THE SICK ROOM.
In all large houses there ought undoubtedly to be some provision for
infectious illness. Of course I know that there are excellent fever
hospitals, where one can be despatched at almost a moment’s notice,
where an ambulance will deposit you, and where the best nursing and
doctoring can be had at a most moderate outlay; and I, for one, highly
applaud those courageous souls who telegraph for the proper conveyance,
and depart, cutting themselves off from their homes, and at the same
time from any chance of handing on their complaints elsewhere, with one
fell swoop. But, much as I admire and applaud, nothing would, I fear,
induce me to follow their laudable example. To know how to be ill is a
fine art, and this accomplishment is quite thrown away on those who
regard one merely as a ‘case,’ and talk about one as if one were a mere
chattel left with them to repair, and return with the utmost speed.
Moreover, I maintain always that one’s bodily health depends immensely
on one’s surroundings, and that it would take double the time to get
better in a hospital than one would in one’s own home, where one could
see one’s friends out of the window and catch even a far-off whisper of
what was happening, and see even from the greatest distance some of
one’s old, accustomed sights. In an ordinary house, as at present
arranged, it would be absolutely impossible to have even the smallest
amount of infectious disease without running the greatest risk of
handing it on to all the rest of the family; but there could be in most
houses such arrangements made, were the builder a man of sense, that we
could have a hospital room, a room sufficiently isolated to ensure
immunity from infection, and yet near enough to do away with the
hopeless feeling which seizes the ordinary mortal the moment he hears he
has ‘something catching,’ and which enables him to understand what were
the feelings of the lepers of old, who had to flee from the sight of
their fellow-creatures, calling out aloud as they ran, ‘Unclean!
unclean!’ Of course we ought not to feel angry with those who refuse to
come near us; indeed, had I my way no one should ever enter a house
where there was small-pox, scarlatina, or diphtheria; but we do resent
it somehow, despite our own common sense and the knowledge that we
should forbid the call our friends are so anxious not to make if they
attempted to come near us; and there is no more miserable feeling than
that which seizes us when we are told that we have a complaint in our
midst which may prevent us from being on the same footing as the rest of
mankind for several weary weeks, or may be months. But, before going
into the matter of what we should do when infection is in our house, let
me for a moment speak about the room we should all of us possess ready
for an emergency and into which we could retire were we ill at all, not
only ‘infectious’ but ill in such a way that we may require careful
nursing, many fires, and absolute quiet and rest.
We should select a room at the top of the house unless we are building
our house; in that case we should have a couple of rooms added on at one
end, with a bathroom, lavatory, and tiny kitchen range in a third room.
This should make a sort of annexe to the house; it should be reached
from outside, and a passage, closed at one end with a plate-glass door,
should communicate with the rest of the house. I once knew such an
arrangement as this, and have always hankered after it, more especially
as it allowed one member of a family of eight children to have scarlet
fever at home without in the least endangering the lives of any others
of the family, while the mother could see the child daily through the
plate-glass door, although she could not nurse her herself. She ran
absolutely no risk; the plate-glass door was as safe as the solid wall,
and over it always hung a sheet steeped in carbolic acid. The child was
nursed among familiar surroundings; the doctor could visit it without
passing through the house; all the food could be placed so that the
nurse received it without the smallest risk, and, in fact, the
arrangement was so absolutely perfect that I cannot understand why
possessors of large houses and good means do not always keep some rooms
of the kind ready. No family can go through life without illness; it is
much easier to bear when all is prepared for it, and there is no
dreadful domestic upset to add to our natural anxiety and trouble when
illness comes upon us all.
Now, given such houses as these, or even the single room quite at the
top of the house, which would be next best (and although these have
their disadvantages, they are generally quieter than any other), I
should proceed to decorate them prettily. I should paint the walls
first, and then I should paper them with the very cheapest blue paper I
could find. I think Maple’s 4½_d._ blue and white paper would be best,
and I should have ivory paint, the 4½_d._ a piece white and yellow
ceiling paper, and curtains of 1_s._ 6_d._ a yard serge in art blue
double. There is nothing here which cannot be replaced at a very small
cost; yet everything would look pretty and bright and fresh; and I
should have the floor parqueterie or else covered with matting and rugs.
The rugs could be removed in a moment if anything infectious were the
matter, while the matting could be disinfected or destroyed; but this
should remain. It smells fresh, it never accumulates the dust, and
always looks nice, in my opinion. In illness looks are everything, and
it is absolutely necessary for things to be neat and pretty; else the
patient will be worried to death without really understanding why he is
being worried.
The bed should be a good wide one--a double one. This gives room for the
patient to move about in. It should have a wire mattress and a good hair
mattress at the top, four pillows, and a bolster, and it should have an
ample supply of venerable blankets for under use. Those for over use
should depend on what is the matter. New blankets and an eider-down are
lighter and warmer than anything, and if these are required they must be
had, even if afterwards they have to be destroyed. There should be no
washing or dressing apparatus visible (these can be kept in the
lavatory), but there should be two or three of the stained wooden chairs
sold by Pither, 38 Mortimer Street, W., which are comfortable enough for
the doctor and an occasional visitor or for the nurse on duty (too much
comfort often induces sleep), and which can be wiped over daily. There
should also be a wide, deep wicker armchair, nicely cushioned, and there
should be a long chair for the invalid, where he or she could rest while
the bed is made or remain when convalescence has begun, and the bed may
be left for some hours at least. The long deck chairs are not suitable
for this purpose, as, being made of wicker, they creak in the most awful
manner, and are not comfortable in the least; but there are some long
narrow beds used as camp beds, which can be put up at any angle, and
have an iron frame filled in with sacking, on which a cushion is placed.
This makes the most comfortable lounge of which I know, and should be in
every sick room or room set apart for the purpose of nursing. They can
be bought at almost any ironmonger’s, or at any place which caters for
Volunteers or those who do any luxurious camping out. There should be
pictures on the walls, and a bookcase, and above all there should be a
screen of some kind or other. The pictures should be of the cheapest;
some of those lately issued by the ‘Illustrated News’ people, which
resemble old Bartolozzi prints, would do admirably, as the frames could
be disinfected, the glass washed, and the pictures themselves destroyed.
The bookcase could be varnished or re-Aspinalled, and the books burned.
Books are fearful methods of conveying infection, and carelessness about
this cannot be too harshly condemned. It is far better to destroy
everything, no matter how precious it may be, than run the very smallest
risk of passing on even what may be considered a mild complaint, for
that which is mild in one patient often causes death or great suffering
in another whose constitution is unfitted to cope with that special
disease.
Once the room is ready and looking pretty, the next care must be to see
that it is kept properly aired and that nothing gets out of order, and
that all the things for use are in their places; then we need not think
any more about the room, which should be under the charge of the
head-nurse of the establishment; but, especially where there are
children, it is absolutely necessary that we should be prepared for
emergencies, and know exactly what to do should there be any necessity
for prompt action. There are a series of rules printed by the National
Health Society, which should be hung up in every nursery, and there
should be, moreover, a box containing simple remedies for sprains
(arnica), cuts (calendula), and burns (oiled silk, oil, and cotton
wool), and the nurse should keep the key. But, whatever happens, her
remedies can only be temporary ones; all her instructions should end
like those to the ambulance experts, ‘Send for the doctor.’
Now, although I am certainly no advocate for constantly sending for the
doctor, and though I maintain that for small children a good nurse is
worth all the doctors under the sun, I do maintain that immense comfort
and safety are procured by an early visit from the doctor if we are
fearful that anything is wrong above the common. But I maintain equally
strongly that to be able to do this we must be very sure of our man; we
must be able to trust him, and we must be quite certain that he is an
honest man, who will not trespass on our credulity or fatten on our
fears, and who will have the necessary courage to tell us straight out
that we have nothing to fear and that we need not send for him again, or
at least that he will not come again until we do send for him. Above
all, let us, if possible, keep to the same doctor. Nothing is more
stupid than to change him, unless we are absolutely obliged to do so,
for he understands his patients’ constitutions if he has always had to
see after them. A new man cannot possibly do so at first, and much more
depends on a doctor understanding what he has to deal with, as far as
heredity is concerned, than one quite comprehends. People would not be
quite so ready to change their medical attendant as they very often seem
to me to be if they thoroughly believed in this.
And now comes the great subject of nursing. I was much amused the other
day to see an indignant article from someone who abused the present
generation of mothers because they did not nurse their children
themselves in cases of infection, and because their first idea in an
emergency was to send for a nurse. Now I maintain that that is the very
wisest thing anyone can do. A mother, as a rule, is the worst person in
the world to nurse her own child; her fearful anxiety makes her nervous
and communicates itself to the patient, who ought never to know that
anyone is the least anxious about him. Her face betrays her, and her
shaking hands play her false, and on a thousand grounds it is far better
to have a trained nurse than to trust to unskilled though loving
nursing. A mother may never have had the smallest experience of nursing
until she is called upon to exercise any little talent she may have for
it on behalf of her nearest and dearest. She becomes frantically
miserable at symptoms a nurse understands, and are often enough symptoms
for good; she cannot raise a patient and give him food comfortably, as
does a woman trained to the work, and she cannot be the ‘half-doctor’
all nurses ought undoubtedly to be, and indeed are nowadays, unless she
has had training; a course of training, by the way, which would be most
distasteful to many and absolutely impossible to the few.
A nurse is born, not made; of that I am absolutely convinced from my own
experience. I do not think anything would make me personally fit to
nurse anyone, much as I should like to do it. Were I called upon to turn
nurse I could undoubtedly keep a room neat, smooth a pillow, and fold a
sheet over properly; but I stand by in amaze and watch a friend of mine
who has never been trained, but is a born nurse, who knows exactly how
to lift her patient, when and how to give beef-tea and medicine, and who
does easily and without effort what I cannot do at all, try as hard as I
may to follow her excellent example. She may be anxious, she never shows
it in the least; she may be tired to death, she does not look it; her
voice is always at the right pitch, and though she naturally is not
merry when there is danger, she maintains an even cheerfulness which is
delightful, and as restful to the patient as it is most undoubtedly
restful and reassuring to the patient’s friends. Now, sentiment
apart--and sentiment should never be considered in the very least degree
where real work has to be done--surely my friend is better able to
nurse, and a much safer nurse, than I should be; I, who have honestly
and seriously tried to overcome my stupidity and dread of sick people,
and who visited at a hospital regularly until I was utterly and
completely routed by seeing a man in a fit, since when I have avoided
hospitals and have quite come to the conclusion I should never be a
nurse. Therefore, is it not wiser for people in real cases of dangerous
illness to engage women who understand their work? I am convinced it is,
and strongly recommend anyone who is advised by the doctor to send for a
nurse to do so. He will always be able to tell them where to send; if
not, they can find any amount of addresses in that most useful and
excellent little book ‘Dickens’s Dictionary of London.’ But the doctor
should find the nurse in infectious cases, for, as a rule, he knows
someone with whom he has worked already, and of course these nurses have
to be sent for in a hurry; one does not make preparations for and look
out for fevers as one does when a small baby is expected; about that I
have said all I have to say in my other book, and shall not therefore
say anything here on that absorbing subject.
Everybody should remember that illness, instead of deadening our
faculties, undoubtedly and at once heightens every one we possess. We
see more acutely most certainly; our smell and taste are exaggerated in
the most painful degree, and little annoyances and inferior cooking,
which we scarcely notice, or indeed notice not at all, when we are well,
try us most dreadfully. If we are to eat at all, all must be absolutely
clean and free from grease, and sent up spotlessly; there must not be a
suspicion of carelessness, or inevitably we shall turn against the food
and send it down untouched. Likewise, creaking shoes, rustling paper,
banging doors, crooked pictures, dusty tables and chairs must not exist
where there are invalids; and, above all, I am convinced that until a
person is actually and positively dead no one should talk about them
over their bodies, thinking they are insensible. I am certain that
insensible people, so called, are often far more sensitive than either
doctor or nurse will allow, and I know I myself have often heard things
which were never meant for me to hear when people have thought me
asleep, but when I have really simply been too tired to open my eyes;
and I shall never forget the expression that flitted across the face of
a dear old lady who was absolutely dying, who had not swallowed for two
days, or spoken for a great many more, when her daughter and maid spoke
of the mourning and funeral by her bedside heartlessly. She heard and
understood, although she undoubtedly had no power of letting us know
that she did so. And I, moreover, have been told by a cousin whose
recovery from a frightful attack of blood-poisoning was miraculous, and
who most certainly was merely saved from death by her doctor’s
unremitting care and the excellent nursing she received from him--he
never left her once for over forty-eight hours--that she knew absolutely
everything that went on, that she heard every single word and whisper,
and that she most certainly would never say a word in the presence of
any ‘insensible’ person that could pain or agitate him in the least,
for when she appeared most insensible to on-lookers she was really far
more sensitive than she had ever been in all her life: her hearing was
absolutely acute, and every sense seemed on end, a feeling I can
corroborate from my own experience, though I have had no really very
serious illness, but have been ill enough to comprehend this
supersensitiveness and to understand how absolutely quiet and restful
should be the conditions of any invalid. It sounds absurd to say that
noise can kill anyone, but noise can; a sudden shock can undoubtedly
snap the thread of life, while noise constantly wearing on the brain can
do endless harm, especially to those who are predisposed to notice and
resent continually unpleasant sounds. And now I want to give a hint to
many among us who are abjectly miserable because they fancy they have
some incurable complaint, and yet have not the sense or courage to
really go to a good doctor and learn what is the matter, or indeed
whether there is anything the matter at all. The tiny lump which appears
on the neck may be nothing but a little swelling of a gland, or it may
be cancer; the dreadful pain that seizes the chest may be heart or it
may be indigestion; anyhow, whatever it is, it is far better to know
what is the matter than to wear oneself to death in wondering if we have
or have not a fatal disease.
If we have not, well and good; if we have, what, after all, does it
matter? We have all fatal diseases, if it comes to that, and we are all
absolutely sure, unpleasant as is the fact, that we must die, and it is
something to know a little about the means and time by which we shall
have to shuffle off this mortal coil; and, moreover, we can undoubtedly
save ourselves endless trouble, and stave off the last day of our lives,
if we learn early in the day what we have to avoid, and how best we can
manage our lives, many having lost them entirely because they literally
had not the courage to go to the doctor, or went to him so late that he
had sorrowfully to confess he could do nothing, albeit he could have
done much had the patient come to him when she or he first began to
suspect there was anything amiss. I could, I am sorry to say, quote
examples from my own dear and intimate friends of the evil done by this
cowardly dislike to face the worst, and I therefore feel very strongly
on the subject, and implore any of my readers who may suspect a lurking
disease to face it. It may be nothing but fancy; even so, the fancy
should be exorcised. It may be fatal; then the doctor will lay down
rules at once for guidance, and even if death is imminent it is just as
well to know this. There are things to do quietly, and one’s house to
set in order, albeit there is no need to make the lives of all one’s
relations burdens to them; neither need we make ourselves miserable
beforehand by everlasting contemplation of the inevitable parting. Be
quite sure, whether it comes at 100, at 20, at 40, we none of us realise
or relish the idea, but when a thing must be it is best to accept it
gracefully; people will remember us much more kindly if we go
cheerfully, and do not make them all wretched by kicking against the
pricks.
And, above all, remember if you have a disease to keep the fact to
yourself and to your doctor; no one else wants to hear about it, and it
is interesting to no one else. If you become an invalid you can be both
cheerful and useful, although I know how hateful--how truly hateful--it
is to put up the once active feet, and cross the once busy hands, and
simply listen to what we once used to do. I know too that a good
listener is highly appreciated, and that many a happy home finds the
heart of the house round the invalid sofa, where can always be found
someone who is always at home, always disengaged, always willing to help
and anxious to hear, and who has a most profound interest in all that is
going on, despite the fact that she is out of the action, and can only
take a passive part in the life that seemed once as if it could never go
on without her.
Moreover, an invalid should never become absorbed in herself, in her
treatment, her medicine, and the progress of her malady; having found
her doctor to be trustworthy, she should do as he tells her, and after
his visit she should utterly decline to speak of herself; she should
read, if possible work (how I do wish I could sew, or knit, or do
anything on earth save read and write!), and, above all she should be
absolutely nice and particular about her clothes, which should never
degenerate (unless it is absolutely necessary) into the dressing-gown
stage. Loose garments are untidy, and anything untidy or
‘dressing-gowny’ assists the invalid idea, which should be kept in the
background as much as possible.
Then there is another thing I should like to mention, and that is that
invalids should always have their affairs settled, and their wishes as
regards the future of their children or their property entirely and
properly understood--that is to say, understood and settled as far as
anything can be settled that is so unknown as the future--and while a
man is an absolute criminal who neglects to make his will, a woman is
equally foolish who, having strong feelings on subjects which will
concern her children, or may be the place of her burial, does not write
such a letter on the subject to her husband, to be opened after her
death, as shall lay all her wishes before him, but only as wishes: the
dead hand should never fetter anyone; at best it should only indicate
the course which the owner would have followed.
In but one case should a man or a woman who has property put an emphatic
embargo on the future proceedings of the husband or wife, and then only
if there are children, and that is in the case of the husband or wife
remarrying. Under these circumstances the property should go absolutely
into the hands of trustees, to be administered entirely for the use of
the children, who are often enough defrauded of their father’s or
mother’s money, which goes to keep some lazy man or extravagant woman
who in their time may produce children to share that which was only
meant for the owner’s own offspring.
This rule should never be departed from under any circumstances: it
should be absolutely out of anyone’s power to defraud children of what
was intended for them alone by the one parent who had money. This does
not prevent a man or a woman marrying again; they had the same chances,
if they wanted them, as they had before; but it does prevent the
children being robbed, as I have known them robbed, in more than one
case, by their silly mothers, who, yearning for the love and protection
they have lost, cast themselves into the arms of number two, doubly
flattered at being wooed when their first bloom has vanished, and find
themselves saddled with men who neglect the business they were supposed
to keep together, or squander the money saved so hardly and set aside so
carefully for those who cannot help themselves or stay the marriage
that will inevitably spoil their home life if it do not wreck their
futures.
Let the wife have all control until she marries again; then someone else
should step in, as undoubtedly if a woman does not care to remember her
husband she will not care to assure herself and protect his children
from an extravagant, improvident man; and of course a man should be
treated in the same way; all control as long as he remembers his wife,
none when he ceases to do so and would maintain a successor out of the
money she meant for her children’s welfare.
Now all this can be managed, and, indeed, should be managed, on the
wife’s part by a letter written to her husband, and on a man’s by a calm
conversation with his wife, who of course will vow that nothing on this
earth would induce her to marry again; but, unfortunately for her
argument, example can be brought against her of people who have said
just the same, who have wept in the marketplace and wrung their hands in
high places, ‘so to speak,’ and yet have married generally ‘for the sake
of the dear children’ before they had worn out their mourning, and
therefore her protestations can be gently set on one side with the quiet
statement that in that case the money will be in her own power. This can
show no lack of confidence in the wife; it simply shows a lack of
confidence in any possible future husband, and a consummate knowledge of
human nature, which forgets disagreeables speedily, alas! and accepts
hurriedly any chance that may present itself of obliterating a mournful
memory and changing one’s trappings of woe for newer and far more
beaming garments.
I never could understand the sensitiveness that prevents some wives and
husbands from ever speaking of the future that must come when they will
be separated. There need be no continual discussion of the mournful
subject, but it should be discussed thoroughly when the will is made; it
need never be spoken of again until circumstances arise that may cause
some alterations to be made, or codicils added; anything that may be too
painful to discuss can be written in the final letter of farewell. Then,
if one has no accumulations of other folks’ letters, if one’s drawers
are tidy, one’s bills paid, and one’s conscience clear, there will be
nothing to make anyone extra-miserable after we have departed; we shall
have done our work, left everything in order, and shall leave nothing
but a pleasant memory behind us.
Death as a rule is either made unduly awful, or is a time of the most
extravagant expenditure. The immense quantities of florists’ wreaths
sent nowadays have brought into disrepute one of the most charming ideas
possible, and the money once devoted to black plumes and undertaker’s
millinery of all kinds, to extravagant mourning and absurd woe, is now
squandered equally extravagantly and absurdly on wreaths, which cost
from 15_s._ to 30_s._ each, and which are simply thrown into the earth
to perish there untimely. Not for one moment would I deprecate the use
of flowers entirely, but let them be arranged by people who loved me,
and really bound them together because they knew I loved them. I would
rather spend money, or have money spent, on some useful memorial than on
a perishable wreath; and were I to die to-morrow I should say, Give me
as simple, as cheap a funeral as you can, and give the money to my pet
charity. It could be done in my name, and would be a practical
remembrance of me, and a far more useful one than hundreds of wreaths.
Why, I once saw a funeral in mid-winter where there were over 300
wreaths. This would have almost built a ward in the Hospital for Sick
Children; it would certainly have helped the good Sisters at Kilburn,
and have done great good to the children there, who had always been
loved by her whose funeral it was. And in the same way would I deprecate
a ‘handsome’ coffin and elaborate headstone; neither can do any good to
the dead, and the memory of those we have loved can be perpetuated a
thousand times longer should we content ourselves with the simplest oak
coffin we can get and the plain cross, which will last as long as anyone
could wish it to, while the money saved can be given elsewhere. Everyone
has some pet scheme that could be benefited by his or her death; no one
but the undertaker and florist is benefited now.
Another reason why we should not encourage the sending of an immense
quantity of flowers from our friends is, that there is something almost
ghastly about the false air of festivity given by the constant receipt
and opening of the parcels and boxes in which they are sent; in the
list of names which, must be written out, in order that all who sent
may be thanked or their names mentioned in the local paper; and in the
smothered remarks of the servants and children as they look at the
beauties, and compare the present one with the last one laid on the
coffin in the room which is so familiar and yet has become so fearfully
and wonderfully strange.
But if flowers need not be sent (and I wish I could think all would send
the money instead to some special fund), letters should always be
written. They may not be read at first--nay may never be really read at
all--but the name of the writer will always be remembered warmly, and as
that of one who knew that sympathy is the most precious gift we can any
of us receive when we are in the depths, and that dark curtain descends
which seems as if it would lie for ever between us and the outside
world. Ah me! no matter who has died, it will rise again, and life will
flow on just the same as if we had never lost those who were so near and
so dear to us.
Undoubtedly, too, though we should none of us ever call at the house to
inquire after a scarlet fever, small-pox, or diphtheria case, we should
let our friends know through the post that we are thinking of them. If
their child is ill we can make up tiny parcels to send. A few flowers; a
paper doll; a few old books, which can be burned as soon as read;
‘scraps’ to paste into books; odds and ends which cost nothing and can
be destroyed without a pang, often making a small child’s day of tedious
weariness and slow convalescence, an entirely different thing to what it
might have otherwise been; and the idea of what to-morrow’s post may
bring has, to my knowledge, more than once soothed a tired little girl
to rest; for she would go to sleep easier when she remembered that the
sooner the night was over the sooner the familiar ring would be heard,
and the lovely parcel would arrive, which might contain nothing more
costly than glass beads for stringing, or some roses and a cheap little
vase to put them in, but which was a never-ending source of wonder and
delight, until the child was well and able to take her place again among
her brothers and sisters.
In the sick room, which may be the death chamber, sympathy, always
precious, becomes an absolute necessity, and a tedious day of pain is
often borne more courageously than it otherwise would have been, and
passes quicker than it otherwise might have done, if we know that people
are thinking of us and wondering if there is anything they can do to
lighten our time of trouble and to help us bear the inevitable misery of
it all. A sick person, or an invalid, should never be forgotten. I
verily believe half our dread of death comes from the fact that we know
that soon we shall be as if we had never been, and that our place shall
be taken by another and shall know us no more.
When we are quite sure that there is an infectious disease in our house,
we ought to be compelled by Act of Parliament to register the fact at
some convenient place, where a list of houses similarly infected should
undoubtedly be exposed in a prominent place. None should be exempt from
this law, and the doctor should be the person responsible for the
registration, a severe penalty, moreover, being inflicted in any case of
wilful misrepresentation or of the withholding of proper information of
the outbreak.
That the penalty is necessary is proved by the fact that I once knew a
country doctor speak of a bad attack of scarlet fever as a mild case of
rose rash, because he was abjectly afraid of losing the patronage of the
dame whose child it was, and who objected to the isolation which would
have been her portion had the truth been known. Still the disease
spread, owing to her selfishness and the doctor’s supineness, and the
truth came out, but not before she had done endless mischief and caused
the death of a child of one of her relations, who was sent into the
house with his nurse to inquire after the ‘rose rash,’ and who would
never have been allowed to pass even the same side of the street had his
mother known the truth; and both the doctor and the patient’s mother
were in consequence ostracised and isolated from their fellow-creatures
far more completely and for a much longer period than they would have
been had they boldly and at once told the truth.
Nowadays, with the slight exception of the law that we must not wilfully
expose anyone suffering from an infectious disease in a public
conveyance, we may do pretty much as we like.[A] We can send other
members of the family to church or the theatre; we can send our washing
to the public laundry, we may let our friends come and see us without
mentioning what is the matter, and, in fact, there is no law except the
moral law (which governs so few of us) to prevent us handing on the
complaint to as many people as we can comfortably manage to infect. The
registration would prevent this, as it would prevent us from stopping in
a fever-bed or (as happened to me not a month ago) from sending a cat to
be doctored in a house where there was a fatal case of scarlet fever;
and how that cat didn’t bring it back to us is more than I can
understand, but it did not. Albeit, any mother can understand what I
felt until I knew all chance of infection was over from that source at
all events.
[A] Since the above was written a law has been passed to make the
notification of disease compulsory in London; so there is one step
already made in advance.
It is the selfishness of other people that spreads so much disease, and
therefore the law should force people to be more considerate; then
disease will be stamped out undoubtedly, and we can exist without the
many qualms and dreads which harass us now, and certainly go far to make
life anything but worth living.
Now, I think if I had an infectious complaint in the house my first idea
would be to keep people out of it. I should place a placard on the door,
and then leave folks to do as they chose in the matter. I should keep
the rest of the household to the grounds and garden, and I should---
much as I should hate it--stay as much at home as I possibly could. Of
course the usual means of disinfection would be largely used; still no
one should run the risk of giving the complaint to any other soul.
The doctor would be the person to say what is infectious and what is
not, but, despite the ‘Lancet,’ I am quite certain measles and mumps
cannot be carried and cannot be given to another, unless by the person
who actually has the complaint on him. About scarlet fever, small-pox,
and diphtheria there can be no doubt, but typhoid cannot be carried from
one to the other, although typhus most undoubtedly may be. But in any
case the doctor is the person to apply to, and if we have his consent we
can go about the world as usual; only we should always tell our friends
what is the matter, and if they object to us we must not be offended
with them. They are quite right to object, and we should not resent
their care for their own. We should not feel happy if we handed on the
complaint, and what should we experience if it had a fatal termination?
I, for one, cannot imagine.
There is absolutely no place on earth which requires so much good
breeding to inhabit or arrange for properly as does the sick room;
therefore I trust I may be forgiven if I write rather fully on the
matter, more especially as this book is coming now to an end, and I
shall never write any more on the ever-fascinating subject of the home,
and I want to say a word to the patient.
Remember, however bad it is for you to be ill, it is fifty times worse
for those who have to see you suffer, and that you must even at your
worst think about that and remember other people. Do not make their
anxiety greater by refusing food or medicine, or by disobeying your
doctor or nurse; for the time give yourself entirely into their hands,
and do not refuse or kick against their remedies, their rules and
regulations. Be absolutely calm, absolutely quiet, and, above all, if
you want to get well do not lose your hold on life if you can, and don’t
fret or become terrified. Fear and fretting are a doctor’s worst
foes--almost worse than disobedience. If you can recollect that whatever
is is best, and that you will recover if it is better that you should,
you will have a thousand chances that the irritable invalid can never
have, and, at all events, if you do die you will die courageously and
resignedly, and not screaming and kicking like a naughty child does
whose nurse fetches it away to bed before it thinks it is ready to
retire to rest. Its nurse knows best; and so does God, and if you are
fetched ten chances to one your work is done, and you can retire from
the scene gracefully even if you cannot feel you are quite glad to go.
I am certain that the mind has a great deal to do with one’s body from a
small experience of my own when once I was saved from being very ill by
a mere exercise of will, rendered necessary by a sudden shock received
when one of my children was only two days old. My dear old nurse was in
my room at 12, and at 7 she was dead in the room next to mine, and I
knew all about it. There were the two eldest children--who were five and
three--running about calling for ‘Nan,’ from whom they had never been
separated five minutes since the hour they were born. I had a new
housemaid. I had seen in the looking-glass the monthly nurse drinking
brandy out of the bottle, and told Nan of this, and I was absolutely
alone as far as friends were concerned. Could any situation be worse?
And yet before I slept I had arranged for the children to go to London,
for the funeral to take place soon, and for the friends to be told. And
then began the struggle. My doctor was confined to the house with
bronchitis; circumstances made his partner impossible; the nearest
medical man on whom one could depend was fourteen miles away, and I knew
I must not be ill; and all that wretched night I kept saying this to
myself, repeating who I was, where I was, and what had happened, until I
felt I was master of the situation. Surely had I given in then I should
have had a fever; as it was, I occasionally felt my head was loose and
swimming round the room by itself, and it was only by repeating to
myself that this was impossible that I kept off the delusion, and after
a day or two I was nearly well, or at all events was not ill in the
accepted sense of the word, though my dear old doctor nearly wept when I
told him what I had endured, and never could understand to his dying day
why I had not had a serious illness, which I undoubtedly must have had
had I not staved it off in the manner I have just described. Therefore,
I am convinced those patients have the best chance of recovering who are
quiet, obedient, and who, furthermore, try their best to live, and
believe that there is something worth living for.
And now a few words on that saddest of all subjects, a death, and I must
devote my last chapter to more cheerful subjects--namely, how best to
get strong and well again once we have emerged from the sick room, and
are pronounced fit and able to go for a change.
When death has actually occurred I would strongly advocate that those
who have loved and nursed the dead may prepare the body for the last
resting-place. It can be gently washed and attired in the clean
night-dress, and the hands can be crossed on the breast. Someone who can
be trusted--not a mere hireling--should be present when the last
measurements are taken; then the room should be at once turned into a
mortuary chamber, the bed hung with white, candles lighted head and
foot, which should not go out until the funeral day, and fresh flowers
should be kept there; these should be changed every single day; and,
furthermore, the windows should be left a little open, and on no account
should the dead person be left unwatched for a moment until the coffin
is screwed down; this should never be done until there is no doubt that
death has ensued, and then the sooner the funeral is the better; though
I trust some day cremation may be universal, then there can be no dread
of the awful fate of one who is buried alive. That ought to be made
impossible in all cases by the doctor performing some simple surgical
operation--I think it is the dividing of some artery in the arm.
If the dead person has been attached to any particular church in his or
her life-time the coffin should be placed in that church the night
before the funeral, so that the last night above ground the body may
rest in that hallowed spot. Of course it should be watched there, and
the candles and flowers should be arranged as in the mortuary chamber,
and the first part of the service should be read there; not by a
stranger, but by the family priest of whom I have spoken before; and
then when the ceremony is over no one but the clergyman should return to
the house with the mourners, who should separate and go to their own
rooms. There should be no general family meal that day at least;
certainly there should be no gathering even of relations and friends
round the dinner-table. I have experienced more than one of these awful
meals, and I can truthfully say that there is nothing more terrible on
earth; people must talk, they cannot remain silent, they must eat and
drink, and the _pseudo_-festivity and the endeavour to keep off and
avoid _the_ subject are so truly ghastly, that under no circumstances
can I understand such a thing can be in any way necessary in the least.
Surely as unnecessary is also the reading of the will. What concerns the
public can be told the public, the lawyers should manage the rest. Under
no circumstances should the display of evil passions and disappointments
be allowed that almost inevitably follows this institution.
Let the burial-day be a day of meditation and quiet. In the evening the
bereaved family can gather alone and talk over what has to be done. Then
the next day let all the clothes be sent to the Kilburn Orphanage; and
the personal property distributed according to the wish of the dead.
Let the death room be entirely repapered and painted, and, if possible,
refurnished; and, above all, do not be afraid to speak of those who have
gone. I know how I should resent being forgotten; and perhaps those with
whom we have just parted may hunger to hear all about us still; at all
events, we cannot know they do not. _De mortuis_ may mean a great deal
more than we think; it is doubly evil, surely, to speak aught but good
of the dead if we remember not only the defencelessness which caused
that proverb, but the idea that all we may say about them we say in
their dumb presence, and before those who are silent, and cannot speak
in their own defence.
Death is a dreadful thing because of its silence, its separation. Yet if
we meet it patiently--if we believe our dead are still within reach--we
can bear it, more especially if we do our best to carry out their
wishes, and do not, the moment they are gone, begin to reverse all their
ideas and plans, and to forget them as speedily as may be; while, when
our own time comes, we can face it bravely, feeling we are setting a
good example, and leaving behind us nothing to pain or embarrass anyone,
nothing but a bright remembrance, a good record, that may sooner or
later be of use to others after us.
The sick room has more than once been the heart of the house; the death
chamber in its turn can become, if properly thought of, the very gate of
heaven itself.