911: Doc Milly to the Rescue

Doc Milly Willy's my kinda-new neighbor, west of me on the Maple Lane cul-de-sac. I've known her only a couple years. Yes, her name's funny. Yes, she's young. Forty. Looks thirty. About five-foot-two, trim runner's build, ivory skin, chiseled features. (Jody Foster comes to mind.) Anyway, she's the kinda young woman a guy hopes his sons and grandsons might bring home and marry. Only Milly's already married to a neat guy.

Sounds silly: but Milly looks smart. It's something about the set of her eyes and the way she perks up, tips her head slightly to the side, and leans a tiny bit toward you when you say something to her -- as if she thinks your words may be important. She cares. That's it: Milly has a really alert and caring manner. She's an MD, an Emergency Medicine Specialist.

A good one. Here's how I know.

Last year, the final week of October, I shut down my table saw after a long day's work on the new deck I was building on my small island out in our pond. Here's some advice I learned the hard way that day: "Don't YOU shut down, until the saw's completely shut down. Here's why: before the blade quit spinning, I got too close, and it took a streak of hide off the the inside of my left ring finger and pinky.

That stung a little. When I took a quick look, I saw the unmarked inner muscles of those two fingers shining through the slice, all red, clean, and uncut. I thought: "Hmmmmnn! Not too bad." But MAN! Did that cut ever bleed. A real gusher. At first, I couldn't stop it no matter how hard I compressed the wounds.

So it was worse than I first thought. But I wasn't much worried. I've long been a devotee of Fourteenth Century medicine that acted upon the dictum: "bleding klenseth thy wonde." So what I finally did when the blood-flow ebbed a little was douse the cuts with alcohol and merthiolate. Then I wrapped the fingers tightly together with a mass of gauze I hoped would compress the wounds and act sorta like a cork. (My doctors degree is Educational Leadership. What can I say?)

Of course the bandage kept saturating with blood. But I just wound more gauze tightly around it, and when it got too bulky I cut the gauze away and started again from scratch. At each rewinding, I doused the wound with more alcohol and super-stinging merthiolate. Small wounds are small annoyances: ignore them and they'll go away. Or so I thought.


Four or five days later, the lawns along Maple Lane were high-shin-deep in leaves. At first light, neighbors poured out through open garage doors with bamboo rakes and power-blowers.

This was one of those chilly, far-late-autumn mornings where you bundle up in sweat-clothes, heavy hooded sweatshirts, and thick sweat-socks tugged up to your shins above your tennies. In the open air, you swing your arms, pat yourself all over, and hoot, because it's so chilly and you know for certain that summer's over.

It's late autumn. The leaves have long-since colored. Most have fallen. On Maple Lane it's Leaf-Raking time. Smart management gets them up in just two rakings.

And that's how several days after I cut myself, I found myself helping Milly clear away a huge pile of leaves near her mailbox. The cuts on my hand were slowly healing. But whenever I gripped anything firmly, the cuts usually opened and bled -- at least a little.

In the middle of the work, we paused a moment to stretch our backs and rest. In the midst of one of her deep stretches, Milly looked down and inadvertently noticed the smear of blood on my rake-handle. Next, she spied my bloody bandage.

In that one moment I saw her transform from the Milly I knew, to the Dr. Mildred Willy I had never before seen. She bent closer, peering intently at my hand. Her preliminary examination complete, she straightened, looked directly into my eyes, and extended her hand. Now she stood directly in front of me, her shoulders square, her head erect.

Her entire posture challenged me, dared me. Insisted I offer my hand. But I didn't want her to see it. I felt embarrassed. Didn't matter I'm nearly twice her age. I slid my hand quickly behind my back. I watched her slip through a sequence of roles: friendly neighbor, about-to-scold-mother. In a split second she arrived at imperious-attending-physician.

Good doctors do this. They take charge! Their confidence astonishes and cows.

I'd never met THAT Milly before. She was like: "I-see-you-screwed-up-Buddy! Never-mind-we'll-fix-it! Your-monkey-business-ends-here!" Of course she didn't say that. She didn't have to. Her posture and facial expression said all that. Along with "You-know-I-care-about-you!"

Still, I kept my wounded hand safely tucked behind my back. Then Milly jiggled her extended hand, signaling impatience. And though the gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, it commanded. Reluctantly, I complied.

Milly deftly slipped the blood-soaked bandage free. I clearly saw what she saw: not much swelling or redness. Just a small trickle of blood and oozing fluid. Merthiolate, 70% Isopropyl alcohol, and compression bandages may be primitive, but they were doing their work. Score one for the old guy.

Her professional examination complete, she drew herself up to her full SEVEN-FOOT height, looked straight into my eyes as seasoned leaders always do, and spoke with quiet firmness: "That wound's infected. It's not too bad yet. But it will be if we don't take care of it. Howcum no stitches? What's your pharmacy? I'm calling in a prescription for you this minute. Go pick it up." When I didn't move immediately, she added: "Right NOW!"

Like a naughty and repentant little boy, I spoke softly, in due-deference: "Monitor Pharmacy." Then I meekly asked: "Shouldn't I wrap this up first?" She graced me with a quick affirmative nod, turned, and trotted off through her open garage door to her nearest telephone.

About a week later my hand was completely healed.

I have a wonderful internist of my own, a friend who for many years has acted as my general practitioner. But, I don't like to bother TerryD with stuff I think I can handle myself. Believe me: over the past 30 years I've managed to hide from him several stupid things I've done. And I've survived reasonably intact.

And anyway, on Maple Lane I've got Doc Milly Willy right next door. Especially when I do something real dumb and can't hide it from her.

Is my world a good world, or what? So what's going on in yours?