In eighteen eighty-nine, one morn so clear,
At Johns Hopkins Hospital, surgeons drew near.
Dr. William Halsted, skilled and wise,
With nurse Caroline by his side — his prize.
She stood by the sinks, her hands in pain,
Scrubbing and scalding again and again.
Hot water, soap, then acid’s burn,
Mercury chloride for the final turn.
Her fingers blistered, her arms aflame,
But never once did she complain.
For duty bound, with steady grace,
She hid the hurt upon her face.
Halsted watched with a heavy sigh,
His heart concealed, though love ran high.
For Caroline’s strength and quiet might,
Had captured him both day and night.
He knew his rules saved many lives,
Yet watched the damage that it drives.
Her tender skin, so raw and red —
His love for her began to spread.
But how could he, the nation’s best,
Show mercy and still stand the test?
If he excused her from the pain,
His strict ideals would lose their gain.
So secretly, with thought profound,
He searched for ways that could be found.
A year went by — his mind still stirred,
Until one day, a thought occurred.
He wrote to makers, clear and bold,
“Craft me something none have told.
A sheath, a cover, thin yet tight —
To guard her skin, to make it right.”
Months later came a modest pack,
Upon his desk — he tore it back.
Inside, two objects, soft and new,
A strange creation — latex hue.
He hurried forth, heart beating wild,
To Caroline — his love, his trial.
“Don’t wash your hands,” he softly said,
“Just wear these now instead.”
She slipped them on, unsure, surprised,
And soon her wounds began to rise.
No more the burns, no more the sting —
Her skin began recovering.
And as her hands grew whole once more,
Their hearts unlocked what lay in store.
He told her love he’d long denied,
She smiled and said, “I’ve felt it, inside.”
They married soon, two hearts entwined,
A story sweet, in fate designed.
But history recalls, not just their dove —
It honors the birth of the rubber glove.
From love’s pure care, invention bloomed,
And countless lives were thus consumed —
By safety’s hand, from germs set free,
Born of a surgeon’s love — eternally.