Forty Years in the Wilderness of Pills and Powders / Cogitations and Confessions of an Aged Physician

by William A. Alcott

When the news of my own sickness reached my near relatives who resided only a few miles distant, they were anxious to pay such attention to me as the nature of the case appeared to require. But they soon tired; and it was found needful to employ an aged and experienced nurse to take the general charge, and under the direction of the physician, assume the entire responsibility of the case.

This nurse was one of those conceited people whose aid, after all, is worth very little. He was as far from affording the kind of assistance I required as could possibly be. And yet his intentions were in the main excellent.

The selection of physician was equally unfortunate. My teacher had nearly as much as he could do to take care of his wife and child. At his request, and in accordance with the wishes of my friends, their and my former physician were called in. When the danger became more imminent, a third was occasionally consulted. It was supposed, no doubt, that in the midst of counsellors there was safety.

The counsels of our third man, or umpire, may have had influence; but his manners were coarse, and in many respects objectionable. He was in favor, also, of a highly stimulating treatment, which appeared to me to add fuel to the flame, for I soon began to be at a loss when called upon to recollect things and circumstances. He saw the tendency, and, partly by way of "showing off" his powers of diagnosis, as well as in part to gain applause should a case so desperate turn out favorably, said, in the hearing of my nurse, "He'll die in just thirty-six hours."

Now, whatever his intentions were, and however honest his declaration, my nurse swallowed it at once, and was restless till he had an opportunity to divulge what he regarded as an important secret. It is by no means improbable that he entertained the usual impressions that a special preparation should be made for death, and that it was needful I should know my danger and attend to the subject before it was too late.

In one of my most lucid intervals, therefore, he said to me, "Do you expect to recover from your disease?"—"Most certainly I do," was the reply. "Do you know what Dr. Thornton thinks about it?"—"Not certainly; but from his cheerful manner, I suppose he thinks favorably."—"Do you think you could bear to know the truth? For if it was unfavorable, would it not be too much for you in your enfeebled condition?"

My heart was in my mouth, as the saying is, at this broad hint; and with a strong and earnest curiosity, I begged to know the worst, and to know it immediately. My attendant saw, in my agitation, his error, and would doubtless have receded had it been in his power; but it was too late; the die was cast; my curiosity was all on tiptoe, and I trembled, as a sailor would say, from stem to stern. "Well," said he, at length, putting on a face which of itself was enough to destroy some very feeble persons, "he says you cannot live more than thirty-six hours."

My friend, in divulging what he deemed an important secret, doubtless felt relieved; but not so with me. My philosophy had disappeared with the progress of my disease, and I was now, in mind, a mere child. In short, I was so much agitated by the unexpected intelligence, that I sank at once under it, and remained in this condition for several hours. When I awoke from this delirium, the symptoms of my disease were more favorable, and from that day forth I began to recover.

But the risk was too great for my enfeebled and diseased frame, and should not have been incurred. Dr. Thornton, though a physician of much reputation, was nevertheless a man of very little principle, and though respected for his medical tact and skill, was beloved by very few. He died, moreover, not many years afterward, as the fool dieth; viz., by suicidal hands. Nor do I know that as a man—a mere citizen—he had many mourners.

The reader will pardon me, perhaps, for saying so many times, and with so much emphasis, that "it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good." But I must be allowed to repeat the saying here, and to observe that while I entirely disapprove of the course my attendant took in the present instance, I am by no means sure that the delirium into which I was thrown by his tattling propensity was not safer for me than a restless apprehension of danger would have been, especially when long continued; nor that it did not contribute, indirectly, to bring about my recovery.