of medical practices.
When the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade Act went into effect in 1808, the abolition of the shipping of slaves drove up their value by up to 40% by some accounts. The cost of women greatly increased, especially those in the peak of their childbearing years. In turn, figuring out the female body and establishing gynecological norms became important for breeding purposes. The race was on to grow stock through natural reproduction, so the doctor committed himself and his studies to doing just that.
Betty, as he called her, was one of eleven slave women that the doctor owned. He had his three favorite subjects, her, Venus, and Ophelia, but Betty was by far his favorite. In all the times that he cut upon her, approximately 20 or 25 (he’d have to verify in his journal), not once did she fester any infection, break down from pain, or show any signs of mental weakness or lack of fortitude in regaining her strength or nursing herself back to health. Betty was a survivor, yet he did sense that she was weakening in mind, body and spirit. His role for this latest and probably her last surgery, a Cesarean that brought a healthy baby boy into the fold, was to mentally coach her along to recovery; however, a few days after the procedure, she was showing no signs of recovery.
Venus was a light-skinned mulatto with high cheek bones and the delicate features and manners of a stereotypical house slave. She was relinquished by her master because she was headstrong and rebellious in a passive-aggressive kind of way. Those of the house saw her sassing back to her mistress as an entitlement that she enjoyed, and she took full advantage of her status, which was marked by her light skin. When her master refused to whip her like all the others on the plantation, the lady of the house insisted that she be sold. She demanded that she be gotten rid of at any price, so the doctor was able to acquire her on the cheap through a back-door deal made with her owner before she hit the block and sold to just anybody. The doctor appreciated her rebellious streak and saw it more as a sign of her intelligence.
Ophelia was the oldest of all the slave women, one of the first women the doctor obtained at an auction in South Carolina. Initially, she was a wet nurse, which allowed him to study lactation in his subjects without them having to actually nurse. But now she was so much more to him, taking on the duties of an actual, fulltime nurse. She could change bandages, wash patients, and provide mental stability, while cleaning wounds, applying salves, and administering medications. Ophelia was the matron on the premises, keeping tabs on, caring for, and overseeing the women and their offspring.
As the doctor stood over Betty to observe her movements and overall well-being, Ophelia wiped and patted her forehead with a rag that she dipped in cool water, wrung out, and repeated until Betty seemed to fall off to sleep. Through the night, Betty took a turn for the worse, and Ophelia was awakened by her anguished whimpering as her condition steadily worsened. Ophelia considered calling in the doctor but chose not to wake him.
It was near morning when Betty’s incoherent mumblings brought Ophelia to her bedside. Remembering her broad, child-like smile seemed like such a distant memory. Ophelia recalled Betty’s first surgery when the doctor removed a benign, fatty lump from her breast. She had held her and whispered in her ear to steady her as the doctor made his very first incision on her. She was in her prime, brought home by the doctor after he was given her by a patient who could not pay his debt. “It hurts less the less you squirm,” she said in hushed tones that only Betty could hear.
Several slave girls were actually acquired through debt repayment. Others were bought at auction, and two were taken over because elderly patients needed his care but had no free will or next of kin. Though these women were technically free at that point, the doctor convinced them to sign their freedom away to a peonage contract. The doctor had the luxury of boasting the fact that all the women in his flock were great specimens.
In the morning, the doctor was more jovial than he had been in quite a while. “Last night, I had a breakthrough, a revelation,” he said as he entered her room. “As I was making notes in my journal, I was finally able to clasp on to a missing piece of the puzzle. I thought the problem was a chicken or the egg conundrum, but it is not. I was over-thinking it, so it is a lot simpler than that! The vesicovaginal fistulas is being caused by the Cesarean its self. One Cesarean leads to another, does it not? Well…” he trailed off. “You, my love,” he took her by the hand and addressed her affably, “you have given birth to the world. You will save millions of lives and alleviate a lot of anguish for future generations of women,” he told her.
She never looked at him or acknowledged his presence. “Betty?” he called to her while shaking her by the shoulders. She reacted by trying to open her eyes that were nothing more than glassy slits. “Betty, my love, did you hear what I said?” He noticed that he still had her hand in his, and her hands were withered and cold.
Tiny beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Her lips were dried and cracked. She tried to verbalize something but didn’t have the breath for it or the wherewithal to convey a coherent thought. He pulled back the top cover to reveal a sheet that was soaked with a sugary fluid that created a stain in a tie dye pattern from an antique white to pink to crimson. He threw back that sheet to reveal the wound that was just yesterday healing nicely from the inside out to a cavernous hole that created an edge with dying and greying skin. What was once a vibrant, pink orchid looked caked and covered in purulent discharge.
“Venus!” the doctor called in a panic. “Venus, bring my kit. Please, hurry!” He vociferated. He knew he had the means to slow and perhaps kill infection, but he had never seen it engulf and sabotage a surgery so quickly as this, basically overnight. Infection must’ve laid just dormant under the surface the past few days and then attacked and ravaged the deep incision the first chance it got.
He pulled bandaging, bottles, and items out of his kit and dropped them to the floor as he continued to scrounge around in the bag. He grabbed bromine from his kit, soaked a rag with it, and started scrubbing on the wound. The pain had to be excruciating but Betty hardly even reacted to it. He then took his bottle of iodine and poured it over the gaping wound. It pooled here and there, so he grabbed another rag that fell on the floor and wiped hard at the pools. Some of the greying came off on the rag, but the bright magenta never returned. It was sickly dulled and starting to seep and bleed at the edges.
“Is she gone make it?” Venus asked. He shot her a look so mean and deadly that she quietly left the room as he tried to find some way to make the situation better. He was frustrated and at a loss.
Ophelia entered the room. He turned his anger on her. His face was bright red and water filled his eyes. “Ophelia, was there any indication that something was wrong with Betty when you left her last night?”
“She whined here ‘n’ there but dat’s all,” she answered.
“Why did you not awaken me?”
“I dint see fit.”
“If this infection spread throughout her body, we are going to lose Betty,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “Was this your mission?”
Ophelia didn’t answer. Instead, the two locked eyes. He felt challenged and this enraged him. In a fury, he grabbed a blue and white Chinese porcelain vase and raised it in the air as if he were going to strike her with it. She didn’t wince or waver, still staring him straight in the eyes. He then threw the vase across the room. It shattered against the wall. Betty moved her head and tried to open her eyes. It wasn’t clear if she was reacting to the loud clamoring or just offering involuntary movement. She looked pained but her gesticulations were more of a visceral, motorized reaction than any real acknowledgement of a conscious pain or a startled response to the crashing vase.
Venus re-entered the room. She had clean sheets for Betty and she made a B-line to her bedside. She pulled the soiled sheets off of the bed, cleverly pulling at the ones underneath her and slipping clean ones in their place without disturbing or paining Betty more. To cover her, she started opening up a clean, white sheet, whipping it to get air underneath it for it to gently lay down and cover the sickened soul. Ophelia went to assist her. The doctor stood in a stupor.
After Betty was enraptured in clean white sheets, Venus went to cleaning up the mess the doctor had made with the antiseptics and rags. After she picked those off the floor and put them into the pillow cases, she began picking up his belongings and putting them back into his kit. In his opened bag, she saw the sheath for his scalpel and the handle was exposed. She knew exactly what it was, for she’d seen it at least a hundred times in the doctor’s right hand.
She looked back at the doctor, who stood at the window rubbing his eyes and then staring out into the garden at the flowers he brought back from various countries he visited. Each flower was a representation of how lucky he was. He thought about how far he had come only now to be responsible for the death of Betty.
Venus slowly reached in the bag and grabbed the instrument. It easily pulled from its wrapping. She was just about to slip it into the squared pocket on the front of her bibbed dress when the doctor startled her by asking, “What did you just take out of my bag?”
“I wasn’ takin’ out, suh, I’s putting back in. You done dropped yo’ belongin’s trying to help Betty,” She put her hands together in her apron, bowed her head, and curtseyed.
“Don’t give me that house nigger act,” he barked. “What did you take from my kit?” He started coming toward her. The heat of his anger was felt, and a flush of panic washed over her. He was almost at arm’s length when he said, “You know that you’re never to touch my things unless instructed. It’s time you learn your place!”
He reached to grab her. She shrieked, stepped to the side to allude him, and cleanly sliced his throat with the scalpel. His hand fell on her shoulder, and she felt him try to grasp at her to seize reality. Startled, his eyes widened and blood emerged only when he attempted to speak. Nothing came out verbally, but when gobs of blood began spilling out of his mouth it was only then that Venus knew that she had hit her mark.
He staggered around, groping for something to hang onto until Ophelia buried the poker that sat by the fireplace deeply into the base of his skull. His face planted on the floor with a meaty thud; there was a slight twitch of his hand, and then stillness marked his death.
The two women looked at each other without saying a word, stunned in disbelief of the bizarre turn of events, and then they went to go tend to Betty. She, too, was still, but she was breathing shallow breaths. They started a fire in the fireplace and dragged his body nearer to it. Once they had a good base of bright orange coals, they started at his head and fed the rest of him in as each part was reduced to ashes. It was slow, methodical work, but they had the time and patience since the doctor lived alone and rarely entertained any type of visitor.
He was a recluse, consumed by his passions and his work. They went into his study and gathered his notes and journals and fed those to the fire that was devouring memories, demented meanderings, and physical traces of the doctor. If ever they were capable of feeling a release, this may have been it.
When the sun was about to set, Venus took his ashes and spread them out down by the pond on the furthest reaches of the property. She sat and absorbed the moment. The horizon burned as brightly orange as the coals that razed the doctor. Ophelia stayed behind and informed the women of their freedom.
