"Ca ne va pas, mon petit?"
"Ca va aller mieux."
There is only one thing that is like the things one reads of. It is that the men, when they are very, very bad, always, always call for their mothers.
I remember reading that somewhere, and thinking it was just something somebody had thought pretty to write.
But it is one of the most true and simple and beautiful things that there can be in the world.
It is strange too. When they suffer desperately, they keep saying, "My mother, my poor mother," as if it were she who suffered. They seem to be grieving for her, not for themselves.
When they are frightened they call for her. Some of them are frightened of taking chloroform. They have fought and not been afraid, they would not be afraid to die, but chloroform is different.
Joseph opens the double doors of the ward and pushes the stretcher cart in and calls the number this or that.
He is all ready and waiting.
Joseph lifts him from the bed to the cart. I double a pillow under his head and wrap the blanket over, and follow.