The sick-chamber should be the most quiet and cheerful in the house—a
sacred isle past which the waves of domestic toil and solicitude glide
silently. This is not an easy rule to obey. Whoever the invalid may
be, whether the mother, father, or the sweet youngling of the flock,
the foundations of the household seem thrown out of course while the
sickness lasts. You may have good servants and kind friends to aid
you, but the hitch in the machinery is not to be smoothed out by their
efforts. The irregularity does not annoy you: you do not notice it if
the attack be severe or dangerous. All other thoughts are swallowed
up in the all-absorbing, ever-present alarm. You count nothing an
inconvenience that can bring present relief, or possible healing to the
beloved one; disdain for yourself rest or ease while the shadow hangs
above the pillow crushed by the helpless head. But when it passes,
when the first transport of thankfulness has subsided into an abiding
sense of safety, the mind swings back to the accustomed pivot, and
your eyes seem to be suddenly unbound. You find, with dismay, that
the children have run wild, and the comfort of the whole family been
neglected during your confinement to the post of most urgent duty; with
displeasure, that the servants have, as you consider, taken advantage
of your situation to omit this task, and to slur over that;—in fine,
that nothing has been done well, and so many things left altogether
undone, that you are “worried out of your senses”—a phrase that too
often signifies, out of your temper.
And it is just at this juncture—when you are called to fifty points of
attention and labor at once, and are on the verge of despair at the
conglomeration worse conglomerated arising before you; fidgetting to
pick up dropped stitches in the web you were wont to keep so even—that
the invalid becomes most exacting. “Unreasonable,” you name it to
yourself, even though it be John himself who calls upon you every third
minute for some little office of loving-kindness; who wants to be
amused and fed and petted, and made generally comfortable as if he were
a six-months-old baby; who never remembers that you must be wearied out
with watching and anxiety, and that everything below-stairs is going to
destruction for the want of a balance-wheel. The better he loves you
the more apt is he to fancy that nobody but you can do anything for
him; the more certain to crave something which no one else knows how
to prepare. And when you have strained muscle and patience a _little_
further to get it ready, and with prudent foresight made enough to
last for several meals, it is more than probable that his fickle taste
will suggest something entirely different for “next time.” “Just for a
change, you know, dear. One gets so tired of eating the same thing so
often!”
He might be more considerate—less childish—you think, turning away that
he may not see your change of countenance. When you have taken so much
pains to suit him exactly! It is harder yet when he refuses to do more
than taste the delicacy you hoped would tempt him.
“It is very nice, I suppose, my love,” says the poor fellow, with the
air of a martyr. “But it does not taste right, somehow. Maybe the
children can dispose of it. If I had a lemon ice, or some wine jelly
such as my mother used to make, I am sure I could relish it. I always
did detest sick peoples’ diet!”
If he is very much shaken as to nerves, he will be likely to say,
“_messes_.”
“I am fairly wild!” said a loving wife and mother, and thrifty
housekeeper, to me one day, when I called to see her.
She had just nursed her husband and three children through the
influenza. All had been down with it at once. That form of demoniacal
possession is generally conducted upon the wholesale principle. One of
her servants had left in disgust at the increased pressure of work; the
weather was rainy, blowy, raw; the streets were muddy, and there was no
such thing as keeping steps and halls clean, while the four invalids
were cross as only toothache or influenza can make human beings.
“I am fairly wild!” said the worthy creature, with tears in her eyes.
“I cannot snatch a minute, from morning until night, to put things
straight, and yet I am almost tired to death! I was saying to myself
as you came in, that I wouldn’t try any longer. I would just sit still
until the dirt was piled up to my chin, and _then I would get upon the
table!_”
How often I have thought of her odd speech since! sometimes with a
smile—more frequently with a sigh. But with all my pity for the nurse
and housekeeper, I cannot conceal from myself—I would not forget,
or let you forget for a moment—the truth that the sick one is the
greater sufferer. It is never pleasant to be laid upon the shelf. The
resting-place—falsely so-called—is hard and narrow and uneven enough,
even when the tramp of the outer world does not jar the sore and
jaded frame; when there is no apparent need for the sick person to be
upon his feet, and for aught that others can see, or he can say, he
might just as well stay where he is for a month or two. But when, the
rack of pain having been removed, the dulled perceptions of the mind
re-awaken to sensitiveness, and there comes to his ear the bugle-call
of duty—sharp, imperative;—when every idle moment speaks to him of a
slain opportunity, and the no longer strong man shakes his fetters
with piteous cries against fate, do not despise, or be impatient
with him. He is feverish and inconsiderate and capricious because he
is not himself. You see only the poor wreck left by the demon as he
tore his way out of him at the Divine command. Gather it up lovingly
in your arms, and nurse it back to strength and comeliness. The sick
should always be the chief object of thought and care with all in the
household.’ If need be, let the dirt lie chin-deep everywhere else, so
long as it is kept out of that one room. There be jealous in your care
that nothing offends sight and smell.
There should be _no_ smell in a sick-chamber. To avoid this, let in
the air freely and often. Cologne-water will not dispel a foul odor,
while disinfectants are noisome in themselves. Bathe the patient as
frequently and thoroughly as prudence will allow, and change his
clothing, with the bed-linen, every day. Do not keep the medicines
where he can see them, nor ever let him witness the mixing of that
which he is to swallow. So soon as his meals are over, remove every
vestige of them from the room. Even a soiled spoon, lying on table or
bureau, may offend his fastidious appetite. Cover the stand or waiter
from which he eats with a spotless napkin, and serve his food in your
daintiest ware.
My heart softens almost to tearfulness when I recall the hours, days,
weeks, I have myself spent in the chamber of languishing, and the
ingenuity of tenderness that, from my babyhood, has striven to cheat
the imprisonment of weariness, and make me forget pain and uselessness.
The pretty surprises daily invented for my entertainment; the exceeding
nicety with which they were set out before me; the loving words that
nourished my spirit when the body was faint unto death,—these are
events, not slight incidents, in the book of memory. When I cease to be
grateful for them, or to learn from them how to minister unto others of
the like consolation, may my heart forget to beat, my right hand lose
her cunning!
Do not ask your charge what he would like to eat to-day. He will, of a
surety, sicken with the effort at selection, and say, “Nothing!” But
watch attentively for the slightest intimation of a desire for any
particular delicacy, and if you are assured that it cannot hurt him,
procure it, if you can, without letting him guess at your intention.
Feed him lightly and often, never bringing more into his sight than he
may safely eat. A big bowl of broth or jelly will either tempt him to
imprudence, or discourage him. “Am I to be burdened with all that?”
cries the affrighted stomach, and will have none of it. While he is
very weak, feed him with your own hand, playfully, as you would a
child, talking cheerily of something besides his food, and coaxing him
into taking the needed nutriment as only a wife and mother can, or as
nobody but John could beguile you to effort in the same direction.
Study all pleasant and soothing arts to while away the time, and keep
worry of every kind away from him. A trifle at which you can laugh will
be a burden to the enfeebled mind and body, and he has nothing to do
but lie still and roll it over until it swells into a mountain. When
he can be removed without danger, let him have his meals in another
room, changing the air of each when he is not in it. Every one who has
suffered from long sickness knows the peculiar loathing attendant upon
the idea that all food is tainted with the atmosphere of the chamber
in which it is served, and if eaten in bed, tastes of the mattress and
pillows. The room and all in it may be clean, fresh, and sweet, but the
fancy cannot be dismissed. And it is wiser to humor than to reason with
most sick fancies.
A hired nurse is a useful, often a necessary thing, but while you are
upon your feet, and mistress of your own house, delegate to no one
the precious task of catering for the dear sufferer. It is an art in
itself. I hope a practical knowledge of it will be taught in Women’s
Medical Colleges, when they are an established “institution” with us.
I wish it were proper to record here the name of one of the kindest
and best family physicians I ever knew, who had charge of my not very
firm health during my girlhood. He owed much—I suppose no one ever knew
really how much—of his success in his practice to his tact and skill in
devising palatable and suitable nourishment for his patients. I well
remember the childish pleasure with which I would hear him say when the
violence of the attack had passed—“Now, my dear child, we must begin
with kitchen physic!” and the glow of amused expectation with which I
used to watch him, as, with an arch show of mystery, he would beckon my
mother from the room to receive his “prescription;” the impatience with
which I awaited the result of the conference, and the zest with which I
ate whatever he ordered.
If I could have persuaded him to manage this department of my work,
it would win for me the degree of M.D. with a new meaning—Mistress of
Dietetics.