Letter from Jean McElrott to Dr. Wilsey
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[The following is a letter to Wilsey from his friend Jean.]
St. Luke’s Hospital
Kansas City 2, Missouri
April 4, 1945
Dear Dr. Wilsey:
Wanna hear about my oper-
ation? (That’s why I haven’t replied
sooner to your good V. letter.) You
can only help yourself by enlisting
the aid of a handy trash basket. [Drawing of baby/elephant?]
Dr. Dickson operated two weeks
ago today and put a vanadium
(right?) cup in my right hip. Eight
days later we began physio and
twelve days later (after the op) took the stitches
out. Looks nice and clean and Miss
Wallace says the physio therapy is
coming all right. Painful, yes, but
only for a little while each day and
it’s so good to see the darn thing
move again that I’m not complaining.
I got off to a rather bad start
by going into shock during the opera-
tion, but they gave me a transfusion
[2]
followed by saline and then glucose
—and the nurses and interns
congratulate me every so often on
how well things have worked out for
me.
Remember what a nuisance it
was to try putting the gold in my
veins? They couldn’t find a surface
f bein to carry the transfusion (the
full length of my left forearm is
still a lovely green from trying) so they
incised my right arm near the
elbow and in straightening that elbow,
dislocated my shoulder.
Altogether it was much harder
on Mother than on me because
I didn’t know anything about most
of it and after the first two days
everything began clicking along
right.
Dr. Dickson was decidedly
pessimistic about what he could
do—he was so kind about it
that he frightened me, for, among
the patients he has a reputation
for roughness, both in speech and
action. I’ve decided, though, that he’s
economical rather than rough. He
[3]
doesn’t waste words or motions. Con-
sidering his age and the number of
patients he has, he probably can’t af-
ford to. But people like to be kidded
along and made to feel important,
so they think he’s rough because he
doesn’t ask if it hurts or how one
feels.
Well—fold up my little red
soap box with the collapsible, built-
in, disappearing device, and let’s
get on with the letter!
Dickson said he’d do my right
hip but didn’t think it would be
wise to try the left and he doesn’t
believe the right knee will ever
work right without surgery, either.
For me—I do one day at a time.
In another six weeks he’ll re-evaluate
the whole business and who knows
what he may say then, depending
upon how this hip business works
out. Meanwhile, I get a hydrochloric
acid cocktail with every meal and
a shot of calcium intravenously daily.
(Nobody’s tried stinging me with
bees, yet!) The arthritis remains almost
[4]
inactive—change of weather brings
occasional twinges, not worth noticing
comparatively.
I saw Edith green in Salt Lake
a week or so before we left. She
had that Vogue-groomed look and
was good to talk to as ever, but
she looked very tired. [J]udy wrote
that she had to have emergency surgery
about two weeks ago and had been
quite ill but was pulling out all
right. Edith told me you are chief
anesthetist with your outfit. Sounds
good—actually, I’ll bet it means
a devil of a lot of work.
How is Emily? Please do talk
about her—I liked her. (Incidentally,
I’m just beginning really to realize
what wonderful work a really
good physiotherapist does.) How
will you stand in regard to coming
home when peace is declared? [It]
will be difficult to believe when
it is.
Remember my sailor? He’s a [Lt.]
(jg.) navigator of a ‘super’ destroyer
somewhere in the Pacific now.
Mother sends ‘Greetings!’ We, with
a lot of other people, have our fingers crossed for you. Sincerely,
Jean