Today, one person does not have to function as doctor, nurse, pharmacist, lab technologist and buggy driver.Rounds are no longer done in horse carts,and marvels like electricity,antibiotics and surgery have become routine, but some aspects of a busy life in medicine do not change.
When Ida Scudder(an American medical missionary and the founder of India's largest mission hospital at Vellore) longed for one trained assistant, could she have ever imagined where that quest would take her? This narrative , in her own words, written in her first year as a doctor, beautifully captures her capacity for love, wonder and service.
One Day’s Work (Ida S Scudder, 1901)
‘I wish I had the power to give you all the touches of light and shade, and joy and sorrow of which a day is full, but must depend on your imagination to picture everything to yourself and I will ask you to go with me now through a day’s work.
While it is still dark I am roused by the sound of wheels telling me that the day is at hand and I must be on the wing. Dressing in the dark,I am nearly ready when a knock tells me that my chota (coffee and toast) is ready and as I finish this and am ready to start, the first rays of morning are lighting the sky. My Indian assistant, Salome is always ready and waiting at the steps. The morning is resplendent with beauty, the western sky a beautiful pink and the east like molten gold. Feeling the new life which I need creep into my veins, I thank God for His wonderful handiwork.
By the time the beauty is falling we are well on our way to the town, a long hard drive when one is in a hurry. We meet picturesque groups of women laden with brass or earthen pots, little girls bending under loads far greater than they ought to bear. Cattle and sheep in great herds are being driven to the grazing lots. Crows by the hundreds flock around picking up their breakfasts.Now we reach our destination, a spacious house, but dark and gloomy, the only light coming in through a small opening in the roof which is covered with bands of iron. The rooms are dark where the women live, but the men have their apartments upstairs where it is cooler and more airy.
My patient here is a sweet young girl, suffering for the past two years with an abscess between her shoulders, one of these slow processes coming from a tubercular spine. A crowd always follows me and watches, commenting or asking questions. A woman’s trouble must always be diagnosed from her left hand, a man’s from his right. If by mistake I feel a woman’s right hand and don’t ask for her lefthand, they think me exceedingly ignorant.
From this house we return part way on the bazaar street and turn into a narrower one , then into a mere alley. We have to leave the carriage and walk. Heads fill the doorways, for in some mysterious way they know that “ Doctorammal” is coming. Others draw their heads indoors. It is a Mohameddan house to which we are bound, and my patient is a young girl, the mother of two children. Such a nice family,so neat and clean and grateful!
Out to three other houses in a different part of town. Now we must hurry home, for the dispensary opens before eight. I give the reins into Salome’s hands and take this opportunity to read my medical journals. On reaching home, I first run out into my small hospital room to see that all is well.
A crowd is waiting and I am soon in a whirl of a dispensary taking names, dispensing (or trying to) and then doing all the treatment with Salome’s help. It is hard work and I sorely need a trained assistant.
First comes a dear old lady whose finger I had to amputate. I almost took her hand off as the case was so desperate, but her son pleaded with me to give it one more try. I did and am so grateful. Then comes a baby with a frightful burn. A man now comes whom I am treating out of pity. He swallowed a thorn which was removed by a native doctor, but due to a stricture of the throat when he first came he could not even swallow a drop of water and had not eaten for four days. Now he is able to swallow the white of an egg and a little milk. The only objection I have to his gratitude is that he insists on throwing himself at my feet and touching the toes of my shoes with his fingers which he then kisses. I have learned now to get out of his way.
Sore eyes, earache, skin diseases and fevers are always plenty, but each day I have new and interesting cases. My one room is very crowded and it is often hard to be patient, I always have to repeat my directions as to how and when to take the medicine, how much, and whether to take a special diet.Now comes a poor village woman with her only little child with a fearful incurable disease. She says that she has heard my name and people say I can cure her child, and then, placing the little one in another’s arms while she bows before me, calls me first her mother, then her “god”. Oh, it is so hard to tell her that nothing can be done!
Next comes a child totally blind, on account of having sore eyes neglected. Oh these poor, dependent helpless people. I do pity them so!The hardest thing I have to do is to tell them they have come too late.
Morning wears on and the breakfast bell rings, but I do not go. Someone comes to my door and says that breakfast is nearly over. “Won't Missy come?’ it is nearly one o’clock when I am ready to eat, and everybody has left the table, but Miss Hancock comes and sits with me while I tell her about the patients. After eating I return to my office and make some tests and find that one girl has tuberculosis. I had hoped against hope, but the microscope reveals the fact, and I have to tell her husband, who is waiting , that she will not live very long.All he says is “Oh how can I let her die? We have four little children.”
I go again to the hospital room where I have these patients. It is a pretty room, bright and airy. All the women say they have only come to this room to get well for here the air is fresh and clean. After treating them I return to the house and rest a while.
Soon a call comes from the town and again I hurry into another quarter where the streets are narrow and I have a long distance to walk.I find a young girl dying of tuberculosis. A severe haemorrhage frightened her people into coming for me as a ‘last resort’. Someday they will understand and have confidence. Now I must pray for patience.
I reach home just in time for dinner, for this is Thanksgiving Day, and some friends have come in to help us celebrate. We talk of the dear homeland and wish that we might see our loved ones there. Do we give thanks? Oh yes! I especially thank God for leading me to India to work among these women I love and for whom I love to work.
