THE HOSPITAL.
That a good deal of the ailing and suffering endured by humanity is
superinduced by vicious habits of one kind or another is a pretty well
ascertained fact. The staff of the General hospital could inform you that
many of the “cases” who pass through their hands owe their debilitated
or broken frames to excess or neglect of one kind or another. The General
hospital, therefore, is, as well as the jail, an institution which the
battered and enfeebled sinner resorts to when he can no longer stand up
against the world’s buffets. You will find them there, the children of
slothfulness and inebriety. Charity refuses to condemn them for faults
which have their root in that weakness which is to a greater or lesser
degree inherent in our common humanity. She has declared that their
wounds must be healed, their quivering nerves steadied and their wasting
vitality in general restored. This is done at the general hospital
without money and without price. As many as are able to pay their way do
so, but lack of this world’s goods does not preclude ailing mortality
from shelter, food, medicine and healing.
The fretfulness of people who are ailing is well known, and every once in
a while one hears of
COMPLAINTS AGAINST THE MANAGEMENT
of the hospital, either privately poured into a friendly ear or more
publicly expressed in the daily papers. All of our public institutions
are subject from time to time to this sort of criticism, and perhaps it
does no harm, although doubtless it is galling to those officials, many
of whom labor hard and long to render their establishments as perfect as
possible. But perfection eludes the sons of men, and an approximation
to it is all that can be looked for, even in what is called a “model
establishment.” No doubt the medical superintendent at the hospital
has many difficulties to contend against, and if he might speak out in
meeting and let the people know what they are, more sympathy and credit
would perhaps be awarded him.
At night the hospital looks like a building illuminated on a gala day.
From each of its many scores of windows a beam of light cleaves the night
shadows. If you cross the portal at this hour the first person you are
likely to meet is a kindly-faced woman in a coquettish spotless muslin
cap, plainly dressed, with that pure complexion which very generally
distinguishes women who are much indoors and whose health is good. This
is one of the night nurses. She might stand for a picture of the Goddess
Hygeia—with modern trappings. One would half forgive fate for making
him sick to be tended by such an embodiment of “sweetness and light.”
All must agree with the opinion that it is a great point to have the
attendants on the sick, persons whom it is pleasant for the eye to rest
upon.
This young woman whom I have been speaking of goes up stairs and
noiselessly glides down a ward. She carries a lantern, whose soft light,
however, does not wake even the lightest sleeper. She passes two or three
of the little cots, and at length arrives at one where
AN OLD MAN LIES.
He has a white bandage about his chin. She scrutinizes his features,
and then passes on. Her last instructions before going on was to keep
a watchful eye on this old man. He is a farmer, and a few days ago
he was admitted to the hospital suffering from cancer. A great bunch
of the devouring ulcer was seated on his left jaw. After examination
and consultation among themselves the doctors told him that if it was
allowed to remain there he must die; if, on the other hand, an operation
was performed, he might live. They asked him to choose. He chose the
operation. His vitality was low, and the surgeons knew that the chances
were greatly against their utmost skill. They do not like a case like
this. The probability is so great that the operation will merely hasten
death, that it is an unpleasant one. Medicine is of no avail in this
case. He is fed entirely on a milk and spoon diet. The operation was
performed yesterday afternoon. After the old man recovered from the
ether he lay in a state of stupor, breathing hard. In the evening the
doctor saw him and shook his head, and then gave the night nurse explicit
instructions regarding him.
The gas in the ward is turned down to a blue spark. Everything is very
still. Not even a snore is heard. Snoring is generally the result of
gross and heavy feeding, and the jaded appetite of the sick helps them
to avoid gormandizing. Every five or ten minutes the nurse leaves her
chair in the corridor and passes down the ward with her little lantern.
Sometimes she gently awakes a patient to apply a poultice or cooling
lotion. She always looks at the old man. At length she makes a longer
pause and seems
DISTURBED BY WHAT SHE SEES.
The old man is breathing stertorously. Half of the eye-balls are hidden
under the upper eyelids—the whites are turned up, and make a ghastly
continuation to the white bandage round the chin. The nurse moves hastily
away and summons one of the assistant physicians. Everybody else in the
great still room is asleep, and in its pale light no token is given of
the presence of the angel of death, but before the physician’s return the
dread work is done, and the old man’s troubled spirit has passed into the
land of shadows. The calling of the date was merely a matter of form.
Everything is done quietly. No one is wakened. A screen is put about the
little cot. Two stout men are summoned from below. The corpse is pinned
up and carried away through the silent ward.