“The Idle Hours of , a Victorious Invalid”

Dominion, Volume 19, Issue 155, 27 March 1926, Page 15

“The Idle Hours of , a Victorious Invalid”

t „ -.- ■HIS wonderfully cheerful book”—it is rightly said of “The Idle | ~ Thoughts,of a Victorious’lnvalid”—“records the experiences, re--9 flections and meditations of a patient who has passed through 9. <» many years of suffering, and has come out triumphantly into renewed health. We follow him to Harley Street for consultation with the doctors, to the nursing home, to the operating theatre, through the long stages of convalescence, to the final attainment of a normal life. All who have been afflicted in body or mind will realise the courage and optimism with which the book is filled.” “When the heavy door has slammed behind the last patient for the day, and the shadows of evening fall over Harley Street, when moonlight gently sheds its cold beams on the white stone, and the golden lamps gleam the sheening brass of the door-plates, then methinks the ghosts of patients may sweep their silent way down the long and solitary street,” says Mr. Lane Crawford in his chapter on Harley Street, the thoroughfare where the majority of the famous specialists reside.' In his, chapter about the nursing home he records his impressions of how—“ Early in the morning, instead of getting up' with hazy thoughts about the office and business cares, you will have your breakfast placed over your chest —and be washed as if you were a child again. And .the world will wag on, not one'whit the worse for your absence. You will, perforce, become conscious of the great subtle law of life, that we arc all dependent upon each other, and accordingly you take to heart a little lesson in humility.” Later he added "It is the visitors who bring flowers to the sick. At even' bedside stand these beautiful emblems of Nature. In the monotone of the sparselyfurnished room they arrest the eye with a sharp splash of colour. I suppose it is its singular kinship with life that causes a flower to assume the air of a companion; flowers arc, in a sense, live things. If they are further away from the bedside where they have stood for some time they are missed. There is even the tiniest pang of parting when the nurse takes out the flowers for the night. They must not be in the room with the .patient at night, as they give out some slightly deleterious exhalation at this time. Well, perhaps they want to have their .jleep alone after keeping you company all the day. “Those who have waited with anxiety for “the crisis” when some dear one has been ill will realise the truth and the power of these paragraphs quoted from Mr. Crawford’s chapter on “Nurses” : >

1 “The door is softly opened, and a fond figure, that cannot sleep, steals into the room, with a whispered inquiry to the nurse. The figuie pulls her wrap closer, moves to the window, and gazes out into the night. The sky is strewn with stars. To the eyes of the mortal the eyes of heaven seem to look down with the cold glitter of steel.

“A star shoots. Is it a dead omen? No, the patient still breathes. The. shrill shriek of an engine sounds like the cry of a soul in pain. The nurse bends closer to the bed, wipes the perspiration from the brow; the patient has fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion. Light shadows usher in the dawn, and at length the’cold grey eye of morn looks upon the fateful room, which in turn gives place to a red flush from the east. “In the house the same creaking of boots is heard again on the stair—anxious inquiries—and better news. The early arrival of the doctor brings glad tidings—the crisis has passed. The air of the little house is surcharged with joyous relief. The sun shines into the sick-room, burnishing the gas cylinders, and seeming to beam brighter than its wont, as if smiling in sympathy with the general rejoicing.” There is a, cheery chapter, too, “Under tlie Anaesthetic,” and for the benefit of those who dread this ordeal he quotes the opinion of a famous physician:—“Dr. J. Blomfield, speaking of the mental condition of the patient in this connection, says:— “ ‘lt is curious how often people dread the idea of becoming unconscious. They seem to forget that they become unconscious in sleep every night of their lives, or regard themselves as very unlucky if they do not. The dread is sometimes allied to a fear that they will "give themselves away.” As a matter of fact, the fear is groundless, for it is unusual for a man to say anything intelligible while he is under the action of a norcotic. Sometimes the fear leads to the question: “Is there no risk in taking an anesthetic?” Yes, there is always some rsk; but it is little more than the risk of crossing Piccadilly Circus in daylight. For an ordinary healthy person undergoing an operation of ordinary severity, with an experienced anesthetist, the risks are pretty equal. If a man who is deaf or short-sighted crosses Piccadilly at night the risk is increased.” Then with regard to the hours of convalescence, when hours must be spent lying ‘On the Back,” the author finds consolation. “There is a divine touch in the dispensation,” he says, “that allots green as the colour for trees and grass, and blue as that of the sky. Dreamily restful is the colour reflection on the retina: those exquisitely beautiful hues of green, with the wonderful sapphire of the firmament, that no painter’s brush can ever capture. “As I lie I feast my eyes on the emerald foliage cut clear against the heavenly blue, the branches gracefully nodding their heads in response to the fanning of the breeze, and the sunlight shot through the green tracery of the trees. The flowers burn their brilliant colours against the background of serene green. Above floats the vision of billowy clouds like bales of snow-white wool, trailing off their glory in feathery flake.

“Our idle days are not ill-spent It is in hours of leisure that we learn the things most worth knowing.”