TRIALS OF A YOUNG PHYSICIAN.
The poet Cowper, in his delineations of a candidate for the pulpit,
prescribes, as one needful condition or qualification,
"That he is honest in the sacred cause."
So, when I entered upon the medical profession, which I regarded as next
of kin to sacred, I deemed honesty quite a high recommendation; and
whatever in the abstract appeared to me to be right, I endeavored to
pursue through the routine of every-day life. Alas, that I should ever
have had occasion to doubt the policy of common honesty!
I was called to see Mrs. ----. The case was an urgent one. There was no
time for deliberation or consultation. I understood her case but very
poorly; yet I knew that in order to success I must at least _seem_ to be
wise. Besides, what was to be done must be done quickly; so I boldly
prescribed. My prescription was entirely successful, and I left the
house with flying colors. I left, moreover, with the full consciousness
of having acted in the main like an honest man.
A few days afterward I was sent for by Mrs. ----, who immediately filled
my ears with the most piteous complaints, the sum total of which was
that she was exceedingly _nervous_, and I told her so. Of course I did
not complain of culpability or crime. But I told her, very plainly, that
she needed no medicine--nothing but plenty of air and exercise, and less
high-seasoned food. My great frankness gave offence, and impaired my
reputation. She employed, in my stead, Dr. Robinson, who continued to
attend her till his bill amounted to a sum sufficient to buy a good
carriage and harness, and till his credit for skill was advanced in a
degree corresponding.
Mr. B.'s child was sick, and his wife besides. He came for my
predecessor; but, not finding him at home,--though he still remained in
the place,--he was compelled to Hobson's choice--myself or nobody; Dr.
Robinson lived at too great a distance. I was accordingly employed, and
was soon on the spot. The child was very sick; and for some little time
after my arrival I was so much occupied in the performance of my duties
that I paid no attention to any thing else. But having prescribed for
both my patients, I sat down quietly to look over the newspaper.
Presently I heard from Mrs. B. a deep groan. I was immediately at her
bedside, anxious to know the cause. "Oh, nothing at all," she said,
"except a momentary feeling of disappointment because Dr. ---- did not
come." I said to her, "You can send for him now, madam, as soon as he
returns. Do not think yourselves compelled to adhere to me, simply
because you have been obliged to call me once. I will yield most
cheerfully to the individual of your preference."
Mrs. B. apologized. She knew I had done as well as I could, she said;
and perhaps no one could have done better. "But little Leonora," said
she, "is dreadfully sick; and I do very much want to see Dr. B. He has
had more experience than you. These young doctors, just from the
schools, what can they know, the best of them?"
I saw her difficulties; but, as I have already intimated, I did not look
so wise as Dr. B., nor had I so grave a face, nor so large an abdomen. I
could neither tell so good a story, nor laugh so heartily; I could not
even descend to that petty talk which is so often greatly preferred to
silence or newspaper reading, not only by such individuals as Mrs. B.
and her friends, but by most families. A physician must be a man of
sympathy. He need not, however, descend to so low a level as that of
dishonesty; but he must come down to the level of his people in regard
to manners and conversation. He must converse with them in their own
language. He must not only _seem_ to be devoted, unreservedly, to their
interests, but must actually _be_ so. This confession is most cheerfully
and sincerely and honestly made; and may he who reads it understand.
On a certain occasion I was called to prescribe in a family where the
disappointment was so great that the patient was actually made worse by
my presence, and an unfavorable turn given to the disease. It may be
said that people ought not to yield themselves up to the influence of
such feelings; and it is certainly true that they ought not. But sick
people are not always rational, nor even judicious. Dr. Johnson says:
"Every sick man is a rascal;" but we need not go quite so far as that.
Sickness changes us, morally, sometimes for the better, but much oftener
for the worse; and in general it makes us much less reasonable.
But it is far enough from being my intention to present a full account
of the trials incident to the life of a young medical man; for, in order
to do this, I should be obliged to carry you with me, at least mentally,
to places which you would not greatly desire to visit. Physicians can
seldom choose their patients; they are compelled to take them as they
find them. They will sometimes be called to the vilest of the vile and
the filthiest of the filthy.
Their office is indeed a noble one; but is noblest of all when performed
honestly, in the fear of God, with a view to do good, and not merely to
please mankind and gratify their own ambition. Above all, they should
not practise medicine for the mere love of money. A physician should
have a heart overflowing with benevolence, and should feel it incumbent
upon him, at every step in his professional life, not only to do good to
his patients, but to all around him. He should be a guide to mankind,
physically, for moral ends. He should let his light so shine, that they,
seeing his good works, may be led to glorify the Father who is in
heaven. His object should be to spread, by the good he performs, the
everlasting gospel, just as truly as this should be the object of him
who ministers in holy things at the altar. Such a physician, however, at
first, I was not. Such, however, I soon aspired to be; such, as I trust,
I at length became. Of this, however, the reader will judge for himself,
by-and-by. "By their fruits ye shall know them."