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CHAPTER XIX
CHEATING THE PHYSICIAN

It was by no means an uncommon thing with me, while studying medicine, to take long walks. One day, in the progress of one of these rambles, I came so near the family mansion of a young man with whom I had formerly been acquainted, that I thought I would, for once, go a little out of my way and make a call on him. And judge, reader, if you can, of my surprise, when I found him exceedingly sick. For residing, as we did, only a few miles apart, why had I not heard of it? Most people, in truth, would have called on some of the young doctors – for there were three or four of us together, – to take care of the sick man, especially by night. Young doctors, I grant – and this for various reasons which might be named, were it needful – are usually the very worst of watchers and nurses of the sick; but the public often appear to think otherwise, and even to prefer them.

I found him under the care of an old school physician; – one who, though he otherwise prescribed very well, gave quite too much medicine; and like the old physician mentioned in the preceding chapter, mortally detested cold water; at least he detested its use in bowel complaints. The young man's case, however, was as yet wholly unlike that of the elderly gentleman of the foregoing chapter; and cold water at first, was not particularly needed; nor perhaps quite safe.

Some few days afterward, I called again. Found my young friend rather less feverish, but no better; in fact, he was much worse, and was most obviously running down. I continued after this to call on him daily, till he too, like the old man before mentioned, began to beg for cold water. But his physician said, "No, not a drop," and with a good deal of emphasis.

One day, while I was at his bedside, he turned to me, and with a most imploring look begged to know whether I believed a very little cold water would really hurt him. I told him no; but that a good deal doubtless would, and might even prove the means of his destruction. "Simple a thing as water is," I said, "it is to you, in circumstances like yours, a sword with two edges. If it should not cut away the disease, it would probably cut in the other direction, to the destruction of your health, if not of your life."

My remarks had both awakened his curiosity and increased his desires for the interdicted beverage. I found I had gone too far, and I frankly told him so. I told him it was not in accordance with medical etiquette, nor even with the rules of good breeding, for one medical man to prescribe for another's patient without his knowledge. But this explanation did not satisfy him. Water was what he wanted; and as I had opened the budget and removed some of his fears, water he must have. He was willing, he said, to bear the responsibility.

Water, then, in exceedingly small quantity at a time, was permitted; but it was to be given by stealth. The physician was not allowed to know it, or, at all events, he was not to know under whose encouragement he acted. His friends were very careful in regard to the quantity, and I had the happiness of finding him, in a few days, very much better. But, as I said in reflecting on the recovery of my aged friend before mentioned, it is not quite certain, after all, how much was effected by the water, and how much by the recuperative efforts of Nature herself. She might have been long waiting for that opportunity to rally, which the judicious introduction of the water, and the partial or entire discontinuance of other medicine, greatly facilitated.

CHAPTER XX
THE MEDICINAL EFFECTS OF STORY TELLING

My aged father sickened about this time, and remained in a low condition many months. I was at a distance so great, and in circumstances so peculiar, that I could not see him often enough to become his medical adviser. Besides, in my then unfledged condition as a disciple of Galen, I should not have regarded myself competent to the discharge of so weighty a responsibility, had I even been at home with him. The result was that he employed his family physician as usual, and went through, as might have been expected, with the whole paraphernalia of a dosing and drugging campaign.

Among other troubles, or rather to cap the climax of his troubles, he was exceedingly low-spirited. Confined as he had been to the house almost all winter, and seeing nobody to converse with, – no new faces, I mean, – was it very strange that his mind turned, involuntarily, to his complaints, and preyed upon itself, and that he was evidently approaching the deep vortex of hypochondria? Medicine did him no good, and could do him none. It is true he had, after three months, almost left off its use; but the little to which he still clung was most evidently a source of irritation.

My own occasional visits, as I soon found out, did him more good than any thing else. This gave me a needful hint. Near him was an old Revolutionary soldier, full of mirthfulness, and a capital story teller. Unknown to my father, and even to the family, I employed this old soldier to visit my father a certain number of evenings in each week, and tell stories to him.

Sergeant K. complied faithfully with the terms of the contract, and was at my father's house three evenings of each week for a long time. This gave the old gentleman something else to think of besides himself, and it was easy to see, did him much good. During the progress of the fourth month his improvement became quite perceptible; and in another month he was nearly recovered.

But, as I have repeatedly said of cold water, and indeed of all other remedial efforts or applications, whether external or internal, and whether moral, mental, or physical, too much credit should not be given, at least hastily, to a single thing. The opening spring was in my father's favor, as well as the story telling. The bow, so long retained in an unnatural position, on having an opportunity, sprung back and resumed its wonted condition. Still, I could never help awarding much credit to the Revolutionary soldier.

Most persons must have observed the effects which cheerfulness in a medical man has on his patients. The good-natured, jolly doctor, who tells a story now and then, and cracks a joke and has occasionally a hearty laugh with you, or at you, about something or nothing, will do you much more good, other things being equal, than the grave, staid, sombre practitioner, who thinks it almost a sin to smile, especially at the sick-bed or in the sick-room.

I think story telling, as an art, should be cultivated, were it only for its good effects in sickness. But this is not all. Its prophylactic or preventive tendencies are much more valuable. Few people know how to tell a story of any kind; while others, in some few remarkable instances, such as I could name, will make a story of almost any thing, and bring it to bear upon the precise point or end they wish to accomplish. It is yet, in reality, a mooted point, which could make the deepest, or at least most abiding, impression, Daniel Webster by a Congressional oration, or Jacob Abbott by a simple story. If this is an indirect or incautious confession of medical imperfection or impotence, let me say as Patrick Henry once did, in Revolutionary days, "then make the most of it."

While on this topic of story telling, I must not forget to allude to its moral effects. Lorenzo Dow, the eccentric preacher, is not the only pulpit occupant who has acquired the art of "clinching the nail," in his discourses by a well told story. It was quite a habit, in former times, with certain preachers of certain denominations of Christians, whose sermons were chiefly unwritten, to tell stories occasionally. And I appeal to Father Waldo, late chaplain in the United States Senate, to see whether the effects of these discourses were not as deep and as lasting, to say the least, as many of our modern sermons, which, while they smell much more of the lamp, fall almost lifeless upon the sleepy ears of thousands of those whom Whitfield by his more practical course would have converted.

CHAPTER XXI
OSSIFIED VEINS

While I was studying medicine with my new or second master, I had several excellent opportunities for studying health and disease through the medium of the doctor's patients.

One of them was a swaggering man of wealth, about sixty-three years of age. He had long lived very highly, had eaten a good deal of roast beef, and drunk a good deal of wine, and had almost swum in cider. He was in short, one of that class of men who "go off" in very many instances, at the grand climacterical period, some of them very suddenly.

"Doctor," said the general, exhibiting himself in full size and the boldest relief, "I want to be bled." – "What do you want bleeding for?" said the doctor. "Oh," said he, "bleed me, and you will see. You will find my blood in a very bad state." – "Your blood, general, was always in a very bad state," said the shrewd son of Galen, with a sardonic grin. "None of your fun, doctor," was the prompt reply; "I must be bled. I have headache and giddiness half the time, and must have some blood taken." – "Very well," said Dr. S. "It shall be as you desire. Here, my son, bring me a bowl."

An older student assisted, while I, glad of the privilege, kept aloof, and at a distance. The general's brawny arm was mauled a long time; and even then not much blood was obtained. At last the attempt was given up, and the man returned home, though not, as might have been expected, very well satisfied.

When he was gone, I inquired of Dr. S., as modestly as I could, what serious difficulties he had to encounter in his attack on Gen. Upham's arm. "Why was it," said I, "that you could get no more blood?" "For the plainest reason in the world," he answered; "his veins were all ossified."

I was quite satisfied at the time, with this answer; for I knew so well the habits of Gen. U. that I stood ready to believe almost any thing in regard to him, especially when it came from a highly respectable source. Yet I have often suspected since that time, that there was a serious mistake made. Ossified or bony arteries, even at this great distance from the heart, in such a man, ought not to excite surprise; but these would hardly be met with in attempting to open a vein, since the arteries are much more deeply imbedded in the flesh than the veins are. And as for ossified veins themselves, especially in the arm, they are seldom if ever heard of.

You may wonder why I did not satisfy my curiosity at the time, by making diligent inquiry at the proper source of information; and I almost wonder too. But, in the first place, my curiosity did not rise so high on any occasion whatever, as it has since done. For, though I was hungering and thirsting for knowledge thirty years ago, my solicitude to know has so increased with increasing years that my present curiosity will admit of no comparison with the former. Secondly, I was exceedingly diffident. Thirdly, my mind was just then fully occupied with other things. And lastly, whenever I was in the company of Dr. S., both while I remained in the office and subsequently, it was only for a very short time, perhaps a single half hour, at best; and we had always so many other things to talk about, that Gen. U. and his ossified veins never entered our minds.

However, it was not many years afterward that I heard of the old general's death. Of the manner of his exit except that it was sudden, I never heard a word, up to this hour. It is by no means improbable that there was ossification about his heart, for he was a very fit subject for ossification of any parts that could be ossified. I do not know, indeed, that a post mortem examination was ever made; the family would doubtless have opposed it. The uses of the dead to the living are in general very little thought of.

Such cases of disease are, however, a terrible warning to those who are following in the path of Gen. Upham. They may or may not come to just such an end as he did, but of one thing we may be well assured; viz., that the wicked do not live out half their days, or, in other words, that sins against the body, even though committed in ignorance, can never wholly escape the heaven-appointed penalty of transgression. "The soul that sins must die." For no physical infraction of God's holy, physical laws, do we know of any atonement. We may indeed, be thankful if we find one in the moral world or anywhere else.

CHAPTER XXII
HE'LL DIE IN THIRTY SIX HOURS

In the autumn of 1824, while a severe sickness was sweeping over one or two towns adjacent to that in which I resided, and considerable apprehension was felt lest the disease should reach us, the wife and child of my medical teacher, and myself, suddenly sickened in a manner not greatly dissimilar, and all of us suffered most severely.

It was perfectly natural, in those circumstances, to suspect, as a cause of our sickness, the prevailing epidemic. And yet the symptoms were so unlike those of that disease, that all suspicions of this sort were soon abandoned. Besides, no other persons but ourselves, for many miles around, had any thing of the kind, either about that time or immediately afterward. I have said that the symptoms of disease in all three of us were not dissimilar. There was much congestion of the lungs and some hemorrhage from their organs, and occasionally slight cough, and in the end considerable tendency to inflammation of the brain. The last symptom, however, may have been induced at least, in part, by the large amount of active medicine we took.

When the news of my own sickness reached my near relatives who resided only a few miles distant, they were anxious to pay such attention to me as the nature of the case appeared to require. But they soon tired; and it was found needful to employ an aged and experienced nurse to take the general charge, and under the direction of the physician, assume the entire responsibility of the case.

This nurse was one of those conceited people whose aid, after all, is worth very little. He was as far from affording the kind of assistance I required as could possibly be. And yet his intentions were in the main excellent.

The selection of physician was equally unfortunate. My teacher had nearly as much as he could do to take care of his wife and child. At his request, and in accordance with the wishes of my friends, their and my former physician were called in. When the danger became more imminent, a third was occasionally consulted. It was supposed, no doubt, that in the midst of counsellors there was safety.

The counsels of our third man, or umpire, may have had influence; but his manners were coarse, and in many respects objectionable. He was in favor, also, of a highly stimulating treatment, which appeared to me to add fuel to the flame, for I soon began to be at a loss when called upon to recollect things and circumstances. He saw the tendency, and, partly by way of "showing off" his powers of diagnosis, as well as in part to gain applause should a case so desperate turn out favorably, said, in the hearing of my nurse, "He'll die in just thirty-six hours."

Now, whatever his intentions were, and however honest his declaration, my nurse swallowed it at once, and was restless till he had an opportunity to divulge what he regarded as an important secret. It is by no means improbable that he entertained the usual impressions that a special preparation should be made for death, and that it was needful I should know my danger and attend to the subject before it was too late.

In one of my most lucid intervals, therefore, he said to me, "Do you expect to recover from your disease?" – "Most certainly I do," was the reply. "Do you know what Dr. Thornton thinks about it?" – "Not certainly; but from his cheerful manner, I suppose he thinks favorably." – "Do you think you could bear to know the truth? For if it was unfavorable, would it not be too much for you in your enfeebled condition?"

My heart was in my mouth, as the saying is, at this broad hint; and with a strong and earnest curiosity, I begged to know the worst, and to know it immediately. My attendant saw, in my agitation, his error, and would doubtless have receded had it been in his power; but it was too late; the die was cast; my curiosity was all on tiptoe, and I trembled, as a sailor would say, from stem to stern. "Well," said he, at length, putting on a face which of itself was enough to destroy some very feeble persons, "he says you cannot live more than thirty-six hours."

My friend, in divulging what he deemed an important secret, doubtless felt relieved; but not so with me. My philosophy had disappeared with the progress of my disease, and I was now, in mind, a mere child. In short, I was so much agitated by the unexpected intelligence, that I sank at once under it, and remained in this condition for several hours. When I awoke from this delirium, the symptoms of my disease were more favorable, and from that day forth I began to recover.

But the risk was too great for my enfeebled and diseased frame, and should not have been incurred. Dr. Thornton, though a physician of much reputation, was nevertheless a man of very little principle, and though respected for his medical tact and skill, was beloved by very few. He died, moreover, not many years afterward, as the fool dieth; viz., by suicidal hands. Nor do I know that as a man – a mere citizen – he had many mourners.

The reader will pardon me, perhaps, for saying so many times, and with so much emphasis, that "it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good." But I must be allowed to repeat the saying here, and to observe that while I entirely disapprove of the course my attendant took in the present instance, I am by no means sure that the delirium into which I was thrown by his tattling propensity was not safer for me than a restless apprehension of danger would have been, especially when long continued; nor that it did not contribute, indirectly, to bring about my recovery.

I was confined to the house by my sickness about five or six weeks, or till it was midwinter. And yet, all covered as the earth was when I first ventured forth, no Paradise could ever appear more beautiful to any son or daughter of Adam than did this terrestrial abode to me. And if ever I shed tears of devout gratitude to my Father in Heaven, it was on this very occasion.

It was a long time, however, after I got out of doors, before I was strong enough, in body or mind, to attempt to perform much labor. At the time of being taken sick, I was teaching a public school; and as soon as I began to be convalescent my patrons began to be clamorous about the school. They were hardly willing to wait till my physicians and myself deemed it safe to make a beginning. Indeed, notwithstanding all my caution, I was hurried into the pedagogic chair quite too soon.

But it is time for me to inform my readers what were the probable causes of my sickness; for I have already said, more than once, that to be able to do this is a matter of very great importance, both as it concerns ourselves and others; and it is a thing which can be done, at least to a considerable extent, whenever parents and teachers shall be wise enough to put their children and pupils upon the right track. I am well acquainted with a minister of the gospel, now nearly sixty years of age, who says he never had any thing ail him in his whole lifetime of which he could not trace out the cause.

For some months before my sickness I had been curtailing my hours of sleep. I had resolved to retire at eleven and rise at four. But it had often happened that instead of retiring at exactly eleven and rising exactly at four, I had not gone to bed till nearly twelve, and had risen as early as half-past three. So that instead of sleeping five full hours, as had been my original intention, I had often slept but about four.

How far this abridgment of my sleep had fallen in with other causes of debility, and thus prepared the way for severe, active disease, I cannot say. I was at this time tasking my energies very severely, for I was not only pursuing my professional studies with a good deal of earnestness, but at the same time, as has been already intimated, teaching a large and somewhat unmanageable district school. If ever a good supply of sleep is needful, whatever the quantum required may really be, I am sure it is in such circumstances.

But then it should be remembered, in abatement of all this, that the symptoms of disease, in all the three cases which I have alluded to, as occurring in the family with which I was connected, were very much alike; whereas neither the mother nor the child had suffered, prior to the sickness, for want of sleep. Must we not, therefore, look for some other cause? Or if it is to be admitted that sleeplessness is exceedingly debilitating in its tendencies, must there not have been in addition some exciting cause still more striking? We will see.

During the latter part of the autumn which preceded our sickness, the water of the well from which we were drinking daily had a very unpleasant odor, and a fellow student and myself often spoke of it. As it appeared to give offence, however, we gradually left off our remarks and complaints about the water, and only abstained, as much as we could conveniently, from its use.

In the progress of the autumn, the well became nearly dry, and the offensive odor having become troublesome to others no less than to ourselves, it was very wisely concluded to draw out the water to the bottom, and thus find and remove the impurities. The task was exceedingly trying, but was at length accomplished.

Besides other impurities, there were found at the bottom of the well, several toads in a state of putrefaction, and so very offensive that it was difficult to approach them, or even to approach the top of the well that contained them. They were of course removed as soon as possible, and every practicable measure was adopted which was favorable to cleanliness. This final clearing of the well was about two months before the sickness commenced.

Now whether there was a connection between the use of this water and the sickness which followed, is a curious, and at the same time, a very important question. Against this belief, at least apparently so, is the fact that our disease resembled in no trifling degree, the prevailing disease in certain neighboring towns. Another fact is also worthy of consideration. The rest of the family drank freely of the water, why did not they sicken as well as we?

But as a deduction from the force of these facts, it is to be observed that nobody else around us for several miles had the prevailing epidemic unless it was ourselves. And then as to the objection that only a part of the family sickened, it is to be recollected that in the case of some of them who sickened there might have been, nay, probably were, other debilitating causes in operation previously, to prepare the way; such as, for example, in my own case, the want of sufficient sleep.

Thus far, then, though we arrive at nothing positive, we yet find our suspicions of a poisonous influence emanating from the putrid reptiles remaining. Indeed, it were impossible wholly to suppress them, and I will ask the candid reader's attention for a few moments to certain analogical evidence in the case, which, it is believed, will greatly aid the mind in coming to a right decision on the subject.

An eruptive disease broke out in two families residing in a house in Eastern Massachusetts, a few years ago, which was observed to affect more or less, every member of the two families who had drunk water from the common family well, except two; and these last had drank but very little. On cleaning the well, the same species of reptiles which I have already mentioned, were found in it, in a state of decomposition, and highly offensive. No eruptive complaints of the same general kind prevailed at the time in the neighborhood, and those which I have mentioned disappeared soon after resuming the use of pure water.

Another instance occurred in this same region, a few years afterward. In the latter case, however, the putrid animals were rats and mice, and the eruption, instead of having a diffused or miliary appearance, partook largely of the character of the common boil.

Forty years ago a sickness broke out in Litchfield county in Connecticut, in a neighborhood where the wells were all very low; and the water which remained being in a cavity of rock, and continuing unchanged or nearly so, had at length become putrid. It was late in the autumn when the disease broke out, and it disappeared as soon as the wells were duly filled for the winter. It is true, I never heard in the latter case, any thing about putrid animals, but their existence and presence under such circumstances, would be natural enough.

It has, I know, been sometimes said that putrid animal substances, however unpleasant their odor might be, were not poisonous. But this opinion is doubtless unfounded; and, for myself, I find it difficult to resist the belief that in all the foregoing cases, except the last, and very possibly in that too, animal putridity had influence.

The practical lessons to be derived from the developments of the foregoing chapter are exceedingly numerous. I shall direct your attention for a few moments, to some of the more important.

First, we learn the necessity of keeping our wells in a proper condition. Could it be even proved that dead reptiles never produce disease, it is at least highly desirable to avoid them. No reasonable person would be willing to drink water highly impregnated with their odor, even if it did not reach his own seat of sensation.

Secondly, we should avoid the use of stagnant water, even though it should be free from animal impurities. Especially should we be cautious where there is a liability, or even a possibility, to impurity and stagnation both. Either of these causes may, as it is most fully believed, produce disease; but if so, what is not to be expected from a combination of the two?

Our wells should be often cleaned. It is not possible, of course, to say with exactness, how often, but we shall hardly err in the line of excess. Very few wells are cleaned too often. Once a year, in ordinary cases, cannot be too much; nor am I quite sure that twice would be useless.

It seems to me quite possible to exclude animals from our wells, would we but take the necessary pains; and this, too, without covering them closely at the top. I can not see how any toad, unless it be the tree-toad so called, could climb a well-curb three feet high. Other animals, however, might do so, and therefore I would keep a well as closely covered as possible.

Many, I know, believe it desirable that the surface of the water in a well should be exposed to the air. I do not believe there is any necessity for this, though it is certainly desirable to avoid stagnation of the air at the bottom. Motion is essential, I might even say indispensable. I have sometimes thought the modern endless or chain pump as perfect a fixture as any other.

Thirdly, we may learn from the details of the foregoing chapter, the necessity of having in our sick-chambers the right sort of nurses or attendants. There should be a class of persons educated to this service, as a profession; and most happily for the prospects of the great human family, such efforts are now being made; it is hoped and believed they will be crowned with success.

One thing more may, as I think, be inferred from the story of my sickness as above: – the folly of multiplying physicians. In the present case, when the physician's own family was in a condition to demand a large share of his attention, if not to absorb all his energies, it may have been desirable to call in an additional medical man as counsellor. But the multiplication of counsel, besides adding to the danger of too much dosing and drugging, brings with it a host of ills too numerous to be mentioned in this place, and should be studiously avoided. My full belief is, that Dr. Thornton was a principal agent in creating the dangers he deprecated, and which came so near effecting my own destruction.