And I maintain that we cannot ever take too much trouble about our homes, that we cannot have them too pretty or too well managed, and that, moreover, once they are started, they are easy to keep going, always supposing that we have regular ways and rules, that we do not muddle, and that we pass over nothing that requires attention, let it be a braid off a chair, or the misdemeanour or disobedience of a servant or child; the one should be mended, the other spoken to at once, then things will go on like clockwork, and we shall be fairly astonished to find how well things progress and how admirably they manage themselves.
Start well, start carefully, and then all one has to do is to steer straight; after all, steering is not very hard work, and that is all one has to do once the ship is fairly loaded and under way.
CHAPTER XI.
THE SICK ROOM.
In all large houses there ought undoubtedly to be some provision for infectious illness. Of course I know that there are excellent fever hospitals, where one can be despatched at almost a moment’s notice, where an ambulance will deposit you, and where the best nursing and doctoring can be had at a most moderate outlay; and I, for one, highly applaud those courageous souls who telegraph for the proper conveyance, and depart, cutting themselves off from their homes, and at the same time from any chance of handing on their complaints elsewhere, with one fell swoop. But, much as I admire and applaud, nothing would, I fear, induce me to follow their laudable example. To know how to be ill is a fine art, and this accomplishment is quite thrown away on those who regard one merely as a ‘case,’ and talk about one as if one were a mere chattel left with them to repair, and return with the utmost speed. Moreover, I maintain always that one’s bodily health depends immensely on one’s surroundings, and that it would take double the time to get better in a hospital than one would in one’s own home, where one could see one’s friends out of the window and catch even a far-off whisper of what was happening, and see even from the greatest distance some of one’s old, accustomed sights. In an ordinary house, as at present arranged, it would be absolutely impossible to have even the smallest amount of infectious disease without running the greatest risk of handing it on to all the rest of the family; but there could be in most houses such arrangements made, were the builder a man of sense, that we could have a hospital room, a room sufficiently isolated to ensure immunity from infection, and yet near enough to do away with the hopeless feeling which seizes the ordinary mortal the moment he hears he has ‘something catching,’ and which enables him to understand what were the feelings of the lepers of old, who had to flee from the sight of their fellow-creatures, calling out aloud as they ran, ‘Unclean! unclean!’ Of course we ought not to feel angry with those who refuse to come near us; indeed, had I my way no one should ever enter a house where there was small-pox, scarlatina, or diphtheria; but we do resent it somehow, despite our own common sense and the knowledge that we should forbid the call our friends are so anxious not to make if they attempted to come near us; and there is no more miserable feeling than that which seizes us when we are told that we have a complaint in our midst which may prevent us from being on the same footing as the rest of mankind for several weary weeks, or may be months. But, before going into the matter of what we should do when infection is in our house, let me for a moment speak about the room we should all of us possess ready for an emergency and into which we could retire were we ill at all, not only ‘infectious’ but ill in such a way that we may require careful nursing, many fires, and absolute quiet and rest.
We should select a room at the top of the house unless we are building our house; in that case we should have a couple of rooms added on at one end, with a bathroom, lavatory, and tiny kitchen range in a third room. This should make a sort of annexe to the house; it should be reached from outside, and a passage, closed at one end with a plate-glass door, should communicate with the rest of the house. I once knew such an arrangement as this, and have always hankered after it, more especially as it allowed one member of a family of eight children to have scarlet fever at home without in the least endangering the lives of any others of the family, while the mother could see the child daily through the plate-glass door, although she could not nurse her herself. She ran absolutely no risk; the plate-glass door was as safe as the solid wall, and over it always hung a sheet steeped in carbolic acid. The child was nursed among familiar surroundings; the doctor could visit it without passing through the house; all the food could be placed so that the nurse received it without the smallest risk, and, in fact, the arrangement was so absolutely perfect that I cannot understand why possessors of large houses and good means do not always keep some rooms of the kind ready. No family can go through life without illness; it is much easier to bear when all is prepared for it, and there is no dreadful domestic upset to add to our natural anxiety and trouble when illness comes upon us all.
Now, given such houses as these, or even the single room quite at the top of the house, which would be next best (and although these have their disadvantages, they are generally quieter than any other), I should proceed to decorate them prettily. I should paint the walls first, and then I should paper them with the very cheapest blue paper I could find. I think Maple’s 4½d. blue and white paper would be best, and I should have ivory paint, the 4½d. a piece white and yellow ceiling paper, and curtains of 1s. 6d. a yard serge in art blue double. There is nothing here which cannot be replaced at a very small cost; yet everything would look pretty and bright and fresh; and I should have the floor parqueterie or else covered with matting and rugs. The rugs could be removed in a moment if anything infectious were the matter, while the matting could be disinfected or destroyed; but this should remain. It smells fresh, it never accumulates the dust, and always looks nice, in my opinion. In illness looks are everything, and it is absolutely necessary for things to be neat and pretty; else the patient will be worried to death without really understanding why he is being worried.
The bed should be a good wide one—a double one. This gives room for the patient to move about in. It should have a wire mattress and a good hair mattress at the top, four pillows, and a bolster, and it should have an ample supply of venerable blankets for under use. Those for over use should depend on what is the matter. New blankets and an eider-down are lighter and warmer than anything, and if these are required they must be had, even if afterwards they have to be destroyed. There should be no washing or dressing apparatus visible (these can be kept in the lavatory), but there should be two or three of the stained wooden chairs sold by Pither, 38 Mortimer Street, W., which are comfortable enough for the doctor and an occasional visitor or for the nurse on duty (too much comfort often induces sleep), and which can be wiped over daily. There should also be a wide, deep wicker armchair, nicely cushioned, and there should be a long chair for the invalid, where he or she could rest while the bed is made or remain when convalescence has begun, and the bed may be left for some hours at least. The long deck chairs are not suitable for this purpose, as, being made of wicker, they creak in the most awful manner, and are not comfortable in the least; but there are some long narrow beds used as camp beds, which can be put up at any angle, and have an iron frame filled in with sacking, on which a cushion is placed. This makes the most comfortable lounge of which I know, and should be in every sick room or room set apart for the purpose of nursing. They can be bought at almost any ironmonger’s, or at any place which caters for Volunteers or those who do any luxurious camping out. There should be pictures on the walls, and a bookcase, and above all there should be a screen of some kind or other. The pictures should be of the cheapest; some of those lately issued by the ‘Illustrated News’ people, which resemble old Bartolozzi prints, would do admirably, as the frames could be disinfected, the glass washed, and the pictures themselves destroyed. The bookcase could be varnished or re-Aspinalled, and the books burned. Books are fearful methods of conveying infection, and carelessness about this cannot be too harshly condemned. It is far better to destroy everything, no matter how precious it may be, than run the very smallest risk of passing on even what may be considered a mild complaint, for that which is mild in one patient often causes death or great suffering in another whose constitution is unfitted to cope with that special disease.
Once the room is ready and looking pretty, the next care must be to see that it is kept properly aired and that nothing gets out of order, and that all the things for use are in their places; then we need not think any more about the room, which should be under the charge of the head-nurse of the establishment; but, especially where there are children, it is absolutely necessary that we should be prepared for emergencies, and know exactly what to do should there be any necessity for prompt action. There are a series of rules printed by the National Health Society, which should be hung up in every nursery, and there should be, moreover, a box containing simple remedies for sprains (arnica), cuts (calendula), and burns (oiled silk, oil, and cotton wool), and the nurse should keep the key. But, whatever happens, her remedies can only be temporary ones; all her instructions should end like those to the ambulance experts, ‘Send for the doctor.’
Now, although I am certainly no advocate for constantly sending for the doctor, and though I maintain that for small children a good nurse is worth all the doctors under the sun, I do maintain that immense comfort and safety are procured by an early visit from the doctor if we are fearful that anything is wrong above the common. But I maintain equally strongly that to be able to do this we must be very sure of our man; we must be able to trust him, and we must be quite certain that he is an honest man, who will not trespass on our credulity or fatten on our fears, and who will have the necessary courage to tell us straight out that we have nothing to fear and that we need not send for him again, or at least that he will not come again until we do send for him. Above all, let us, if possible, keep to the same doctor. Nothing is more stupid than to change him, unless we are absolutely obliged to do so, for he understands his patients’ constitutions if he has always had to see after them. A new man cannot possibly do so at first, and much more depends on a doctor understanding what he has to deal with, as far as heredity is concerned, than one quite comprehends. People would not be quite so ready to change their medical attendant as they very often seem to me to be if they thoroughly believed in this.