Chapter 184: More Advanced Surgery [1]
Alexandre Dumas, the father of genre literature, was a legendary figure in nineteenth-century Paris. Despite facing discrimination for his mixed-race and Black heritage, he managed to rise through the ranks of French literary society. Still, he once admitted that he lived in constant fear his work would be forgotten or dismissed. Maybe it was because he had to live in the shadow of someone as towering as Victor Hugo. I was not entirely sure.
Is it just me? Why does he look so timid?
There was no reason for it. The man standing in front of me was not just a mixed-race writer to be looked down on. He was Alexandre Dumas. And he had done quite well for himself during the July Revolution.
“I’ll take you there.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Look at that. Even the coachman was groveling to a man in his twenties. People really did shrink in front of power, especially in times like these.
When I get back, I should put on a grand dissection show…
Thank goodness our future Queen Victoria was rumored to be an anatomy enthusiast. I was not trying to succeed only for myself. I was doing it for others, too. After all, there were bound to be more people like Korai in London. Of course, if someone tried to pull that kind of nonsense in London, Sword Master Sir Liston would probably cleave them in half with a scalpel. When words and reason failed, sometimes the only thing left was force.
“Dr. Pyeong.”
While I was entertaining my not-so-noble thoughts, Dumas turned to me. His curly hair and round face gave him a boyish charm. Come to think of it, he was older than me.
“Ah, yes?”
“It was a sudden request, but thank you for agreeing without hesitation.”
Dumas bowed his head. Only then did I realize I had no idea where we were headed. In the past, I would never have accepted such a vague invitation.
Well, we’re all nineteenth-century men now…
Mindset. If you got in the wrong carriage, you got in the wrong carriage. No complaints.
After brushing off that reckless joke in my head, I straightened up. I did not care much about how I appeared to Liston or the others, but to someone like Dumas, I wanted to make a better impression.
“It was nothing. We’re all human, aren’t we?”
“Haha. Thank you for saying so. Actually… someone very close to me is seriously ill.”
“Seriously? Where exactly…?”
“Well, since you’re a doctor, I figured you would know. It hurts here.”
He looked slightly embarrassed and gestured to his chest. It was a strange way to explain it.
“Is it a woman?”
“Yes. Her name is Sophie Germain. Have you heard of her?”
“No…”
Even with all my knowledge of the twenty-first century, the name did not ring a bell. But judging by his tone, she was clearly someone important.
“She received an award from the Academy of Sciences. She is a brilliant mathematician.”
“Ah…”
A female mathematician in the nineteenth century? France really did have a reputation for being somewhat progressive. If it had been England, a woman talking about mathematics would have gotten her book torn to pieces.
“Ah, we’re here.”
Despite her reputation, Sophie Germain’s house was not fancy. It was not shabby either, just modest. Then again, pure sciences like mathematics had never been moneymakers. That was as true in the twenty-first century as it was now.
“Yes.”
The area around the house was reasonably clean. There were no visible signs of poverty. Sure, there was the usual street filth. There was poop even outside the British royal palace. But this was not a slum. No one looked threatening. A good sign.
Knock, knock.
As I was mentally checking for hygiene issues, Dumas knocked. Someone promptly opened the door, as if expecting us.
“She’s inside?”
“Yes. She’s waiting.”
“Good.”
Dumas glanced back at me and gestured.
“I brought the doctor I mentioned. You remember? He’s the one who contributed greatly to the Royal Academy of Surgery.”
“Ah… Yes, yes. Thank you for coming!”
The maid, though dressed in modest clothes, was neat and polite. Judging by her demeanor, Sophie Germain must have treated her well. Maybe I was biased, but I had always had a soft spot for people who treated their staff kindly. A person’s attitude toward those weaker than them said a lot.
That alone made me approach with some goodwill, though the stench coming from the room quickly soured it.
This smell…
It was not just the usual smell of an unventilated nineteenth-century home. It was something else.
Bacterial.
“Please… come quickly. I’m sorry I couldn’t get up.”
Naturally, the closer we got to the room, the worse the odor became. At the far end, a woman sat on a bed, pale, thin, and clearly unwell.
“No! Oh dear, I’m sorry—”
Dumas waved casually, clearly a familiar friend.
Then he came over and whispered to me.
“I’m sorry about all this. In fact, all the other doctors gave up… But isn’t your situation somewhat like mine? Dr. Pyeong, I think you understand.”
It took me a moment to get it. Then I looked at myself, at Dumas’ skin, and at Sophie Germain’s gender.
Right. These were all people ostracized by mainstream society and academia, whether for race, gender, or background.
As I approached the patient, Dumas quietly filled me in. Sophie Germain had published under the male pseudonym Auguste Antoine Le Blanc. I did not recognize the name, but it was clearly male.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Pyeong.”
“Ah… yes. Dr. Pyeong…”
Like all patients near death, her voice was dry and hoarse. She sounded dehydrated. At first, I thought it was an acute infection, but on closer inspection, I realized it was something else. She was emaciated.
Cachexia…
It often appeared in cancer, but also in chronic illness. Simply put, she was severely wasted. She was not even sixty, but she looked over seventy. That was a short life expectancy for our time, but those who survived this long usually had a fighting chance to live even longer.
“I’ll leave my bag here for now.”
“Yes…”
In the twenty-first century, this would have been a case for palliative care. But here in the nineteenth century, everything was more difficult. Still, I had to try.
Clink.
I began laying out my tools, though with less confidence than usual. I started by spreading out a cloth that had been boiled and dried in the sun. It would not keep everything sterile, but it was better than nothing.
“May I take a look?”
I already knew where the pain was, so I asked politely. Sophie Germain nodded. Dumas, showing good sense, had already stepped outside.
Huh.
With trembling fingers, Sophie removed her clothes. And there it was, a sight all too familiar to a modern surgeon.
Breast cancer…
It was located in the right breast. It was unmistakably malignant. Quite large.
This should never get to this point… But… no.
In the modern world, we would call this neglect. But in the nineteenth century, cancer was basically a death sentence. They did not fully understand it, but they knew it was a disease that emerged mysteriously, caused great suffering, and inevitably killed.
“I’ll examine it more closely.”
“Yes…”
I put on gloves and palpated the area. I could not determine if there were lymph node metastases, but I could confirm it was still a local lesion. Fortunately, it had not adhered to the skin or chest wall. It was about four centimeters in size. By modern standards, that would make it Stage 2.
But what’s causing that smell?
It did not smell like cancer. And she had not lost this much weight from the tumor alone.
Ah… Bedsores.
That explained it. Immobile for too long, she had developed pressure ulcers. A common affliction of the elderly or infirm. In Korea, they were sometimes called “king’s disease” because many monarchs had died from infected boils on their backs.
“Patient, does your back hurt?”
“Yes… My back hurts more. But I wanted you to see the other part…”
“I’ll check your back first.”
I turned her over. It was easy. She was painfully light.
“Hmm.”
The boil on her back was large, partially burst, and oozing. The servant had tried to help by offering a new towel, but a corner of it had stuck to the wound. It would hurt to remove it.
The good news was that I had anesthesia.
“I’ll need to operate. But I can’t do it alone. Also…”
The operation had to be done while she was prone. I could try it while she lay on her side, but her bony pelvis would develop new sores.
“Dumas. Do you know a carpenter?”
“Huh? Are you going to cut off her back?”
“No…”
I need equipment.