bathed me every morning in the same way, only after a while they did not have to work so slowly and cautiously. I could exercise more and more, from day to day, and with less and less fatigue, and I laughed to myself that father’s joke would prove something more than a joke; I was bound to undo all his nice work; and I knew he wouldn’t care, so that I could get well. After a while I could raise myself up and sit erect, and dig a little, first on one side and then on the other; and by the time my ‘six weeks’ were up—and I told father so one day—I could dig a pretty good grave for myself, if they wanted to bury me; only, it wouldn’t be quite deep
enough to hold me down—for I had actually raised myself to my feet, stood alone, and walked a few steps without help. On the eighth week I could walk about—would walk off a dozen steps, come back, sit down—perhaps lie down. The more I did, the more I could do—always taking care not to exhaust myself—and the more I could eat; but I took even more care not to overeat than not to overwork: I found that the real thing was to eat little enough—not to see how much I could eat—so that I could increase the amount regularly, rather than to lose my appetite and eat nothing some days, or eat without an appetite, and next day eat enormously, perhaps, as mother used to; I wouldn’t have them ‘fix up’ anything—I was afraid of being put back. I ate but twice a day, and sometimes my breakfast was nothing but fruit—two or three oranges or as many apples, or a huge slice of watermelon—this was food and drink, both. I wore the least possible weight of clothing—often removing my stockings as well as shoes, and going barefooted and bare-armed when the weather was very warm. I had lost all fear of taking cold, though I kept comfortable always—throwing off clothing when too warm, and putting it on, as any great change in the temperature made it necessary, but to the extent of my increasing strength I endeavored to keep warm by exerting my muscles. One day, after some months of self-treatment, and when it had become evident that I was really convalescent, I asked brother to call Dr. Osgood (the young doctor who refused to take my case). ‘Why, sis,’ said
he, ‘you are not in earnest?’ ‘Yes, I am,’ said I, ‘I want to tell him how to cure consumption! You tell him I want to see him, but don’t say what for.’ He had been away somewhere, and had forgotten all about me, of course, but when brother spoke to him about me, he was astonished to find that I was alive. ‘It was amazing’ he said. ‘Yes, if there is any chance of saving(!) her I will call’—and he came. He expressed his pleasure at finding me so well, and I suppose he thought I had come to a point where I felt the need of his advice and a ‘tonic,’ perhaps; but I just made him listen to the story of my self-cure, and asked him if he couldn’t advise others to do the same way, and so do his patients more good. He was inclined to be vexed, at first, but finally he laughed and said: ‘Really, Miss B——, I have come here at your request, and you have prescribed for me, instead of I for you, and I thank you for it—will pay you for it, if you will name the price—but I could not practice in that way. Why, how many consumptives would act upon my advice, if it was of that character? How many, indeed, would have the second visit from me, or recommend me to others? They would even denounce me to their friends—to every one they saw, and I would have to go to digging in the ground myself, or leave for other parts. No, Miss B——, you learned the true secret, and you were “fit” to “survive” because you worked out your own salvation: you have taught me something—a valuable lesson, I may say, and one that I shall profit by as I have an opportunity; but we could never set up such a reform—one doctor, nor
two, nor three, alone—the time is not ripe for it, physicians are not ripe for it, and it can only come, if it is ever to come, by just such independent action as your case represents.’ And so he went away, and I continued my ‘treatment.’ The next summer I had a little flower garden of my own, watered and tended it, and, a little later, helped about the kitchen-garden, besides taking care of my own room; and so I went on, gaining steadily, until, within two years, I was well—better than I had known myself since my romping days, and I have scarcely had a real sick day since—never a serious illness from that day to this, nearly thirty years.” “How do I keep well?” you ask. “Why, by pursuing the same principle that cured me—the same, in fact, that would have prevented my decline, in the first place. I never breathe ‘indoor’ air, winter nor summer, day nor night; I eat only the simplest food, and in moderation—yet I will, sometimes, eat a little more than I need—some meals or some days—and will have a little headache, or, perhaps, an old tooth will ache, or there may be a little disturbance in the stomach; but whatever it is, I eat more moderately—sometimes go without a meal; and if anything more serious than I have named presents itself—lack of appetite, or a bad feeling at the stomach, or a bad headache—I go all day without eating, and keep about my work, as usual, or take a walk outdoors, and this plan always works a cure. You see, I dress right—loose garments, no corsets, no heavy skirts hanging to my waist or hips, no smothering flannels, except the
lightest, and those only in the coldest weather; I keep busy about something most of the time; take a good deal of exercise; go out when I can, and bring outdoors in when I can’t go out—by having every part of my house well ventilated and as light and ‘sunshiny’ as need be (you see, doctor, I am not whimsically afraid of flies nor of fading the carpet); I think of my escape, of my good health, and this makes me cheerful. I feel sure of not getting sick—I have no anxiety on that score,—and I try to do what good I can, in my small way, and all this is as it should be—it is ‘healthy,’ and, all things being so, there is only one other chance to err, and that is in eating, and so when anything troubles me, I know what it is. So many people go wrong in all these things—dress bad, breathe bad air, feel languid in consequence and lie about doing nothing, indoors; eat worse food than I do, and eat more and oftener—no wonder they are always ailing, nor that so many die. But, Doctor, this will not cure my niece—our talking—and I don’t suppose I have taught you anything, as I did the young doctor, so many years ago; but if, as you say, you can tell the story for the benefit of others, I shall be very glad indeed to see it in print. You will send me a copy of the paper, won’t you? ‘A dozen copies?’ Well, all the better, I will send them to my friends; they will wonder how the ‘old story’ got into the papers.” And that is the way this history of a “Natural Cure” came to be printed.
[31] It is, of course, idle to speculate as to whether Miss B. was within six weeks, or six months, of a fatal termination of her disease under the usual treatment. Her physician expressed his honest opinion, certainly; though had he been catechised closely, he would doubtless have modified it somewhat, as, by saying that while she was liable to be taken off at any time, still, she might linger along several months, or until severe cold weather in winter, the season usually so fatal to this class of patients,—not because it is impossible, or even difficult, to keep the sick-room at any desired temperature, but because this end is sought to be accomplished, largely, by shutting out “the breath of life,” and by retaining the vitiated air, to breathe which would “chill” the healthiest subject. “To retain foul air for the sake of its warmth is expensive economy.”
[32] It was, in the author’s opinion, the bath rather than the pepper which proved so beneficial.
[33] In practice, it will often prove that quick sponging, all over, and brisk drying, followed, perhaps, by thorough hand-rubbing, will be more useful than the “piece-meal” bath: with water at a comfortable temperature, and the work quickly and skillfully performed, while it might seem likely to occasion a severe shock to the patient, still, it is but one “shock” instead of many, and is really far less trying, with many patients, than the more prolonged process with its oft-repeated local shocks. If rightly managed, the reaction from the full bath makes it altogether the most agreeable. It is of vital importance, to secure this warm “reaction,” and if, in any instance, there is failure in this direction, the instant application of warming appliances—hot-water bottles to feet, warm flannel wraps, extra blankets, etc.—is imperatively demanded. Baths which are succeeded by chilliness are depleting, and if of common occurrence are destructive to life; far better not bathe at all.
[34] See note 6 in Appendix, p. [284].
[35] One element which aided immensely in this remarkable cure, was the absence of great variety in the food. Indigestion is the enemy to be overcome; and he must be “killed dead.” Variety is this enemy’s right-hand man—encouraging excess and the indulgence in questionable articles; and, above all, prohibiting the adaptation of the digestive organs to any class of all the ailments thrust upon them. (See foot-note, p. [213.])