Then we have dear Philip in. He is tubercular, and such a pretty boy; but I think he is too good to live. I am afraid his mother drinks, and he has a rough time of it at home; but his father is a very nice man. Here we all spoil him, as he is really very ill, but is always so patient and bright. He has a mop of brown curls and the smile of an angel. He is one of the few children of the slums who always insists upon kneeling up to say his prayers; and though sometimes he has so little breath to spare that I have to say the words for him, he just kneels there and smiles when I get hold of the words he wants to help him out.
As a contrast, another of my patients was Samuel Abraham, the very ugliest little scrap of skin and bones you ever saw. When he came in he was seven months old, and weighed only eight pounds. He was in for six weeks, and absolutely refused to put on a single ounce. Then every one got tired of Samuel, and as I had not had a turn at feeding him, he was handed over to me; and, more by good luck than by good management, he began to improve, and at the end of my first week he had put on six ounces, and since then he has steadily gained in weight, and begins to look more like a baby than a monkey. He went home the other day, and I wonder much whether his poor mother will be able to rear him, as I am sure he will miss the hourly attention he has had here. We should have kept him longer; but we had three cases of scarlet fever, and they had to be sent to the Fever Hospital, and all the children who could be moved had to go home, and the ward will be sulphured. But I am writing this letter as I sit in the bare ward beside one poor little boy called Jackie, who is so desperately ill with meningitis that they don't like to move him. It is a curious case. Jackie belongs to well-to-do people, and his illness was caused by a fall out of a mail-cart. His head is so retracted that it really nearly touches his buttocks, and he lies in a stiff backward bow. He is quite unconscious, and I have to feed him with a nasal tube; his temperature goes up to 104 and 105.
At first I was rather nervous at being "special" with him, as I have been here only three months, and I have never seen a case like this before; and the sister may not come in to see me, as she has to go into the surgical ward, and we may still be infectious. But of course I can ask her advice about anything, and the house physician comes in twice a day, and is most kind. He assures me no one could possibly do more for Jackie than I am doing. I think he will be moved to a small ward to-morrow (if he lives so long), and then I expect I shall have to disinfect, and very likely go to a surgical ward.
V
Children's Hospital, London,
November 1891.
I know it is a long time since my last letter to you, but really the days are so full of work there seems to be no peace for letters; and at night one is so weary that, after a wrestle to obtain a bath, one feels fit for nothing but bed. And when I get to bed I feel obliged to take my anatomy and physiology books and do a little study, as the residents are very good about giving us lectures, and I should hate not to do decently in the exams.
I think when I last wrote we had just closed the medical ward (whose Sister had had the honour of beginning my hospital education), and after a few hours off duty I was sent up to a surgical ward on the top floor, next door to the theatre.
I went up rather in fear and trembling, as it was noted for being the hardest ward in the hospital—as the nurses were responsible for the theatre as well—and I didn't see how I could squeeze more work into the days than I had been doing on the medical side. But I received a nice welcome from the sister, and soon found that she was one of the best. She didn't wait for us to do things wrong, and then scold us; but she took pains to show us the best way to do them, and then woe betide those who didn't do their best!