Chapter Twenty Three.

My Patient Who Never Pays—Myself.

I finish the transcription of my notes with something of regret, for the task has taken me back through many pleasant chapters of my own life, and to days when I too had my adventures and fights with the dark shadow casting his own shadow—the shadow of a shade across those whom he was marking for his own. It has brought up those stern struggles where it has been an uphill fight for days and days, striving hard, and rejoicing over every inch that has been gained—inches perhaps lost the next hour, when one has seen, in spite of every effort and the aid of all that could be brought to bear from the well-earned knowledge of others, a patient gradually slipping from one’s grasp, and stood gazing helplessly and wondering what to do.

This has often been my fate, and with a feeling of being humbled, I have thought how little we know even now of the secrets of nature, and how powerless a doctor is at times. But even then, when a case has seemed hopeless, a sudden flash or flicker of the expiring flame has renewed hope, and cautiously, and with endless care lest the effort to relieve should result in extinguishing the faint dying light, one has tried again to feed the lamp with oil, the tiniest portion at a time, perhaps feeling a kind of awe as the result has been watched for, and the faint spark has seemed to have been driven forth. Then the flickering has begun once more, grown stronger, sunk, risen, sunk lower—lower, darkness has fallen in the room, and one’s heart has sunk in unison with the dying flame—dying? No: that next flash has been more lasting. It was brighter, too. There can be no doubt now. Pour in more oil with tender hand; feed the flickering flame; watch it night and day; no care can be too great; for the enemy is ever on the watch, and a moment’s want of attention may result in the undoing of all that has been done. And when at last the lamp of life burns more strongly and the dark shade has fled—vanquished, driven away, there is a triumph, a joy indescribable, which rewards surgeons, or the learned in medicine, alone more than pecuniary recompense or notoriety can compass.

Nothing can be more sad than the feelings engendered when, in spite of all, one’s efforts have been in vain; but nothing, on the other hand, can be more purely delightful than the looks of satisfaction and relief in the eyes of wives, parents, children—all by whom the invalid is held dear. If ever gratitude is shown it is then; and the doctor goes away feeling that he has not lived quite in vain.

A hundred pleasant recollections—ay, and a hundred sad ones—have been evoked during the writing out of those notes; while, in turn, my old patients have stood before me, and I have felt the strong, earnest grip of their hands with that heart-felt earnest “Thank you, doctor!” which has meant so much. As I said at the commencement of these pages, I believe in, and esteem the sturdy working man, and for a patient I would wish for none better, on account of his genuine trust and faith in him who is working for his cure. I said, too, that I had once felt a strong desire to become an army surgeon, for the sake of the experience it would give me; but I think I have shown that amongst the privates of the vast army of work-a-day toilers, there is practice sufficient to satisfy the most exacting; and though the surgeon may not have to deal with sword-cut, bayonet, and bullet wound, there is enough work for busy hand and brain at home in his noble profession, whose mission it is to relieve the sick and wounded in the great battle of life.

The End.