Sickness as a profession: How practiced by an expert and why abandoned

Front matter

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Preface

S in the name of liberty and religion the greatest of crimes have been committed, so also in the tender name of sickness, and in the honored name of medicine, shams and frauds, unnamed, unreported, and unnumbered, are daily perpetrated, more or less, every-where in society. Without intending or really knowing it, men and women have transformed robust health into illusory sickness, made themselves the plagues of their neighborhood, and a burden to their friends. The fancy notion often expressed in the words, “ I am unwell,” or, “ I am sick,” has served as a sanctuary of refuge or as a protecting shield to thousands of squeamish souls, and it is seldom that either friend or doctor can be found bold enough to tell them what they know to be their real condition.

Whilst cherishing the highest respect for the medical profession, and the tenderest sympathy for all persons who really need medical aid, we have put in form and order a few of the multitude of facts which have come to our

Preface.

knowledge in regard to well-known skam sicknesses, with the intention of lifting the veil which hides from the public gaze one of the weak and pestiferous phases of human life. We have aimed to treat the subject on the high plane of Christian sympathy and kindness, though the temptation to use the pen of the satirist has frequently assailed us.

If grievously misunderstood in what is written, we shall not be surprised. The ire of some doctors may be kindled ; parties we desire to benefit will become angry ; the schools of “ mind cure ” and “ faith cure ” will claim us as belonging to them,, and we shall also be charged with hard-heartedness, if not blasphemy, in laying sacrilegious hands upon sickness, the creature of divine Providence; but knowing our own motives for writing we shall care for none of these things.

Our story has led us through all the varied forms of social and domestic life, and yet we have found nowhere a beaten track. With a sacred regard to the best interests of society, we expose to the pitying gaze of the world our heroine of the sick-bed, with the hope that some may learn by her experience to avoid her example. The Author,

St. Petersburg, Pa.

Contents

Chapter Page

I. The Heroine of our Story Introduced 7

II. Susan the Subject of Earnest Counsel 22

Chapter I. The Heroine Of Our Story Introduced

“ A lady proud — she was of ancient blood,

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low,

She felt or fancied in her fluttering mood All the diseases the ’spitals know ;

And sought all physic which the shops bestow,

And still new leaches and new drugs would try,

Her humor ever wavering to and fro ;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry.

Then sudden wax wroth, and all she knew not why.”

“ Ding, dingle, ding dong ding, dingle, dingle, ding.”

“ Whoop, ho, halloo, halloo, whoop, halloo ! ”

Mr. James Quiiibj, a farmer hard at work in his corn-field, finding that he could not make his deep, bass voice heard at his house because of the din of the bell, dropped his hoe, and with a quick step started thither in response to its call.. His cozy cottage stood on a gentle elevation of Jand by the wayside, a mile south of the village of Auburn, and the premises were made convenient and beautified by walks, drive-ways, and a variety of shade-trees. There were no elegancies such as imply the expenditure of surplus funds, but the front lawn, the garden in the rear, the fences, and the gates gave evidence of industry, taste, and comfort. Two large poplars, standing on either side of the front gate, could be seen for many miles to the south, west, and north, and as sentinels they seemed to stand guard over the premises.

The farm of one hundred and fifty acres attached to this dwelling was in a fair state of cultivation, and all the outbuildings were kept in good repair. For three years Mr. Quinby had labored hard and practiced a rigid economy in a vain attempt to reduce a debt of four hundred and sixty-nine dollars, incurred in the purchase of land, drawing interest at seven per cent., which was secured by a mortgage on his place. As this season was unusually promising, and the markets good, he was putting forth a special effort to realize full harvests that a payment might be made by Christmas.

When the bell rang Mr. Quinby was about thirtyfive rods from the house, and during his walk there he was thinking a part of the time of his crops and of this debt.

As he entered the sitting-room, with his bronzed face somewhat soiled with dust and sweat, he was saluted by Mrs. Quinby as follows:

“ Dear husband, I am glad you heard the bell and came so quickly, as it is about time I took my medi-

The Heeolne of our Story Introduced. 9

cine, and I am always much pleased to have you prepare it.”

“Why, Mrs. Quinby,” said Dina, the hired girl, who desired to stand w^ell as an efficient hand in the estimation of Mr. Quinby, “I could have prepared your medicine. Mr. Quinby needn’t have quit his worh and come in from the field for that.”

“ O well, Dina, the sick are entitled to attention, and who should wait upon a sick wife if not her husband ? It is now nearly noon, and a half houj* or so will make no difference with his work one way or another.”

In silence the medicine was prepared and administered, and as Mr. Quinby quietly left the house he said to Dina, “ Till dinner is ready I will work in the garden.”

The silence of Mr. Quinby and his leaving the house so soon were not at all satisfactory to Mrs. Quinby. She had contrived to put some new colorings upon her aches and pains, and had anticipated great pleasure in giving him a detailed account of them. In fact, a little speech perished for lack of delivery, and the poor woman’s heart was made sad as it became its grave. She could also see in Mr. Quinby’s face an unusual heaviness and rigidity, which indicated the presence of a perplexing problem.

Alone in the garden, as new and strange thoughts came and went, Mr. Quinby became alarmed at himself. During six years his wife had been an invalid, and all that time lie had, without asking a question, responded to her calls. It now appeared to him to be clear that Dina had told the truth — she could hav^e prepared the medicine and he continued his labor. It was the third time that day and the seventh that week that he had been called from the field to the house on such like errands. His work had been hurriedly and not well done, and still it was behind the season. The half hour he spent in the garden carried him a number of times through the following soliloquy :

“ This year will pass, as others have done, without a reduction of this debt ; our home may be taken from us, and we may be turned into the street — and why? All because I am not permitted to attend to my business. If these interruptions were necessary there would be no room for a thought but for me to submit and do the best I could ; but the indisputable fact is they are not necessary. Dina could have prepared that medicine as well as I. What can Ido? Susan is very sensitive. Her enjoyments in life consist almost entirely in receiving attention from me. Is this really love, or selfishness on her part? I had supposed that affection was not only self-forgetting, but that it went out and fastened on its object ; hers seems to be all-engulfing.”

At this new and apparently sacrilegious thought Mr. Quinby started from his reverie and began to reproach himself for his cold, unlmsband-like speculations. Still, the question of losing his farm or making an heroic attempt to remove the difficulties which were in the way of saving it had effected a lodgment in his mind. He thought of the quizzical expression which played upon the doctor’s lips as he gave him, a few days before, the medicine his wife was then taking ; and the remark he made, “ I guess this will do as well as any thing,” came back with peculiar force. He resolved that, when he went in to dinner, he would test at least the strength of that medicine, and at the earliest moment have another talk with his wife in regard to their business affairs.

Dina’s call to dinner interrupted these reflections, and, passing into the dining-room and finding his wife seated at the table, Mr. Quinby said :

‘‘ Well, Susan, has your medicine taken effect, and do you feel better ? ”

“ O yes, dear. Dr. Simpson understands my case exactly, and his medicine always goes right to the spot. I am wholly relieved from that awful pain in the pit of my stomach.”

While Dina gave the finishing touches to the table Mr. Quinby washed and combed his hair.

“ Your medicine is so good, Susan, I will try it,” said Mr. Quinby. “ It may do me good.”

“ What ! You sick ? ” said Susan, in apparent astonishment.

She spoke as if she felt that her husband was infringing upon her business, and as if it had never before occurred to her that he could be sick. He tasted of the contents of one phial, then the other, then mixed them and tasted of the comp^ound, and, by tlie closest attention, could detect nothing but sweetened water. Putting the phials back in their places, he said :

‘‘I am glad, Susan, you are better, and hope you feel like eating a dinner, for I guess Dina has done her best.”

“ I think you would speak differently about your dinner if I had not been here to look after the girl.”

As Susan made this remark Dina’s eyes sparkled, and she gave her a fierce look, but said nothing.

Mr. Quin by saw he had made a mistake in complimenting Dina’s dinner, and in a moment the real root of the trouble flashed upon his mind. If, instead of going into the garden, he had spent the half hour sitting near his wife, wearing an expression of calm serenity while she poured into his ears her tales of woe, there would have been no sensitiveness nor trouble about his recognition of the good dinner. As the fault was his own he resolved that Dina should not suffer.

It was Mr. Quinby’s way to keep up a cheerful conversation at the table, and generally he was successful ; but after several failures to cast the burden from his own feelings and pour sunlight into the soul of Susan he gave up the task, and the meal was eaten mostly in silence.

Mrs. Qiiinby was crushed by the neglect she had suffered ; Mr. Quinby was tempest-tossed by unsettled questions ; Dina was mad, and it was wise in the trio to say but little. Wliat was lacking in sociability was made up by the keen relish which each one had for the bountiful feast of baked pork and beans, and in this respect Susan carried her part well.

During the afternoon, in response to the bell, Mr. Quinby left his work and went to the house twice — once to rub Susan’s back between her shoulders, and once to consult with her in regard to discharging Dina and procuring another liired girl, as her cooking did not at all agree with Susan’s stomach. The reflections of the afternoon had done any thing but bring quietness to the mind of Mr. Quinby, and on his second visit to the house he laid before Susan the burden of his indebtedness and the possibilities of being turned into the street. She thought he was veiy inconsiderate to trouble her mind with such matters, as she was doing so much, and all she could, to help him through. It seemed to her passing strange that he should mind the time required for him to come to the house to prepare her medicines and give them to her. Facts, arguments, and the general interests of the family made no impression upon her mind. During this conference Mr. Quinby saw in a new light that there was not much left of his wife but an

Sickness as a Profession.

all-absorbing selfishness. He saw, further, that all was lost unless the case would stand the shock of heroic treatment. He was thoroughly aroused, and the facts and refiections of the day had really changed the aspect of his life. He resolved that before he slept he would see Dr. Simpson, and by persistent cross-questioning either confirm his suspicions in regard to his wife’s condition and the medicine she was taking or completely dissipate them. Should we say that Mr. Quinby’s blood was up we should mean that, without bitterness, he was terribly in earnest, and ready for any step which truth and right might demand. His first business was to see the doctor, and he was eager to meet him.

As he entered the house on his return from his corn-field that evening, Susan, meeting him at the door, said :

J ames, dear, 1 wish you would go or send for Dr. Simpson ; I have felt so miserable the last two hours I could hardly stand it. We must have another girl, for Dina knows nothing about cooking for the sick.”

Dina w^as in the milk-room humming the words, “ Shall we gather at the river ? ” and heard nothing of these murmurings against her. Mr. Quinby was glad Susan had called for the doctor, as it would enable him the better to carry his scheme into effect. His supper over and chores done, he started on foot for Auburn, forgetful of his hard day’s work, and.

finding the doctor in his ofiice, entered, sat down, and seemed to be in no hurry.

“ How is madam to-night ? ” said the doctor.

“ Hot very comfortable, and you will have to go up and see her.”

“ To-night ? ”

“ Yes.”

The doctor ordered his horse, and said :

“ I hope nothing special has happened to the lady ! ”

“ I supposed, doctor, that sickness was always something special.”

“ O yes ; but then Mrs. Quinby has been a continuous invalid for many years.”

“ Yes, and I have my heart set on ascertaining what her diseases are. She has now been under your care six months, and you ought to be able to give me the desired information.”

“ That would not be a very easy matter, nor would it be very agreeable to either your feelings or to mine.”

‘‘ The pleasantness or unpleasantness of the case is not a question of any moment ; a knowledge of the facts, be they what they may, is every thing ”

At this moment the doctor’s carriage was driven to his office-door, and he said :

“ As you are on foot, Mr. Quinby, take a seat in the carriage, and we will see what new trouble has befallen the lady.”

Complying with this invitation, Mr. Quinby said :

My eyes were suddenly opened to-day to some facts, which, in spite of all I could do to the contrary, have made the impression upon my mind that my wife is not really sick in body, and that you know it ; and that the medicine she is taking is nothing but colored water and bread pills.”

The doctor indulged in a burst of laughter, but Mr. Quinby was angry. Seeing that he was dealing with a very serious man, the doctor instantly took another tack, and piloted the craft into calmer waters. Mr. Quinby had obtained the information he desired, and had then no further occasion to refer to his wife’s sickness. His reticence annoyed the doctor not a little, for he feared that a feeling of unkindness might be harbored against him. But the residence of Mr. Quinby was soon reached, and Mrs. Quinby was found alone, waiting, in the parlor.

‘‘Am sorry madam is not as well as usual to-night,” was the doctor’s salutation.

“Ho, doctor, I am miserable enough.”

The doctor looks at her tongue, then feels of her pulse, but says nothing.

“ Madam, what had you for dinner to-day ? ”

“ O, we had a regular farmer’s dinner — baked pork and beans; our girl knows nothing about cooking for sick people.

“les,” said Mr. Quinby, “and pudding, cakes, pies, and other knick-knacks ; and as I noticed how heartily my dear wife ate of these things I felt sure that she would soon he in health again.”

“Just like you, James, to tell every thing.”

“ Exactly, and a doctor needs to know the facts in a case, that he may determine what to do.”

“How much exercise have you taken, madam, during the afternoon ? ” inquired the doctor.

“ Scarcely any ; I have not felt like stirring out of my chair, I have been so miserable.”

“ Your case is clear enough. You ate too hearty a dinner, but you would have experienced no trouble had you taken a walk of a couple of miles, or other exercise to that amount. I think now if you stir about tjie house, or, as the evening is pleasant and the air balmy, take a walk in the garden and eat no supper, you will get along without the use of medicine.”

This disposition of her case did not suit Susan at all. She said, a little touched :

“ It seems, then, that I have become a glutton ; and, James, you may expect soon to have inscribed on my tombstone this epitaph : ‘ Died of gluttony.’ ” '

The doctor tried to laugh, as if Susan’s severe sentence upon herself were a mere pleasantry, and said :

“ It is the case with all of us that at times our appetite and nicely cooked food get the start of us,- and, before we are aware of it, the stomach is overloaded. In such cases an unusual amount of exercise is the quickest and surest remedy.”

Mrs. Quinby felt much disturbed, but what she 2 then suffered was only the beginning of her sorrows. At this moment Mr. Quinby, holding a couple of phials in his hand, said :

“Dr. Simpson, you have been treating my wife six months, and these phials contain the medicine she is now taking; by the taste I judge they contain nothing but colored water. Am 1 right or mistaken ? ”

The truth now flashed through the mind of the doctor that he had serious work in hand. He knew it was impossible to evade the fiery glances of Mr. Quinby’s eyes, and to tell the truth would enrage Mrs. Quinby beyond endurance. He was allowed no time to hedge or dodge, for Mr. Quinby repeated his question with emphasis :

“Tell me, doctor, is this medicine, or colored water ? ”

“ Among physicians it is not regarded as professional to say much to patients or to their friends about the medicines we administer, further than to indicate the effects we anticipate. In this case, however, which is very peculiar — though, in the aggregate, there are many of them — from such diagnosis as I have been able to make of it during the time Mrs. Quinby has been under my care, I have judged it best not to administer to her strong medicine of any kind, as milder remedies would serve as well.”

“You mean, then, to say that this medicine, socalled, is nothing but colored \vater ? ”

“ I guess it will be as well for you to know that the phials contain nothing but colored water.”

“ Well, here is a box of pills you left for Susan to take. She has taken all but five, and this is the tenth box she has emptied. I have tested their virtues by chewing, and tasting, and swallowing them as best I could. Are they any thing but bread flavored with the oil of anise ? ”

“ That is about what they are, sir.”

Up to this time the clouded brow and icy sternness of Mr. Quinby had acted upon Susan as a spell, and she sat as a statue ; but she could endure no more.

“ Do you say, doctor, that I am not an invalid — that I have not been sick for years, and that, because I was a healthy woman and needed no medicine, you have for six months given me nothing but colored water and bread pills ? ”

‘‘ That is about the statement your husband has compelled me to make, madam.”

“ Out upon you both ! This is a conspiracy you have entered into to humiliate and torment and kill me. James thinks if I were out of the way he could pay his debts. And it is no wonder that I am a sick woman, treated, as I have been, by a sly hypocrite. An honest doctor could have done me great good in half the time you have been fooling with your bread and water, and running up enormous doctor’s bills ; but then I wish they were twice as large as they are.”

“Bat, Susan,” said Mr. Quinbj, “it was only to-day you told itie Dr. Simpson understood your case exactly, and tliat his medicines went directly to the spot.”

This, as a center shot, was too much for Susan, and slie could make no reply. She sprung to her feet, and for some time strode backward and forward across the room, wringing her hands and sighing deeply. She was in real distress, and to witness her agony was a pain to the doctor as well as to her husband. But her trouble was mortification and madness. Pier humiliation sounded the very depths of her nature. The facts that she had learned — namely, that she was not really an invalid, that she could dispense with doctors and medicines altogether, and be a blessing to her household — brought her not a ray of comfort. Excited as she was by the terrible blow her pride had received, reflection on any subject was not to be expected.

The doctor, as a tender-hearted man, could not bear to return home and leave the Quinby cottage in such a terrible plight. Addressing Susan in gentle tones, he said, “ Mrs. Quinby, if you will have the patience to sit down and listen to me for a few moments I will explain this matter to you more fully.”

“ I think you have done explaining enough for one night, and it would be cruel to tax you further.”

Mr. Quinby commenced to say, “ I think the prospect of enjoying health — ”

“Are you two men such fools as to think I don’t know whether I am sick or well, whether I have aches and pains or not ? Or am I the fool ? ”

Without waiting for an answer to her questions, Mrs. Quinbj hastily left the parlor and repaired to her chamber. The doctor and Mr. Quinby sat in silence for some time, and listened as trunks, chairs, and stands moved about quite lively. Pier sharp, spiteful step jarred the house. Finally something was pitched into the hall, which proved to be Mr. Quinby’s Sunday clothes, the door was shut, and the click of the lock was heard.

After the silence of some minutes the doctor said : “ A pretty muss we have raised.”

“ Any thing in preference to shams and frauds,” responded Mr. Quinby.

SlClLNESS AS A PkOFESSION,

CHAPTER IL

SUSAN THE SUBJECT OF EARNEST COUNSEL.

“ Excess of study may produce epilepsy, diabetes, nervous headache, hemiplegia, jaundice, dyspepsia, and general nervous derangement. Close attention may result in visual liallucination, ocular spectrum, illusions, sensations of cold, sensations of heat, darting and pricking sensations, cataleptic rigidity, stigmata, purging, and nervous sleep.” — Dr. Tukb.

“ Every conception, every mental affection, is followed by changes in the chemical nature of the secreted fluids ; and every thought, every sensation, is accompanied by a change in the composition of the substance of the brain.” — D r. Leibig.

On the night of the rupture in the Quinby family Dr. Simpson did not leave the house till some time after midnight. Strange as it may seem, Mr. Quinby was in a joyous mood, and felt, as he said, like a strong man prepared to run a race. He was aware of the greatness of the task before him, but difficulties seemed to be a source of inspiration and strength. The consciousness that illusions had been dispelled, that he knew where he stood, that he saw life as it was, as a bright light shone upon his pathway.

Dr. Simpson was a scholarly man, of wide reading and extensive information, and an experience of two years in an asylum for the insane had enabled him to investigate with great care the interacting influence of mind and body. His respect for the high character of Mr. Quinby, as well as sympathy for his wife, greatly interested him in the strange case then in hand, and soon after the click of the lock of Susan’s bedroom door was heard Mr. Quinby, in a cool, business way, said :

“ As it is too late, doctor, for an interview to-night, I must see you at the earliest moment and receive the best instruction you can give me in regard to the management of this case. I feel that we have made a splendid beginning, and, though the work in hand is somewhat painful, the outcome will afford an abundant compensation.”

“Yes, I see; you have used me as a tool as no other mortal ever did ; but as you are locked out of your room, and as my boy will know where to send for me if I am wanted, the talk you speak of might as well take place now as at any time. The case, in many ways, is interesting, and I shall be pleased to give it close attention.”

“Well, doctor, then tell me what is the exact condition of Mrs. Quinby at present.”

“ I had better first tell you what has brought her to the condition she is now in, for that knowledge will aid to a broader and better understanding of the whole matter. You are not aware, perhaps, that sickness as well as any other human interest can be practiced as a profession, and that people can work themselves into a way of taking supreme delight in telling to others wliat they have suffered. Napoleon’s battles and victories were no dearer to him than aches and pains are to the professional invalid. If you touch the trade of a blacksmith or of a carpenter you touch him, and in this case you have touched your wife’s life business. Here you have the true key to her anger and hot resentment: we have discredited her profession. Your wife, in short, is the victim of an all-engulfing and all-devouring selfishness.”

‘‘That was the idea that struck me to-daj^, and brought to my mind a new conception of her state.”

“ You know that man as we see him is a mind occupying a body, and that the two substances mutually act and react upon each other. Locally, mind is seated in the brain as its castle, but its proper theater of action is not on the body, but in the vast and unlimited realm of ideas, external to both itself and to the body. When scientifically we examine a body we take as a subject of the scalpel and microscope some one not our own, and mind need not spend much time in thinking of self or of the house in which it locally dwells. Mind acts, and it is nourished by thinking, and it is furnished a universe of truths through which it may range and forage. Mind confined at home, feeding on self, becomes dwarfed, dissatisfied, melancholy, and then it pines and hungers for something new and fresh in a wider field. This mental dissatisfaction acts more or less on the body ; the sufferer then feels unwell or sick, and calls for medicine. As mind' thus preys upon the body the body suffers as a consequence, and it is for such sickness that bread pills and colored water are as good medicine as any.”

“ Do you mean, doctor, that any one can suddenly fall into that state ? ”

“ O no ; far from it. It is always the result of the growth of years. As living beings we are all wliat we grow to be. Life and growth always suppose change, and there can be no doubt that there are now in operation in your wife’s mental structure causes which began to act in her childhood. This is what makes our task so difficult. Your wife is no hypocrite. She has honestly for some years cherished the idea that she was doomed to be an invalid for life. This conviction, like a crushing incubus, rests upon her physical nature, and it must by some means be lifted. It is simply the result of the action of -mind upon body. Both mind and body have suffered as the result of this habit. Mind has been largely withdrawn from the vast and inspiring realm of thought and made to brood and dream over a very small point, called self. This mental habit came on so gradually as to be imperceptible to both the sufferer and to her friends. By a little reflection you will see that, greatly as the body has suffered from this cause, mind has suffered still more. Compare your wife’s reading power and range of thought now with what they were ten years ago and note the difference.”