by Ann Walsh
“Yes. The title literally means ‘go with me’ and this book, or one of its brothers, can be found in nearly every doctor’s bag, a constant companion which has probably saved more lives than… You have successfully changed the subject, Ted.” He looked at me reproachfully and I squirmed, avoiding his eyes.
“What I ask will not be difficult,” J.B. continued. “Just make sure Yan Quan is comfortable and give him water as he asks for it. He will take no medicines from me, but that is of little consequence now. I doubt that he will see tomorrow’s sunrise.”
“But, J.B., I…”
“Have no fear, Ted. I will relieve you this afternoon, as soon as my last patient departs. I am sure that Yan Quan will not die before nightfall.”
“I don’t… I mean… do I have to do this?”
“If you care about your fellow man, Ted, and if you care about me, then you will do it. Is it so much to ask of one who aspires to be a physician himself in a few years? It will be an easy task for you, and Yan Quan will welcome your company as none of his countrymen will stay with him through this lonely time. Although I doubt he will speak much. His command of English is limited, and besides, he has other things on his mind than polite conversation.”
“I really wanted to clean the dispensary today. It has been a while since the floor was well scrubbed and I notice that you have acquired a whole new collection of bottles which need to be washed and we need more salves prepared and…”
J.B. sat down, pulling the other straight-backed chair close to mine. He had pushed the books piled on the chair to the floor, but no dust accompanied their arrival there. I had tended to the surgery, as well as the dispensary, recently and the floor was clean and dustless.
“I sense that something is seriously amiss,” he said, putting one hand on my arm. “For such an able and competent assistant as you have shown yourself to be, I can not understand why you are balking at this simple task.”
“I’m not…” I began.
“Why are you so reluctant, Ted? You are pale, yet when you came in a few minutes ago your skin was flushed with enthusiasm. I, as a trained physician, have determined that you find my designated duty dreadfully disagreeable.”
“Don’t do that,” I said. “With the words. Please.”
“I will try to speak plainly. Now please tell me just as plainly, why you do not wish to sit with Yan Quan?”
How could I tell him? After all the time J.B. and I had been together, after we had shared our nightmares, after we had become such close friends—how could I tell him that I was afraid to go into the Peace House?
I could not tell him, so I muttered something about having had a late night and little sleep. Then I picked up the new book J.B. was so proud of, listened carefully to his instructions and, very reluctantly, left to go to where a man was dying.
Eleven
It was dark inside the Peace House, so dark that at first I could not see the man who lay on a narrow bed against the far wall. Tai Ping Fong was what the Chinese called this place, but it was only a small cabin, barely big enough to hold a bed, a wood cook stove and one chair pushed up to a rickety table. A single window was covered with dark cloth, and when I pulled the door closed behind me there was no light at all except that filtering through narrow gaps between the logs of the walls.
I decided to leave the door partly open and taking a deep breath, hoping to fill my lungs, if not my whole body, with courage, I stepped further into the cabin. The figure on the bed coughed, a thin, rasping sound, and I wondered if the breeze from the open door had made him uncomfortable. Perhaps I should keep the door shut, but it was so dark in here. There was an oil lamp on the table so I lit it, adjusted the wick, then reluctantly pulled the door closed.
The sick man moaned, and I went to him. His face was deeply creased, whether with pain or age I could not tell, and his eyes barely flickered open before he closed them again.
“I am Doctor Wilkinson’s assistant, Mr. Quan. He sent me to stay with you. Can I do anything for you? Do you wish some water?”
“No.” The word was spoken so softly that I could barely hear it.
“Mr. Quan?”
Once more his eyes flickered open, then closed. “No,” he repeated, turning his face to the wall. His breath wheezed, and he moaned softly. Another wheeze, then a cough and then he was silent.
I pulled out the chair by the table and sat down. It was probably too dark to read; the lantern gave off only a feeble, smoky light. I looked longingly at the window, wondering if I could pull back the curtain and let at least a small amount of sunlight into the room, but then I thought of how Mr. Quan had turned his face away and wondered if light bothered him.
J.B. believed that Mr. Quan would not die until the night, and it was not yet noon. Nevertheless, I listened hard for the next breath from the still figure on the bed, and peered into the shadowy corners of the room as if I expected to see someone—or something—there.
There was nothing to fear, I told myself, nothing at all. After all, I had helped J.B. with other patients who were mortally ill. I had seen dying men before. Why should this be different? But it was much different from those other times. I could not seem to control myself; my whole body was trembling violently. Had I not been sitting, I think I would have fallen to the floor. What was wrong with me?
Another cough and deep breath from the bed, a word I could barely make out. “Cold.”
Of course, I realized suddenly. The fire had gone out during the night, and the Peace House had become colder and colder. Even though the sun shone brightly today, its rays had not yet warmed this building; there would be no natural warmth in the Peace House until late afternoon. I wasn’t shaking because I was afraid. I was cold!
Beside the stove was a bundle of kindling and some firewood, although not much. I lit the stove, but knew the fire would not burn long on the small supply of wood provided.
The fire caught easily, and soon the crackle of dry wood filled the room. A gust of wind brought a puff of smoke back down the chimney, and I adjusted the damper in the stovepipe, added more wood, then sat down again, not knowing what else to do.
In spite of the poor light, I opened the book I had brought with me and propped it against the lamp base. The Physician’s Vade Mecum: A Manual of the Principles and Practice of Physic it said on the cover, a title which J.B. himself could have happily written. This was a new edition, an updated version of an older work. The revisions had been done by Doctor Guy and Doctor Harley, two famous physicians whose names even I had heard mentioned. Since J.B. had so heartily recommended the book, I opened it and began to read the introduction. The first and most obvious requisite for a practitioner is to be able to recognize a disease when he sees it, to distinguish it from others that resemble it, and to foretell its probable course and termination. That seemed rather obvious to me, so I skipped ahead.
Phthisis Pulmonalis or Pulmonary Consumption was the heading of one section, Acute Pleurisy was a few pages further on and Gastritis followed that. I wrestled with the pronunciation of Epidermycosis Tonsurans, wondering what on earth that was until I read further and found out that it was the formal name for ringworm of the scalp. My own head began to itch, so I abandoned that page. I was seriously considering whether to try to read the section (with illustrations) about Amputation at the Hip-Joint when the door swung open.
“Who is there?” I called out, leaping to my feet. The book fell to the floor with a crash and I gasped. Squinting against the sunlight which streamed into the room and left me almost blinded, I swallowed hard and asked again. “Is someone there?”
Sing Kee, the herbalist, came in, a basket of firewood hung over one arm, a tray balanced carefully in front of him.
“Hello, Master Ted. Doctor John told me you are in Tai Ping Fong with this sick man. This is good.”
“Hello, Mr. Kee. Have you brought medicines?”
“Yes, also firewood, food, and water. You will be here all day? That is kind. His own people
will not stay with him, but no man, not even a bad man, should die alone.”
“What did Mr. Quan do that made everyone so angry at him?”
“I can not tell you. He dishonoured his country. No one will let his name pass their lips and his bones will stay here in this foreign land and never be sent back to his home in China. He has betrayed his friends and angered everyone. Even me, and I do not anger easily, Master Ted.”
I looked over at the bed where it seemed that the still figure was breathing more quietly, almost as if he were listening to Sing Kee’s words.
“I will not speak to him,” Sing Kee said, gesturing with his head towards the bed, “but I will bring him medicine to help when his pain is great.” He set the tray he carried on the table, pointing to a small glass bottle, hardly thicker than a pencil and about half as long. “A few drops in some warm tea when the pain makes him cry out,” he said. “This will help the coughing and let him rest.”
He picked up a teapot with a bound wicker handle and set it on the stove where it would stay warm. On the tray were two small cups (more like bowls as they had no handles) a tin jug and a larger bowl, covered with a cloth. “Here, in the jug, is fresh water, and there is food,” said Sing Kee. “Rice, vegetables, meat. This man is too sick to eat, but you must. Drink the tea, too.” He nodded goodbye, and turned to leave.
“Mr. Kee?” I called.
“Yes? What you need?”
I didn’t need anything, but I didn’t want him to go just yet. With the cheerful herbalist in the room, the Peace House seemed brighter and larger.
“Um…” I said.
“Yes?” Mr. Kee asked again. “You have questions maybe? About the disease?”
“No. I mean, yes. Why is Mr. Quan dying?”
“Part illness, part demons. Your Doctor Wilkinson would say ‘typhus’, but I think this more than a disease of the body.”
“Typhus. Typhoid Fever. Like Mountain Fever. I see.”
Sing Kee nodded. “Me also. I see that you are not happy in the Tai Ping Fong. You wish me to stay with you, but I can not. Perhaps you think that spirits are here?”
“Oh, no, of course not. I do not believe in ghosts.”
Sing Kee shook his head. “That is not a wise thing. The spirits of the dead will be angry if you deny them.”
“I mean that I am not afraid of ghosts. Of spirits.”
“Of course. And that is a wise thing. Spirits, like dogs, know when one is afraid. They are dangerous when they smell fear.”
It was my turn to smile, wondering if I could wash away the scent of fear with coal-tar soap and a good scrubbing. “I definitely will not let any ghosts smell fear on me,” I said. “It is just that I have never been in this place before, and…”
“Most who die here have pure souls,” said Sing Kee. “You have nothing to fear in Tai Ping Fong.”
“I am not afraid,” I said, too loudly. “I’m not. But I am alone and this is so different from my usual work.”
“You will do well, Master Ted. You have a good soul and a gentle heart. The man here has need of goodness. He would thank you, if he could. Now, I must go back to my store. Try some tea. It will refresh you.”
Sing Kee left. The door shut behind him, the sunlight no longer streamed across the cabin floor. The oil lamp flickered and I turned up the wick, wondering again if I dared pull the curtains from the window and let more light into the room. The fire crackled, but there was no need to add wood, already the cabin was stifling hot. I took off my jacket, checked to see that the patient slept comfortably, and settled down with The Physician’s Vade Mecum, trying hard, in spite of the wavering lamplight, to concentrate on the small print.
Functions of the Nervous System… Delirium… Spectral Illusions… Remarkable Delusions… Mania… Dreams…The headings at the top of the pages blurred as I flipped through a section devoted to the workings of the mind. “Dreams,” I said out loud. Perhaps I would take a closer look at what this book said about dreams and nightmares. I began to read.
Yan Quan cried out. The sound of his voice startled me, causing me to jump, jarring the table as I did so. The flame in the lamp flared up briefly then steadied.
Once more the sick man called out, but not in a language I could understand. What did he want, I wondered. What could I do for him? His voice was weak; it sounded like dry leaves rasping over frozen ground. Perhaps he was thirsty.
I poured water from the jug into a cup and took it to him, raising his head so he could drink. His lips were cracked and raw, and his hands, when he tried to lift them to steady the cup against his lips, were so thin they seemed almost the hands of a skeleton. I held the cup and Yan Quan sipped, then coughed. The cough racked his body; his head fell back against my hand and I watched helplessly as his chest convulsed and he fought to breathe. When he was finally still he was covered with sweat and his eyes were closed.
“Do you wish more water, Mr. Quan? Here…” Again I offered him the cup.
His eyes fluttered open and he tried to shake his head, but the movement sent him into another spasm of coughing, fresh sweat beading across his face. I lowered him gently to the pillow.
“Mr. Quan? Are you all right?”
Even as I spoke I realized that of course Yan Quan wasn’t all right. He was dying. It seemed that I could do nothing for him but ask him useless questions and try to give him water.
But what had Sing Kee told me to do? I was to put a few drops of the medicine he had brought into some warm tea. When the patient was in pain I was to administer it.
The tea in the pot on the stove had kept warm, almost too warm. I poured some, diluted it with water, then gently pulled out the tiny cork and added five drops from the slender vial to the cup. For a moment I thought I recognized the medicine by its smell, but I couldn’t identify exactly what it was. It smelled strongly of unfamiliar herbs or spices, but also of something that was definitely familiar to me.
However, it didn’t matter what Sing Kee’s small bottle contained. I only hoped the medicine would do some good because Yan Quan’s breathing had become more laboured. I went to the patient, raising his head once more, holding the cup to his lips. “This will help, Mr. Quan. Please, you must try to drink it.”
He opened his eyes and looked directly at me for a long moment, but then his head fell to one side and his eyes closed again. I realized that he was too weak to stay upright. Knowing I could not hold him up and force the medicine down his throat, I made him as comfortable as I could on the pillow, then stood back, watching him and wondering what to do.
Should I fetch J.B.? He would know how to administer medicine to someone this ill. I set the cup back on the table, and went to the door. But what if Yan Quan died when I was away? What if he died alone because I went for help instead of staying in the Peace House as I had promised?
If I had a spoon, perhaps I could get the liquid into his mouth while he lay down so he would not have to raise his head or sit up in order to drink. But there were no spoons, no table utensils of any kind in the cabin. A quick search showed me nothing more useful than what was on the tray.
What could I do? In J.B.’s dispensary were glass droppers which I used when adding liquid ingredients to the medicines I mixed. A small dropper was what I needed, so I would go and get one. I had opened the door and even taken a step outside when I suddenly remembered how J.B. had taught Mrs. Fraser to give colic medicine to the twins when they were reluctant to accept it.
Taking one last regretful look at the sunlit street, I stepped back into the Peace House, closing the door behind me. I had no need to go running to J.B. for help. I knew what to do.
The cloth covering the dish of food Sing Kee had brought was clean. I tore a small strip from it, twisted the piece I had removed and dipped the end of it into the tea mixture. Then I sat close to Yan Quan and held the cloth over his lips, letting the mixture drip slowly into his mouth. Drop by drop it fell, and finally he swallowed. Again I moistened the piece of cloth and held
it for him. The twins had sucked on the twisted cloth and taken their medicine that way, but this patient was too weak to do that. He barely had the strength to swallow, but he managed to take some of the mixture. Then, when less than half was gone, he fell asleep.
I wondered if I should try to wake him, encourage him to finish the tea and the medicine it contained, but then I realized that if he slept he was not in pain. It would be better to leave him, I thought. What he had managed to swallow of Sing Kee’s medicine had done him good, and while he slept I would eat. Checking my watch, I saw that it was well past noon.
No wonder I was hungry.
There was still tea in the pot on the stove and I poured myself a cup, setting it beside the dish of food. The tea was strong and the flavour was slightly bitter, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I sipped the tea and studied the dish of food. It smelled unfamiliar, different from any dish I had ever eaten, but I was hungry now, hungry enough to try anything. But how could I eat? There were no eating utensils in the cabin and only two thin, rounded pieces of wood, the length of a table knife on the tray.
I picked them up and awkwardly managed to get a few pieces of rice into my mouth. Then, looking around as if I expected my mother to appear and chastise me, I put them down and ate with my fingers.
When the bowl was empty I used the cloth which had covered it to clean my hands, then replaced the bowl on the tray beside the cup which held Yan Quan’s medicine. I refilled my own teacup and, after checking that my patient still slept, returned to my book. I had been reading about dreams, I remembered and I found the page again. That section of The Physician’s Vade Mecum also contained information about something called Remarkable Delusions which looked interesting. I adjusted the lamp, drawing it closer, but it was still difficult to read. There was not enough light in here, not enough to read by, not enough to sit comfortably in this dark cabin. I would pull the curtains aside, just slightly, I decided.
It was not a big window and surely the light it would admit would not disturb the sick man. Pulling aside the cloth covering the glass, I moved my book so that the shaft of daylight which entered fell on the pages. Yes, that was better. I could see more clearly now, and Yan Quan had not stirred.
