Book: Our Nervous Friends

R >> Robert S. Carroll >> Our Nervous Friends




Mrs. Herman Judson was a sight to make the gods weep. With features
more than usually attractive, softened by a halo of waving, silvery
hair, she was but a mushy bog of misery. It was three P. M.; she had
just been carried downstairs, and in spite of the usual host of
apprehension, with some added new ones for to-day, no slightest
accident had marred the perilous trip from her front bedroom to the
living-room below; still everything and everybody, save old Dr. Bond,
was in a flutter. Tension and apprehension marked the faces and
actions of all. Not till the last of six propping, easing, supporting
pillows had been adjusted; till hot-water bottles were in near contact
with two "freezing" ankles; till her shoulder-shawl had been taken
off--a twist straightened out--and accurately replaced; till the room,
already ventilated to a preordered nicety of temperature, had a door
opened and both windows closed; not till the screen had been moved
twice to modify the "glare" of the lights, and to protect from
possible "draughts"; not until the "Sunset Scene from Venice" had been
turned face to the wall so the reflection from its glass wouldn't make
her "eyes run cold water"; and finally, not until ten drops from the
bottle labeled "For spinal pain" had been taken, and five minutes
spent by her niece, fanning so very gently, "so as not to smother my
breath"--not till this formidable contribution to the pitiful slavery
of petted sensations had been slavishly offered, could the invalid
find strength to greet her childhood playmate, quiet, observing,
charitable Dr. Willard Bond.

Twice a day for many months the household held its breath while this
moving-down, and later moving-back (and to-day's was an uncomplicated,
unusually peaceable one), was being accomplished. "Held its breath,"
is really not quite accurate, for Ben, the colored butler, and
'Lissie, the colored cook, found much reason for strenuous
respiration, as Mrs. Judson and her rocker, with pillows, blankets and
the ever present afghan, weighed two hundred and eight pounds-one
hundred and eighty pounds of woman, twenty-eight pounds of
accessories! And Ben and 'Lissie were the ones who logically deserved
fanning and attention to ventilation, especially after the seven P. M.
trip back.

And they were always so solemn, so tensifyingly solemn, these risky
journeys up and down. The niece, Irma, carried the hot-water bottles,
the extra blankets and the fan. The nurse had the medicine-box and a
small tray with water-glasses--for when things went wrong, the
cavalcade must stop and some of the "Heart-weakness drops" be given,
or some whiffs taken from the pungent "For tightness of breath"
bottle, before further progress was safe.

Mrs. Judson knew her symptoms so well. There were eighteen of special
importance; and Dr. Cummings, the successful young surgeon, a far-away
relative-by-marriage, had, in all seriousness, prescribed eighteen
lotions, elixirs, powders, pills and potions, to meet each of the
eighteen varied symptoms. Nine months ago this progressively
developing invalidism of twenty years had culminated in what Dr.
Cummings suspected to be a severe gall-stone attack. A few days later,
when his sensitive patient was measurably relieved, he had told her
his fears and suggested a possible operation. Within two minutes Mrs.
Judson was faint and chilling. Since then the doctor, the nurse, the
niece, not to forget Ben and 'Lissie, had labored without ceasing to
prevent a return of the "awful gall-stone attacks," and, with the
Lord's help, to get Mrs. Judson "strong enough for an operation." But
progress was dishearteningly slow. Every mention of "operation" seemed
to make their patient worse. And now for over eight months she had not
walked a step and had been an hourly care.

For the first time since the beginning of the gall-stone trouble, Dr.
Cummings was going to be away for two weeks, and he, with Dr. Bond,
had witnessed the downstairs trip in anticipation of a conference. Dr.
Bond lived but two doors away, and as he had retired from active
practice, could always respond to a call if needed. Moreover, it had
been discovered that he was a neighbor-playmate of Mrs. Judson during
her girlhood. He had but recently come to Detroit from their old home
in Charlestown, under the shadow of Bunker Hill monument, about which
they had often played as children. Dr. Bond had lived there alone for
many years following his wife's death, and had now come to make a home
with his successful son. He was giving his time, and he felt the best
year of his life, writing a series of chapters on "Our Nerves and Our
Morals." He had never been a specialist, claiming only to be a family-
doctor. But for over thirty years he had been ministering most wisely
to the ills of the soul as well as of the body. A large, compelling
sympathy he gave his patients. He saw their ills. He felt their fears.
He sensed their sorrows. He understood their weaknesses. He looked
beyond the manifest ailments of flesh and blood. His fine discernment
revealed the obscure sicknesses which affect hearts and souls. And his
rational sympathies penetrated with the deftness and beneficence of
the surgeon's scalpel. He stood for that type of man whom God has
raised up to help frail and needing human-kind in body, mind and
spirit.

"Sixty years is a long time to pass between meetings, isn't it?" said
Dr. Bond after Mrs. Judson's needs had severally and successfully been
humored, and she was able to note and recognize the old-new doctor's
presence and offer a plump, tremulous hand in greeting.

"You don't know how nearly you have missed seeing me," she replied. "I
have been on the verge for months, but Dr. Cummings has been able to
pull me through. You see, he knows all my dangers, and has given me
the best medicines that medical science knows for each of them. Have
him tell you about it, Dr. Bond. I do hope nothing will happen while
he's gone." Dr. Bond replied that he was sure, with Dr. Cummings'
advice and the nurse's and the niece's help and understanding, there
would be no danger; that he was so near he would come in each
afternoon and they could talk about the old days and the old childhood
friends around Boston. "I hope so," Mrs. Judson replied, "but you know
I can't talk long. But do come every day. I'll feel safer, I'm sure.
And promise me that you won't delay a minute if I send for you for my
gall-stones. If they get started, I die a thousand deaths."

"I shall come at once, you may be sure, but tell the nurse to put
those gall-stones to bed at ten p. m., because you and I are too old
to be spreeing around during sleeping hours."

But Mrs. Judson couldn't find a ghost of a smile for this pleasantry.
In fact, her look of alarm caused Dr. Bond to add, "Don't fear, Mrs.
Judson, I can still dress in five minutes and will promise faithfully
to come at any hour."

The two physicians left the room together. Thirty-five and sixty-five
they were, both earnest, capable, honest men, one a master of modern
medical science, the elder a thoroughly equipped physician, and a deep
student of humanity.

"I am very glad you are going to see my aunt. For months I have wished
to call in a consultant, but she has always refused. I know much of
her trouble is nervous, and you know how little time most of us have
to study nervousness, and I am sure you will see clearly much which
has been rather hazy to me. I think you were concealing a laugh when
they gave her the 'Spinal-pain drops,' and frankly, there is very
little that has much strength in all those pills and powders I've
given her. I have learned that she gets along very well much of the
time when she can anticipate her symptoms and prescribe for herself.
In fact, it's about all that the poor old lady has to do these days. I
am not absolutely sure, either, about those gall-stones. The symptoms
are not classic, but she certainly does suffer, and I have had to give
her pretty heavy doses of morphine several times, and then she's
wretchedly sick for some days. Believe me, Doctor, I do not feel
competent in her case. It's not my line. Find out all you can. Do
whatever you feel is best, and you may depend upon my endorsement of
any changes you may see fit to make. It will be a God's mercy if you
can win her confidence and share the burden of her treatment with me.
Of course, she's too old to get well, and I'm afraid if we ever have
to operate, there will be a funeral."

Dr. Bond thanked the younger man heartily. He felt his earnestness and
honesty, and saw that he had done all he knew to help his patient.

That evening the old doctor's mind spanned the gulf of nearly two
generations. He was again a little fellow, and Rhoda Burrows lived
across the street. Their mothers were friends; they were playmates.
And through the years he had treasured her happy, sunny, beautiful
face as an ideal of girlhood perfection. She was older than he, and
how she had "big sistered" and "mothered" him! How his little hurts
and sorrows had fled before her laughter and caresses! Hundreds and
thousands had touched his inner life since Rhoda moved West with her
parents, but that gleam of girlhood had remained etched with the
clearness of a miniature upon his mind, undimmed by the crowding,
jostling throng. Rhoda Burrows, the fairy-child of his boyish dreams,
and Mrs. Herman Judson, the acme of self-pitying and self-petting
selfishness, the same! It seemed impossible--yet--and here his big
charity spoke--all of the choice spirit of the girl cannot have been
swallowed up in the sordidness of a selfish, old age. And that same
charity breathed upon the physician's soul till his helpful and
hopeful interest for this pitiful wreck of wretchedness was aglow. He
would give her his best, and he knew that best sometimes wrought
wonders.

Dr. Bond first had a conference with the niece, who was pure gold, and
who accepted each of her aunt's complaints as a warning which could
but disastrously be ignored. But, and this was good to know, he
learned that when Aunt Rhoda was better, she was kind and good-
hearted. From the nurse, the doctor learned other details, and what
was of special significance, that the invalid's appetite rarely
flagged-then he saw a reason for her one hundred and eighty pounds;
and when he learned that rare broiled beef, or rare roast beef was
served the physically inert patient and bountifully eaten twice each
day, his understanding became active.

Mrs. Judson's presiding fates were good to her the next week. She
would have denied it with the sum total of her vehemence, which
incidentally was some sum, but Dr. Bond says it is true. It was after
eleven, one night. He was just finishing his day's writing. It was the
nurse 'phoning. "I am truly sorry to call you, Doctor, but I've given
three doses of the gall-stone medicine, and it always relieves unless
a real attack is on. I am sure she is suffering." The old doctor was
not surprised. The patient had been doing unusually well for two or
three days and had spoken particularly of her better appetite. The
doctor's first query, upon reaching the house, related to the details
of the evening meal. "No, there was no steak to-night. We had chicken-
salad. 'Lissie had tried herself; Mrs. Judson was hungry and asked for
a second portion."

Gently, carefully, thoroughly, the suffering woman was examined. There
was no doubt that her pain was severe, but in conclusion, the old
doctor did doubt decidedly the presence of gall-stones. He believed it
to be duodenal colic. "I don't wish to give you a hypodermic," he told
her. "I know it will relieve you quickly to-night, but it will set you
back several days. I am going to ask you to be patient, and to take an
unpleasant dose, and I think the nurse and I can relieve you
completely within two hours, and you will be little the worse; in
fact, you may be better, to-morrow."

"She won't take it," the nurse said, as the doctor called her from the
room. "Dr. Cummings suggested it once, and she held it against him for
weeks. She said her mother whipped her when she was a child and then
couldn't make her swallow it."

"You will fix it as I tell you, then bring it in to me," the Doctor
replied. Dubiously the nurse carried out the order. She thanked her
stars that the Doctor, not she, was to give it. Yet it looked very
nice when she brought it into the sick-room, redolent with lemon and
peppermint.

"Think of this, Mrs. Judson, as your best friend to-night in all the
realm of medicine. Take it with my belief that it is to prove the cure
of your gall-stones. It is not nice. It's not easy to swallow. Don't
sip it. Take it all at a gulp."

But she sipped it. And she screamed, not a scream of pain, but of
rage, of violated dignity-insulted-outraged. "Castor oil! I'll die
first. Why, that stuff isn't fit to give an animal. Are you trying to
kill me I Oh, you old fogy! I knew something would happen when I let
Dr. Cummings go. I wouldn't give such stuff to a sick cat."

All symptoms of pain seemed gone for the time. Generous as he was, the
old Doctor stiffened in the face of her tirade, yet with dignity,
replied: "You are refusing a real help. I speak from long experience.
I can give you nothing else till you have taken this."

"Then go!" she snapped out. But the "o-o-o" was prolonged into a wail
as a particularly pernicious jab in the midst of her duodenum-"a
providential thrust," Dr. Bond said--doubled her up, if rotundity can
be said to double. The Doctor was obdurate. Colic was trumps--and won!

The first dose did not meet a hospitable reception, but another was
promptly given. Then other nicer things were done and the Doctor was
home and the patient comfortably asleep soon after one. The next day's
conference between the two was strictly professional, nor was there
much thawing till the third day after. Mrs. Judson's ire must have
been of Celtic origin, for it was not long-lived.

The following Sunday afternoon seemed propitious for the beneficent
work of the soul-doctor. The whole family had told Mrs. Judson how
much better she was looking-the Doctor had kept her on soft diet since
her attack. "You have told me so little of yourself," said Dr. Bond.
"I only know that sorrow came." He then told her of herself as she had
lived in his memory. She had forgotten the beauty of her childhood.
The Doctor brought back the picture in tones which could stand only
for high reverence. She felt he wanted to know, and she knew she
wanted to tell. So for two hours they sat, hand in hand, as in their
childhood, and he heard of her father's moderate success as an
editorial writer after he came West when she was nine, of their
comfortable home in Detroit, how well she had done in school, of her
early ability as a teacher, of her election as super-intendent of the
St. Claire Academy for Girls when she was twenty-five, of her marriage
to Herman Judson, a childless widower fifteen years her senior, before
she was thirty, of their very happy home, of her own little girl and
how she grew into womanhood, of her daughter's marriage, and then of
tier little girl, and how wonderful it was to be a grandmother before
she was fifty!

Then it was "Nurse, the bottle for 'Tightness of breath'... I don't
see how I can tell it. You can't know. Nobody can. It was never the
same for any one else. The train went through a bridge, and they were
all three killed, my husband, my only girl, the darling grandchild.
God turned His face away that night they brought them home. I've never
seen Him since. I've never looked for Him since. I don't see how I
kept my mind. Something snapped inside. I couldn't go to the funeral,
and while I brought my sister home to live with me, and after she
died, have done the best I could to raise Irma, her child, and Irma's
tried, I know, to be a daughter to me, yet I've always been so lonely,
so wretched and miserable and sick. I haven't anything to live for-but
I'm afraid to die."

Then began the cheapening catalog of the nearly twenty years of
illness, her weak and sensitive spine, her constant difficulty in
breathing, and the eternal thumping of her heart. And on and on, the
list so old to Dr. Bond's ears, so commonly heard in the experience of
helpers of the nervous sick-as usual to the nerve-specialist as the
inflamed appendix to the modern surgeon--yet in the mind of every
nerve-sufferer so unique, so individual, so different. But of all the
long, two-hour story, one short sentence stood out, eloquent in the
doctor's mind, "I haven't anything to live for, yet I'm afraid to
die." He gently thanked her. He had felt with her in the recital of
her great sorrow, and she knew he had suffered in her suffering. "You
can get well. You can find something worth living for, and you can
lose your fear of death, if you will pay the price." For the moment
she misunderstood.

"Why, Doctor, I would gladly give thousands for health."

Again, gently, "Your dollars are worthless. You are poor in the gold
which will buy your restoration. I shall tell you about it Wednesday
if you want to know."

On both Monday and Tuesday visits her curiosity prompted her to refer
to the great cure Dr. Bond mentioned. But it was Wednesday afternoon
before he spoke seriously.

"You were very ill last week--such illnesses have frequently proved
fatal to life, when ignorantly managed. But as I see you to-day,
knowing your radiant childhood, and the good fortune which was yours
for years, and the heart-tearing shock which came so cruelly, I see a
sickness more dire and fatal than any for which you have ever yet been
treated. The beauty and youth and charity of your spirit are mortally
ill. I see your soul an emaciated remnant, a skeleton of its possible
self. It threatens to die before your body. Selfish sorrow has
infected and permeated your once lovely, better self, and to-day you
have no true goodness left. You are good to others that they may be
better to you. You are generous with your means-a generosity which
costs you no sacrifice, that you may buy back the generosity without
which you could not live. Four useful lives are emptying the best of
their strength, ability and love into years of service that you may
know a poor, low-grade, selfish, physical comfort. You are taking from
them and others consideration, self-sacrifice, loyalty, unstinted
devotion, and giving in return only ungrateful dollars. You are rich
in these, but poorer than Lazarus in the least of the qualities which
make life worth living a day, which keep Death from being a haunting
terror. You have not one physical symptom of your endless catalog
which cannot be removed if you meet the blessings half-way which
discomforts offer."

It couldn't have been what Dr. Bond said--it must have been what he
was himself that made those unwelcome, humiliating truths carry
conviction, win confidence, and waken hope. Possibly his last sentence
helped her decision--his serious confidence in his ability to remove
those terrifying, ever impending threats of physical anguish. At any
rate, she gave her promise-for six months she would implicitly follow
his instruction, with the understanding that if she did not see
herself better at the end of four months, she was to be released from
further treatment.

It would be a long story, a story of remarkable medical finesse; it
would be describing the work of an artist--for such was Dr. Bond as he
turned bodies from sickness to health and souls from perdition to
salvation. But victory came! In six weeks, the invalid was walking. In
six months she was walking three miles a day. She was eating, bathing,
sleeping and working more like a woman under sixty than one nearing
seventy. She spent the summer with the doctor's people in their
bungalow on Lake Huron. She now gave of her means thoughtfully, with
growing unselfishness, and soon after she began to look up and out
there came the peace within, so long a stranger. And she told Dr.
Bond, simply, one day, that God had come back to her, and he as simply
replied: "You have come back to God."

That winter, Dr. Bond spent in the East. One day the expressman
brought a package--some books he had always loved, in remarkable
bindings, and this note:

"My best Friend:

"To-day I am seventy. I haven't been so young since sorrow was sent to
prove me, nor more happy since I nursed your hurt arm when we were
children. I walked down town, two miles you know, and back, and a mile
in the stores, I am sure, to find these books you love, in bindings
worthy your better enjoyment of them. All that you have promised has
come to me. God bless you!"




CHAPTER XXIII

THE TRIUMPH OF HARMONY


When man "conceives his superpower, his miraculous power to meet
disaster, and in it to find profit; to face defeat after defeat and
therein acquire faith in his own permanence; to live for years within
a frail, defective body, with a mind unable to respond to the
promptings of ambition and inspiration, and thereby take on the
greatness of gentleness-the conviction comes clear, a conviction which
will not comfortably stay put aside, that life is intended to develop
a noble self."

What could be more beautiful to senses that thrill with love than this
pink-cheeked, azure-eyed babe, whose golden ringlets promise the
glorious crown, the unfading beauty of her womanhood? She was hardly a
month old, yet she seemed to understand--Mammy Lou said she did-that
she must look her "beau'fulest"; so when her father came and bent over
her little crib, she smiled, then coyly ducked her wobbly head, to
smile again at Mother, the dear mother who only to-day had been
allowed by the doctor to sit up for an hour. Mammy Lou must have been
right, for there Baby lay playing with her fingers and the
disappointed pink ribbons of her booties, while, now and then, when
the discussion was specially serious, she would look soberly at her
earnest-faced parents till they both would notice, and laugh. Then her
little understanding smile-and some more play. It was an important
conference. Considerations affecting Baby's future were in the
balance, and, as she gave such perfect attention and never
interrupted, and insisted on every one keeping good-natured, Mammy
Lou's assertion that "Dat lil' sweetness' stood every word her pa an'
ma said. She knew dey's findin' her a name," cannot be successfully
disputed.

The Southards had been married twelve years. Georgia was eight, and
Etta five. It must be a boy--one who would pass on the Southard name
and traditions. The first Earl of Minto had contributed some nobleness
of blood to the Southard stock, and the father had set his heart on a
boy who should feel the double inspiration of "Minto Southard," to
help make him fine and great.

A "girl"! And business took the father away for a fortnight. It was
rumored that he drowned his disappointment in Charleston-but not in
the Bay. He did not fully realize that the brave wife was gravely ill,
until his return. Then he was devoted and tender. They had made no
plans for a little girl; so she was nearly a month old and was still
being called "Sweetness" by Mammy Lou, and "The Baby" by others, and
to-day, while Mother first sat up, her name was to be decided.

"Why, Father, dear, no girl was ever called that. I think it would be
all right for a boy, but she's such a dainty little thing, and I'm
sure it will always seem odd to her."

"What would you like better, Mater? I don't wish to contend or to be
unduly insistent, but you know I have looked forward to having the
Earl's name in the family, and, personally, I think it has the
attraction of uniqueness, as well as the flavor of distinction. Then,
you remember, you suggested the names for the other girls. I know you
are thinking of her future and fear an odd name may make her unhappy,
some time. But we can, we should, teach her to be proud of so
distinguished an association. My personal desire is very strong, and I
can't think of any other name which will satisfy me nearly as well."

Just then Baby looked at her mother, smiled and gurgled something
which was intelligible to mother-ears, and the wife's hand slipped
into the husband's, and the baby was named Minta Southard.

Where could a new baby have found a more perfect setting for her
childhood and girlhood? The plantation lay on both sides of the
Catawba River-fresh and crystal clear those days, as it sped down from
mountains to sea-fertile, fruitful acres there were, which never
failed to bring forth manyfold. Three times in as many generations,
the Manor House, as the rambling southern home had always been called,
had been enlarged, but nothing was ever done which lessened the
dignity lent by its fine colonial portico, the artistic columns of
which could be seen miles down the river-road. The Manor House was
good to see in its rare setting of stately water-oaks, now in their
full maturity.

For four years little Minta thrived and gave promise of bringing many
joys to this home which knew no shadow but the father's periodic
"business trips" to Charleston. Mammy Lou was her slave, and even
Georgia, who had her own way so much that she was far from unselfish,
asked, at times, to "take care" of her dainty sister, and would let
her play with some of her things without protest. Then the fever!
"Typhoid," the doctor said, "affecting her brain." Father, Mother and
Mammy Lou took turns being with her those long, hot weeks, when it
forgot to rain and the refreshing sea-breeze was cruelly withheld.
Doctors from Charlotte, doctors from Charleston and doctors from
Atlanta came, to look grave, to shake their learned heads, and to
sadly leave, offering no hopeful change in treatment. The fever was
prolonged over five weeks, and the child seemed more lifeless each day
as it left her drained and damaged-drained and damaged for life it
proved. So slowly her shadowy form gained, that a single week was too
short to evidence improvement. Six months, and she was not yet
walking. One year, and she was still fragile. Then, in a month, normal
childhood apparently slipped back, and she began to play and be merry.

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