IN HOSPITAL.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 145998, 3 December 1917, Page 4

IN HOSPITAL.

A PATIENT AND HIS EXPERIENCES. Tile accompanying article was dictated by a patient recovering f-rom an eye operation, and is published in the Dominion without revision. Its purpose is to remove some uiisappretiension a-nd perhaps foars of those who may find themselves confronted with the necessity for facing surgical treatment and spending some time in hospital away from their homes. The specialist spoke. “You will have to have an operation, arid you will have to go into a private hospital.” ‘‘How long shah I have to be there? I said. “Well, certainly not less than a fortnight very likely three weeks, that is, of course, without any complications.” Having made arrangements for the hospital I left him, and wont into the street. Slowly, darkness descended on my spirit; Egyptian darkness; a darkness that might be felt. A fortnight at the best, more probably three weeks: Fourteen days of 24 hours each: fourteen nights. I pictured the long, slow course of the time; unable to read, deprived of a- smoke, nobody to speak to, nothing to do but to bear some distant clock chime the hours. I thought of the hospital as a place somewhat like unto a prison—clean, white, with a cold, clean whiteness tiat chills; a hushed brooding over everything ; voices low pitched ; _ austerity—tempered with kindness, it is true—but still austerity: rigid rules; gloom; and, above all, dullness. Above the entrance to Dante’s hell was inscribed, “All hope abandon ye who enter here.” Above the hospital should bo written, “All fear abandon ye who enter here.” Fear of pain: Fear of chloroform: fear of austerity, rigid rules, gloom and dullness. When I went to the hospital at night tlio door was open, and I snw two attendants with white head-dresses, standing in a hall with flowers and a pleasant atmosphere of colour. One of the two asked me my name, and then said, “Oh, yes. Nurse will show you your room. If you go out, you can come in at any time up to 10 o’clock, and if the door is shut after that ring, and yon will be let in.” The reception was businesslike, and I felt that in the brief moments the two women wore engaged using the marvellous power that some women possess of forming an almost instantaneous judgment. I felt that I was being weighed in the balance, and hoped that I was not found wanting. The second nurse then led me out of the hall into a dimlv-lightcd corridor, running right and left. A slight sense of disinfectant, and of intense quiet came to me. and I felt a recurrence of mv fears. Nurses led me along the cor T ridor, pointed out a. half-open door, through which I caught a glimpse of a bath, and tolling me that was my bathroom led me to my room. The sight of it gave me a- pleasant shock. It was so“ surprisingly like a particularly neat, clean, hut sparely furnished hedroom. It had one very birr window, a large mirror on the table, with a drawer, a standing ward’■'■tv' v''Hi cretonne curtain in front, a big foldin'* screen, P.nd a comfortablelooking bed. A fixed-in wasbstand with hot and cold-water taps was in one corner, and behind the screen the nurse showed me the radiator on which were

tho towels. She showed me the arrangement for summoning assistance, and said, with a noto of sincoiity in lier voico, “Plonso be sure to use it if you want anything at all at night. Then she gave mo tho time-table of tho hospital;—Morning tea, at G; breakfast at 8; soup at 11; dmnor at 1; afternoon tea at 3; tea at 6; and supper at 8. I began to think that there might be a little bit of a break occasionally in, the dull stretch of the day. 1 turned into bed later on, and once asleep I knew no move till the door opened, without a knock, and a nurse entered with the morning tea, and a cheery greeting. I wondered whether I had answered to a knock in my sleep, but later I found that a knock was never given. After 7 another nurse came in and asked mo what I would like for breakfast. Later a nurse came in and told mo that my bath was ready. At 8 came breakfast, and at half-past 8 a fresh nurse appeared who shook something at me, and asked mo what it was. I gave up the riddle, and then she came nearer and handed me a thermometer with instructions to put it under my tongue. I asked what on earth it was for, as I was not going to have an operation for a day or two, but she told mo that it was the rule, and her tone convinced me that when once that was said no discussion was permitted. I inserted the thermometer under my tongue ns directed. I was told to hold out my hand. My pulse was felt, and I made some remark, but this was received with a shako of the head and a frown, and tho nurse’s eyes I then saw wore fastened on her watch. After a short space she told me that I must not speak while she was taking my pulse, and I mumbled as best I could while sucking the thermometer, that I would be good and never do it again. She then took tho thermometer, examined it, and made notes in a book. The same performance was gone through later on in tho day, with tho addition of a question as to tho waste products of tho body. At intervals from 8 to 9 a nurse was in tho room, apparently_ polishing almost every single thing in it. and removing the least particlo of dust. At II came tho soup, and at half-past 12 a nurse came in to ask what I would like out of the dinner list. At 3 the tea came in. and at 4 a nurse arrived again to ask what I would like for tea. At 6 came tea, and an inquiry what 1 would like for supper. After supper at 8, about 9 a nurse came in to straighten everything up for the night, with a, final inquiry if there was anything I wanted.

By the end of the first day I had grasped the fact that the whole of my preconceived ideas of a private hospital were about as far removed from the reality as they could possibly have been.

From early morning there had been a sound of life all the. time; Steps along the corridor, tho voices of nurses visiting the patients, and every now and again a laugh as two nurses mot. At half-past 7 more continuous laughter was to bo heard, a murmur faintly caught of a voice, and then ripples and trills of laughter, and this went on for half an hour. At 9 o’clock this started again, stopping at hal/-past 9. Making inquiries, I found that the nurse’s dining room was the place from which all this laughter had proceeded, and I found that brightness and laughter ran through the wh»le day. Not only outside but in the patient’s room. Each different nurse who came had something kind and cheerful and bright to say, and their visits were made as if not alone to minister to the physical wants of the patient, but to his spiritual needs as well.

And now as to these fears of which I have spoken. As I have said, they should be cast out.

The fear of pain. Modern doctors recognise that pain saps the vitality, their greatest asset in a dangerous case, and they will no more allow the patient

to lose any portion thereof through preventable pain, than they would take it away from him as in the old days by bleeding.

Pain is an enemy the doctor fights relentlessly. Tho fear of chloroform: this is a heritage of the days gone by. when that fear was well grounded. When first chloroform was discovered the doctor using ft was like the captain of a ship, compelled to steer it through uncharted waters, ignorant of the dangers of tho course. Now that course has been surveyed, and charted to the minutest detail. Chloroform is never used except in cases where there is serious lung trouble. Ether that carries no risk is in other cases employed, unless a local anaesthetic, such as cocaine, will bo sufficient.

It may bo said that at the present day tho risk of tho anaesthetic is less than the risk incurred by anyone who takes a twenty-mile motor drive. This is a fact that cannot bo too strongly brought to people’s knowledge, as in many cases this fear and fear of the whole hospital has kept back patients from tho operating table, with the result that they have had to pay the penalty of a severe operation with dangerous complications, or possibly have delayed so long that the mischief is irremediable. Austerity, gloom and dullness simply do not exist, and I doubt if a microscopic examination could find even the rudimentary germ of these unpleasant enemies of tho patient’s, for they too like pain arc recognised as such by the doctor

Lastly, as to the rigid rules. Some are rigid. One law is like that of the Modes and Persians, as it cannot be altered, namely, the doctor’s orders. All other rules are elastic in a greater or less degree. Tho whole body of rules are formed for tho comfort, health and welfare of tho patient; but it is recognised that each patient has individual tastes, dislikes and peculiarities, and tho rules in many respects can be compared only to a perfectly constructed water mattress that will support and bear up the patient with fiimness and yet with a firmness that yields to every movement.

Deep down as the foundation of the whole of the hospital life is lovingkindness, and not only is it the foundation, but it works its way and permeates every particle of the life.

On advertisements of hotels and boardinghouses we occasionally see the claim set forth that the particular hostelry is “a home from home.” This is as true a description of the hospital, but with 1 the added advantage of science both in the knowledge of the doctor and of the staff, and in all the appliances and surroundings. Also, too, there is a firmness which is very difficult to obtain when illness is in the house. The whole hospital life being constructed to meet illness, there is no disturbance of its smooth and well-ordered flow as in the case of a private household. I have mentioned that nurses enter without knocking, and also that questions are put to the patient, and these two points lead on to a subject of great importance, and that is frankness and the absence of all false modesty. Any doctor will tell you that in bis private practice he has found the farreaching ills that result from this false modesty in his outside practice. When a patient consults a doctor he owes it to the doctor and to himself to bo absolutely frank. Any reservation may have results of the most distressing nature, and this duty of frankness is even more to be felt when a patient enters a hospital. If he has kept anything back from the doctor either in his past history or his present condition, he must repair that omission before it is too late. In the hospital ho must recollect that he is brought face to face with the eternal verities of life. He should remember that his body is the most marvellous work of nature. From the time when life’s faint stirrings were felt un-

der the slimy ooze of the sea, onwards through countless aeons, nature the great worker has evolved it. To be ashamed of any part or of any manifestation of any part of the work is blasphemy against the Groat Architect whose design nature followed. The interdependence of the organs and separate parts of the body are so marvellous that the significance of any symptom of any part m connection with the particular disease or injury can bo appreciated by the expert alone. Tell the doctor, therefore, any unusual sensation, however little you may think it may affect your case. Many years ago my death was announced, as was that of the late Mark Twain. He wrote to the paper denying the truth of the report, and stated that it was grossly exaggerated. The same was true in my case. T do not, therefore, speak from absolute personal knowledge when I say if a patient enters the hospital, and a long struggle ensues between the forces of life and death, and if that struggle fought by the hospital staff with endless patience, and with all the resources of science, is unsuccessful, and the Angel Azrael is the victor, I say with that faith which is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen, that the hands which welcome him on the further shore will not be more tender, more gentle, more loving, than those which tended, comforted, supported, and strengthened him, till at the last like a tired child ho fell into that sleep which knows no waking here.