“Get out of here, Trip.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
She held a sheet up over her mouth. “I think I have tuberculosis.”
He went white. Both of them knew a student nurse had died the year before. Two other bronchitis patients turned out to have active TB.
Trip kept coming. She grabbed the cord and pressed the button over and over. A nurse came running.
“Get him out of here. Now!”
“Hildie!”
Sobbing, pulling the sheet over her head, she turned away.
The nurse escorted Trip from the room, then came back. “Shouldn’t you wait until the test results come back before-?”
“And risk exposing someone? You should wear a mask! And keep people out of here!”
She didn’t have to ask the doctor what the X-rays showed. She could see it plainly on his face.
“We need to send fluid to the lab before we can be sure.”
Small comfort. He aspirated fluid from her infected lung and sent it to the lab, where it would be injected into a rat. The doctor ordered her to the contagion unit.
Trip came immediately. She refused to see him. He wrote a note and gave it to a nurse.
Crying, she insisted on plastic gloves and a mask before she wrote back to him.
She didn’t want to take any chances on infecting him or anyone else.
Hildie spent the next few weeks on the isolation ward, waiting for test results. Trip kept coming back. “You’re the most stubborn, willful woman I’ve ever met,” he called through the door.
The tests came back positive.
36
“We don’t know enough yet about tuberculosis.” The doctor looked apologetic. Several nurses had died over the last few years. Clearly he didn’t want to give false hope.
Hildemara knew she had little chance of survival with a history of pneumonia.
“I’ve ordered bed rest.”
She gave a bleak laugh. As if she hadn’t been in bed resting for weeks!
“Merritt doesn’t have a contagion ward dedicated to TB, so you will be transferred to a sanatorium. There are several from which to choose, but you’ll need to make your decision right away or the hospital administration will have to decide for you.”
Though Hildie had contracted tuberculosis while working, it still remained unsettled whether Merritt Hospital administration would pay for her care. Not wanting to accumulate debt, she chose the least expensive facility, Arroyo del Valle, a county sanatorium in the Livermore hills. They offered financial aid. If she survived, she would need it. She found herself wondering who would have to pay the bills if she died. Citizens, of course. Taxes. She felt ashamed.
Trip protested. “There’s a better hospital right here in the Bay Area.” He stood in the hallway, speaking to her through the barely open door.
She didn’t want to tell him her reasons. Why waste money if she wasn’t going to live anyway? “I’ll do better out in the country with space and fresh air around me.”
“I’m going to call Rev. Mathias. He can perform the wedding right here in the hospital. Jones would come.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. There’s no cure, Trip.”
“I’m praying for you. I’ve got the whole church praying for you. My folks are praying. Their church is praying. Your mother, Bernie, Elizabeth…”
“Stop it, Trip!” Every breath hurt. Her heart ached even more. She panted for a moment until she had breath to speak. “What if it’s not God’s will?”
He pushed the door open and came in. “You’re giving up. Don’t you dare give up!”
A nurse appeared almost immediately. “You can’t be in here!”
“I’ll go for now, Hildie, but I won’t go far.” When the nurse took him by the arm, he jerked free. “Give me a minute!” He set the nurse aside and walked over to the bed, grabbing Hildemara by the wrists as she held the bedcovers over her mouth. “I love you, Hildie. Nothing is ever going to change that. In sickness and in health. I swear to you before God and this witness.” He jerked his head back toward the nurse calling down the hall for security. “As long as we both shall live.” He caressed her wrists before he let go of her. Two men appeared in the corridor. He raised his hands. “I’m going.”
“To the showers first,” one informed him.
Hildemara wondered if TB would be as painful a death as cancer, or if she’d die of a broken heart first.
Hildemara’s first letter at Arroyo came from Mama. Only one line.
Just like Mama to give an order.
Several other nurses had been sent to Arroyo. Everyone got along. Hildie supposed it came from having so much in common with one another. They talked about nursing, families, friends, doctors, cases they had worked. They played games, read books, spent time outside in the sunshine, and slept. To anyone else, it probably would have sounded like a vacation.
The fluid extractions felt like slow torture. She suffered from night sweats and high fevers. After weeks of rest, she still felt weak. Frustration and grief increased her depression as time passed and she felt no improvement.
Trip came to visit. She gave up trying to make him stay away.
Her roommate, Ilea, also a nurse, shared her mother’s delicious homemade fried chicken, potato salad, and chocolate chip cookies with Hildie and anyone else who came to visit. Her fiance came often. Several patients had husbands; a few had children. One with kids died a week after Hildie came to the hospital. Not all the boyfriends and husbands proved as faithful as Trip. Some never came.
Mama wrote again.
Hildie wrote back.
A week later, Mama showed up without warning.
Hildemara glanced up in surprise and saw Mama standing a few feet away. “Mama?”
She had that look on her face that meant trouble. “You’re my daughter. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”
Hildie coughed into a handkerchief. Mama sat slowly, watching her, expressionless. When the spasm finally stopped, Hildemara leaned back, feeling drained. “Sorry.” She saw the flash of something in Mama’s eyes. “Sorry I said sorry.” She offered a weak smile.
Mama had brought gifts. Cloe sent a beautiful lace-trimmed nightgown and bathrobe stylish and expensive enough for a Hollywood movie star. She had tucked a note in the folds.
