I sometimes wondered what there is about the atmosphere of a hospital
that makes everybody prevaricate. If you ask what your temperature is
you get an evasive or dishonest answer; if you ask a civil question
about yourself, or anybody, or anything whatsoever, they all--including
your own people--seem leagued together in a solemn compact to deceive
you. And they justify their deceit on the ground that truthful answers
are “bad for the morale of the patient,” who is supposed to submit to
everything without question, obey all orders without objection, and
interfere with no local procedure. You hire the doctor, suffer all the
torments, and pay all the bills; yet you are given but little occasion
to feel that you are in any other respect regarded as a human entity.
You are merely a patient--known in hospital parlance by the number on
the door of your room. If you ask an intelligent question about your
own condition, the answer makes you feel as if you were prying into
their affairs. If you are feverish and irritable, and feel anxiety and
suspicion because you are being obviously deceived, you must content
yourself with believing that your attendants think they know better
than you about your condition and what is good for you.
The first night at the Kahler hospital, my nurse on retiring said she
was a light sleeper, and to call her when I wanted anything in the
night. She would get up at seven and go to breakfast. Under a strong
opiate I slept fairly well through the latter part of the night, and
waking a little before seven, with a throbbing hip, and parched mouth
and throat, I attempted to wake her for a glass of water (her bed was
behind a screen across the room).
“Miss Page!” I called in a loud whisper. No answer. Then louder--“Miss
_Page_!” Still no answer.... “Miss Page, did you say you were a
light sleeper?” About that time I felt like sneezing; and, I thought,
“if I can put this over strong it will surely bring her to.” So I drew
in a tremendous inhalation and let out a blast that seemed to shake
the room. When the reverberations had died away I listened, and the
death-like silence gave me a quaky feeling.
Becoming alarmed, I reached for the telephone on the stand beside my
bed and asked the operator to ring my bell vigorously, as I couldn’t
wake my nurse. The ensuing clatter sounded like a fire alarm.
“My God, the woman’s dead!” I thought. When I could stand the noise and
suspense no longer I cut in and called to the operator--“Send someone
up quick; there’s a dead nurse in my room!”
In a short time there was a rush of feet coming along the corridor,
then the door was opened, the lights flashed on and several excited
people ran in.
“Behind the screen!” I said. They all scurried across to the scene of
the supposed fatality. But the bed was empty! Half an hour later the
nurse came in smiling. “I got up early,” she said, “and slipped out
while you were asleep. Did you miss me?”
We now approach the scenes that bordered narrowly on tragedy. Strangely
enough I had had much to do with tragedies the past year. I read
twenty-one of them by Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, but little
did I dream how near I was to becoming the central figure in a tragic
drama with a modern hospital setting.
A couple of days or so after the nurse episode Dr. Braasch came to see
me. He said he was making a special study of my case, and for some time
he listened attentively while I endeavored to explain how I felt. For
the first time I was encouraged to find that I had finally impressed
someone with the idea that all was not going well. With the parting
remark that he would call again in a few hours, he went out, leaving me
in a state of wonderment as to what the next move would be. A little
later, when Doctor Will made his customary morning call, he talked at
unusual length about the operation. He said his first impression on
seeing the infected kidney was to remove it; but on second thought, and
acting on the advice of his assistants, he decided to try to save it.
Therefore after spending nearly two hours cleaning out and repairing
it he stitched it up, put it back and sewed up the incision. He still
felt that his second judgment was correct. I disagreed with him, for I
continued to grow steadily worse.
“Doctor, that kidney must have _died_ of the operation. I wish to
God you had taken it out and thrown it into the sewer; then I should
have been well rid of it,” I said in despair. “I’m poisoned, I tell
you, I’m _poisoned_!”
But in his calm dialectical way he went on to explain several reasons
justifying his action, and others accounting for my condition. Finally
he convinced me that he was right; that my condition was only a natural
outcome of such an operation, and all I had to do was set my mind on
getting well. After he left I called in the family and said we’d play
auction bridge; that what I needed was action and diversion. They were
thunderstruck at seeing me climb out of bed and call for my dressing
gown and slippers. Though my head was in a constant whirl we played for
an hour, when Doctor Braasch came in and dropped into a chair, looking
rather troubled.