LEARN TO CONTROL PIEMIA.
About ten days after I went to Campbell, I was called at midnight to a
death-bed. It was a case of flesh-wound in the thigh, and the whole limb
was swollen almost to bursting, so cold as to startle by the touch, and
almost as transparent as glass. I knew this was piemia and that for it
medical science had no cure; but I wanted to warm that cold limb, to
call circulation back to that inert mass. The first thought was warm,
wet compresses, hot bricks, hot flannel; but the kitchen was locked, and
it was little I could do without fire, except to receive and write down
his dying messages to parents, and the girl who was waiting to be his
wife.
When the surgeon's morning hour came he still lived; and at my
suggestion the warm compresses were applied. He said, "they feel so
good," and was quite comforted by them, but died about ten o'clock. I
was greatly grieved to think he had suffered from cold the last night of
life, but how avoid any number of similar occurrences? There was no
artificial heat in any of the wards. A basin of warm water was only to
be obtained by special favor of the cooks; but they had been very
courteous. The third day of my appearance among them, one looked up over
the edge of the tub over which he bent, washing potatoes, and said, as I
stood waiting for hot water,
"Do you know what you look like going around here among us fellows?"
"No! but nothing dreadful I hope."
"You just look like an angel, and that's what we all think; we're ever
so much better since you came."
The memory of this speech gave me courage to go and lay my trouble
before the cooks, who gathered to hear me tell the story of that death,
the messages left for the friends who should see him no more, and of my
sorrow that I could not drive away the cold on that last, sad night.
They all wiped their eyes on their aprons; head cook went to a cupboard,
brought a key and handed it to me, saying:
"There, mother, is a key of this kitchen; come in here whenever you
please. We will always find room on the ranges for your bricks, and I'll
have something nice in the cupboard every night for you and the nurses."
This proved to be the key to the situation, and after I received that
bit of metal from cook, there was not one death from piemia in any ward
where I was free to work, although I have had as many, I think, as sixty
men struck with the premonitary chill, in one night. I concluded that
"piemia" was French for neglect, and that the antidote was warmth,
nourishing food, stimulants, friction, fresh air and cheerfulness, and
did not hesitate to say that if death wanted to get a man out of my
hands, he must send some other agent than piemia. I do not believe in
the medical theory concerning it; do not believe pus ever gets into the
veins, or that there is any poison about it, except that of ignorance
and indifference on the part of doctors and nurses.