I find many very
interesting cases here, some of which shall wait to see the finale before
making note of them.
What seems to me a
strange feature, as I become more familiar with death-bed scenes, is the fact
that so few know they are dying or are even dangerous, but persist with the
last breath, or until the last struggle, that they are "getting better."
One poor young boy
from Georgia, by the name of Ashman, who must die, although he eats nothing
except a few canned peaches and milk, which I carry to him, will tell me
sometimes when I go into the tent, that he is expecting a can of peaches every
minute from home, and at another that he has just heard that his mother is in
town, and that if he really knew she was, he would'nt lie there a great while
before he'd be hunting her up. At another, he asked my name and State, and
whether I took him to be a man or only a little boy. He is a slight little
fellow of about 18, but in answer to the question I told him that of course I
considered one really a man who could be a soldier and fight for our country,
and who could be so good and patient while sick. To-day he called me to him, as
soon as I entered the tent, and asked if I "could'nt discharge him to-day—that
the doctor had told him to ask me about it, and that whatever I said he might
do."
I told him that I
would discharge him just as soon as that limb of his got well, and reminded him
that he would want to be able to walk to the cars before starting home. He has
a bad abscess on his limb, from which the doctor says the flesh is sloughing,
and he does not expect him to live through tonight. And yet the boy wants me to
"write to his mother in Atlanta, Georgia, and tell her to write to his aunt
Shady, in Butler," that he "has been sick, but
is getting better."
One man—G. W. Crane,
of 3d Missouri Infantry, and who is called Major, was given up the day before
yesterday by Dr. R.
He complained
greatly of his throat, and I have since kept wet bandages on it, greatly to his
relief. I asked permission of the doctor to do this, and advice as to telling
him of his danger. He thought it would be well to do so, as he might wish to
make some business arrangements. It was a most unwelcome task, but I believed
it best; and first, asked him if he would like a letter written to his people.
"Oh no,"
was the reply, I shall be able to write myself in a few days."
"Perhaps you
may," I said, "but we are all in more or less danger when sick."
Adding as gently as possible, "How would you feel about it, if you thought
you were not going to get well?"
The queries seemed
cruel, but I knew he had loaned a gold watch and money to a man, and thought he
might wish to at tend to that and other matters. But he said decidedly "I
do not think anything about it, as I have no doubt I shall soon be up again.
And Madam," he added politely, "it would afford me great pleasure to
talk with you, if I were feeling well and in good spirits you know, but my
throat is so bad it hurts me to talk”
After this rebuff,
and being really undecided as to duty in the matter, I left him. Yesterday I
found him living, but evidently near his end, and I felt that I ought to let
him know his condition. First, I asked as before about writing letters, when he
said with great difficulty that he did'nt wish to talk with me as it distressed
him to speak. I then said I would only ask him one or two questions and then
leave him, and I said:
If the doctor and
all thought you could not live, would you wish to know it?"
He said
"No," decidedly.
"Well
then," I said "I will not trouble you any more, but if at any time
you wish letters written, you can send me word by the nurse.”
I left him and he
died in about an hour. He called for water, but as the nurse raised him to give
it, he exclaimed "I am dying," and then gave some incoherent charge,
in which the nurse distinguished the words; "the lady" and "a
letter."
His request has been
complied with.
Mrs. F. was relating
a similar incident to me the other evening. Dr. F. was at the depot in
Nashville, when an old acquaintance was found there, who had been ill, had
received a sick furlough, and was to take the cars for home. He was so feeble,
he was persuaded to go to a hospital to remain over night, and take the train
next day. In the course of the evening there was a change, and the physician
knew he could live but a short time. He knew also that were he aware of the
truth he would wish to send some message to his family. The man was speaking of
his home and laying plans for the future, when the physician asked if he
should'nt write a letter for him to his wife.
"Why no,"
he replied, "what need of that when I'm to start home tomorrow?"
"You may not go
then," said the doctor.
"Oh, yes,"
I must start tomorrow," was the reply.
The surgeon did not
answer immediately, but was sadly thinking how to do so, and regarding the
countenance of his friend, when the patient, who was about talking more of his
plans, suddenly paused upon observing the expression of the surgeon's face, and
earnestly asked:
"Doctor—you do
not think me very sick, do you?"
"I do,"
was the sad reply.
"But doctor you
don't think me dangerous?"
"I think you a
very sick man."
He lay silent for a
few moments while thought was busy, and then asked:
"Am I about to
cross the lines, doctor?"
Tears, and the
simple "I think you are," was the answer.
Then was business
arranged, messages given, and they were alone again. Then he said:
"Why, doctor is
this all that death is? It's nothing at all to die."
And thus he
"crossed the lines."
SOURCE: Elvira J.
Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General
Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron
and Visitor, pp. 43-7
