Chapter 5: You Gotta Oil Up While Living (1) |
*
What do people live by?
Money? Food? Honor?
No.
'What do you mean, 'what'? You have to breathe to live.'
You have to be breathing before you can even begin to discuss body temperature, infection, or nutrition.
A newborn is no different.
At 34 weeks, the most important thing for an immature child born early into the world is spontaneous breathing.
A child born too early can suffer from respiratory distress because their lungs are not yet fully mature.
'Well, at 34 weeks, it's a borderline period where the lungs might just be mature enough.'
Perhaps these preparations won't be necessary.
'That would be for the best.'
It would be better for everyone if this just ended with me jumping the gun.
— #. One must grease the wheels to get by in life —
I returned to the Main Building, carrying a load of medicines and tools the baby might need.
The first thing I did upon my return was to check the maids' hygiene.
'Please, I hope they've washed properly.'
There are always one or two who try to cut corners when no one is watching.
Honestly, it's hard to blame the people of this world for being ignorant.
In an era where the concept of germs doesn't even exist, how absurd must the command to wash their hands sound?
Besides, the limewater is truly harsh. It's no exaggeration to compare it to bleach.
My own hands are a mess, so how much worse must it be for the midwife and the maids?
As women, their skin is likely much more sensitive, so it's understandable that complaints would pile up when they're told to endure it and wash.
I understand. I truly do.
'But still, this is not it.'
But a midwife coming to deliver a baby without washing her hands after handling cow dung at a ranch is just too much.
Even if they don't know about germs, isn't it common sense not to touch a baby with dung-smeared hands?
The problem is that the midwives of this era see no issue with it.
After experiencing similar incidents, I resolved not to argue about common sense in this world.
'So if they didn't wash their hands because their skin was peeling, I'll have to raise hell.'
I don't think the people of this era are barbaric, but I have no intention of making a compromise.
I can't compromise the lives of the mother in childbirth and the child just to respect the era, can I?
"I'm back. Everyone's washed their hands, right?"
The method to check if they've washed their hands is simple.
Limewater has a foul smell. So, if they've washed, their hands will reek of it.
Sniff, sniff.
Fortunately, none of the maids had tried to cut corners.
Although I'm a godson and not a biological child, I'm still a Young Master, so they seem to have followed my orders thoroughly.
This is why authority is the best.
"What about the towels?"
"As you commanded, we have prepared only boiled ones."
All the towels and blankets had been replaced with spotlessly boiled ones.
Good. They followed instructions well.
"Alright, now everyone please leave, except for the Head Butler and the Family Head."
"???"
Question marks appeared above the maids' heads at my order of expulsion.
I spoke to the maids in a menacing tone.
"From today, I will be taking care of the Godmother and the baby. Does anyone have any objections?"
"You, Young Master?"
"I am a doctor, and the patients are my family. Of course, I should be the one to look after them. If not me, then who? Now, everyone please leave."
Immediately after a baby is born, it's best to have as few people as possible coming in and out.
In an era where disinfection and infection prevention are difficult, it would be far more helpful for the survival rate to crudely have only myself and the mother in childbirth remain in the room.
I kicked out all the maids who kept trying to object.
The Head Butler and the Godfather were no exception.
After stubbornly kicking everyone out.
I stopped the Godfather at the entrance and explained the prognosis for the Godmother and the baby.
"Godfather. You can rest easy about the Godmother now. She should recover some of her strength in two days."
When I handled the afterbirth, there were no signs of bleeding to worry about, nor were there any notable issues with the amniotic fluid.
There were no events that raised concerns about infection either.
So, the Godmother will probably be fine.
She'll probably do nothing but sleep all day for two days, but that's not an illness; it's just how taxing childbirth is.
"The problem is our Young Lord... ah, have you decided on a name for the child?"
"...It's Fried."
"So you're giving them names starting with 'Fr' like Freya?"
I threw out a joke, thinking of the Godfather's only daughter.
I didn't know they used generational names in the West too.
Well, that's not what's important right now.
"Godfather. You may need to prepare yourself. Tonight will likely be the critical moment for our Fried."
"What? What do you mean by that!?"
"It seems Fried was in a hurry to see his father and came into the world too early. His lungs are too weak for him to breathe."
A common cause of death in a premature baby is 'Neonatal Respiratory Distress Syndrome'.
To explain it simply, it's a phenomenon where the baby can't breathe because their lungs are immature from being born too early.
"Let me explain in more detail. Normally, a person's lungs are coated with a thin oil film."
Thanks to this oil film, the small air sacs inside the lungs don't stick to each other even as they repeatedly contract and expand.
However, a premature baby is born before that oil coating is complete.
Without the oil coating, the air sacs can stick together like wet balloons and be unable to inflate again.
And as time passes, more and more air sacs become unable to inflate, and the baby becomes unable to breathe.
"Do you understand so far?"
"...How do you know all that?"
"I've probably handled a hundred pigs at the slaughterhouse in the Red-Light District. I learned it there."
Of course, it was knowledge from a past life that I had even before gutting any pigs,
but since I have the knowledge, and there have been pigs I've gutted, according to the three-part syllogism, I was telling the truth.
"So, if by any chance our Fried can't breathe, I will administer that oil from the outside so he can."
"Then what are you doing! Instead of explaining, hurry up and give it to him!"
"No, I was just informing you in advance that this measure might be necessary if he can't breathe, not that it's needed right now. I'm asking for your understanding beforehand because the treatment process might look a little rough."
"Yulian, I trust you completely. So do whatever you must, and just save Fried and Linier, just as you did for me."
The Godfather, clinging to me desperately.
No, just looking at his reaction, it's as if I broke some taboo and miraculously saved the Godfather.
When all I did was save him with a simple click of Quinine.
In any case, I received the Godfather's permission.
I approached the Godmother, who was drenched in sweat and hugging the baby.
"For the next week, I will stay by your side and watch over you, Godmother."
The Godmother looked at me with somewhat displeased eyes.
Unlike the Godfather, the Godmother did not like me very much.
I know the reason why.
'They say my mother was the Godfather's ex-fiancée.'
The fact that I am the 'son of her husband's ex-girlfriend' makes her uncomfortable.
Perhaps because of that, she has been using her status as the mistress of the house to foster an atmosphere of subtle ostracism against me within this mansion.
But that has nothing to do with me.
As they say, a protagonist should be magnanimous enough to embrace such petty grudges.
And it would be ridiculous for someone who will become the greatest doctor in the Empire to react so narrow-mindedly over something like this.
"Godmother. Please get some sleep for now."
The Godmother looked at me with dazed eyes,
then reluctantly nodded and closed her eyes.
***
The Baroness of the Nihilrit Family, Linier Nihilrit, had one particular worry.
It was her godson.
'What kind of child did that woman leave behind?'
Yulian Schnabel.
The child left behind by her husband's ex-fiancée and first love.
The Baroness Nihilrit was uncomfortable with this child.
It was because she thought she could see that woman in Yulian.
Of course, her husband always whispered that his wife was his last love and showed it through his actions, so that discomfort never turned into jealousy.
But she couldn't erase the anxiety in a corner of her heart.
She began to worry that he might pass the family on to Yulian, who wasn't his biological child.
Then one day, Linier heard something unexpected from Yulian's tutor.
- [The Young Master excels at arithmetic... but I am a little concerned about him in other areas.]
The tutor carefully continued.
- [Especially in areas like philosophy or theology. I'm not sure how to put this. It's as if he's possessed by some strange common sense.]
- [Strange common sense?]
- [It feels like he's rejecting the knowledge I'm teaching him. He memorizes it with his head, but doesn't accept it with his heart.]
The tutor sighed.
- [If a noble's child cannot even accept the basics of theology... I worry for his future.]
The moment she heard those words, a sense of relief bloomed in a corner of Linier's heart.
He's slow at learning.
He can't accept knowledge.
That meant that while he might make it as a scholar or a mage, it would be difficult for this child to rise high in noble society.
It also meant that he wouldn't threaten the positions of Freya and the children to be born in the future.
'...What a relief.'
The moment that thought crossed her mind, Linier felt herself to be endlessly despicable.
To feel relieved at the shortcomings of a mere ten-year-old child.
And towards the posthumous child of a dead friend, whom her husband cherished so much.
But that guilt didn't last long.
Rather, she began to justify that sense of relief.
'If he's a slow learner anyway... wouldn't it be for his own good to abandon his greed?'
Is that why?
She gradually began to push the child to the outskirts of the family.
*
A year passed like that.
She was saved by that child.
'What have I done...'
In the dead of dawn.
Thirsty, she woke from a dream she couldn't distinguish from a memory.
When she turned her head, she saw a boy sitting beside her, reading a book.
The boy, who had been engrossed in his studies late at night, looked up and met her eyes.
"Godmother? Are you perhaps cold? Shall I turn up the heating?"
"...I'm thirsty."
"Ah, water. Here you are. Please drink carefully so you don't choke."
While Yulian had gone to the annex, the Family Head had told her of Yulian's deeds.
That his trips to the Red-Light District were to treat people.
Just as Yulian's parents had done.
The moment she heard that, Linier felt herself shrink into insignificance.
Just yesterday, she had been slandering Yulian to her maids, calling him a 'depraved ruffian who loiters around the Red-Light District'.
'What have I done...'
Could this child not know that?
Impossible.
This bright child would have more than figured it out.
And yet, Yulian was doing his utmost for her and her baby.
"...I'm sorry to have troubled you."
A sense of sin seemed to crush her heart.
Whether he knew of this or not, Yulian smiled brightly and handed her the glass of water.
"It's nothing compared to the love you've given me, Godmother."
She wanted to say that wasn't true, but her cowardly lips wouldn't part.
Linier couldn't say a word and simply wet her throat.
It was then.
"...Godmother. Would you entrust Fried to me for a moment?"
Yulian suddenly looked at the baby with grave eyes.
"What is it?"
"There won't be any problem, so please leave him to me."
His voice didn't sound like there was no problem at all.
In that moment, the conversation Yulian and her husband had that afternoon came to mind.
The explanation that Fried might not be able to breathe.
As she recalled that explanation, a wave of anxiety washed over her.
"Don't tell me Fried is..."
"Something that has been fully anticipated and prepared for is no longer a problem, Godmother. Trust me."
But Yulian reassured her with a voice full of conviction.
It was the voice of a young child, just over 10 years old, yet how could it be so reassuring?
With trembling hands, Linier passed the baby to Yulian.
"Thank you for trusting me."
Yulian took the baby with his small body and laid him on a pre-warmed, soft sheet.
His gaze was fixed on the baby's chest.
'A sunken chest is proof that the baby can't breathe.'
The skin is also a little blue, and I can hear faint groans.
The feared Neonatal Respiratory Distress Syndrome had occurred.
Yulian quickly diagnosed the baby's condition and took out the medicine and tools he had prepared.
From his bag, a long, thin tube-like object appeared.
Its end was bluntly ground, an object Linier had never seen before.
"Yulian, what is that?"
"It's a tube made from a processed goose quill. I'm going to drip the oil in with this."
Without hesitation, Yulian inserted his pinky finger deep into the baby's throat.
A warm, moist mucosa enveloped his finger.
He brushed past the baby's palate, beyond the root of the tongue, and pushed his fingertip behind the uvula.
One knuckle, two knuckles deep.
There was no gagging. In fact, it was the opposite.
His finger was constricted by the baby's swallowing reflex.
He ignored the resistance and pushed deeper.
It was a technique called the digital palpation technique, used to find the opening of the airway with a finger.
'Found it.'
He felt the soft cartilage at his fingertip—the epiglottis.
He slid the quill in alongside his finger.
As a side note, the 'goose' that owned the quill was slang for a rather large avian-type demonic beast.
Yulian had never seen the demonic beast himself, but the feathers circulating in the market seemed useful, so he had processed one into a tube and was fond of using it.
The quill entered the baby's airway.
Next was the oil.
The oil obtained by squeezing the lungs of pigs and overworking the alchemists.
The correct name for this oil was surfactant.
The oil flowed through the tube and into the baby's lungs.
Immediately after, the baby's chest twitched slightly.
Yulian pulled the quill out of the throat. The mucus and oil mixed on its tip glistened.
Yulian, looking down quietly at Fried.
One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths.
He counted something in his mind as he quietly looked down at Fried.
A few minutes later.
The sunken chest began to puff up little by little.
The baby's skin noticeably regained its pinkish hue.
As the whimpering stopped and only even breath sounds remained, Linier let out a sigh of relief.
Yulian also let out a sigh and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He too had been anxious inside.
After everything was over, Yulian caught his breath and joked around.
"Phew. I couldn't sleep all night because of our youngest sibling... What a hassle this is."
Linier was flabbergasted by his old soul-like words.
Is he really just 11 years old?
But at the same time, she was relieved.
Because that slick joke implied that Fried was now safe.
"Yulian... thank you, truly."
Tears welled up in Linier's eyes.
They were tears mixed with both guilt and gratitude.
In response, Yulian briefly wore a triumphant expression.
But only for a moment. He then hardened his complexion and politely bowed his head.
"Sometimes, even God leaves his seat vacant. As a doctor, I merely struggled to fill that vacancy for a moment."
Yulian, showing humility instead of pure joy.
It was as if he was showing a kind of sense of duty, that he shouldn't be happy about such things.
Seeing that, Linier's heart ached.
Just what.
Just how much is this child sacrificing to live at this age?
How much is he sacrificing that he can't even readily accept these words of thanks?
Linier barely held back her tears and tightly grasped both of Yulian's hands.
'At least.'
She wanted to provide what this child was lacking.
It was the duty of an adult,
and an atonement for her own actions of mistreating the child until now.
*
At that moment, Yulian thought.
'Wow. It actually lived.'
He hadn't forgotten his identity.
He is a trauma surgeon.
Not pediatrics or obstetrics and gynecology.
And he never deluded himself about his place.
'Cases involving mothers in childbirth and newborns are always nerve-wracking to see.'
That's why, at least in this field, he considered his skills to be on a similar level to a resident doctor specializing in it.
No, he actually thought he was a step below.
In his view, all the treatments and procedures he had successfully performed since starting to work in the Red-Light District were entirely due to luck, not skill.
This time was no different.
'I don't even cause an accident when I wing it with a blind technique. The misunderstanding genre really is the best.'
At least, that's what he thought.
