Thread by @TheRealDoctorT

(TW: Child’s illness.)

The room is still.

Darkness envelopes most of it, except for the first rays of light from the rising sun, filtering through the curtains.

A lone lamp has its shade tilted to provide a little more light.

A battle has been waged throughout the night. 1/

The doctor arrived the afternoon before, wearing his suit, his black leather bag in his hand.

It is 1877, in rural England. He has been asked to see the daughter of a laborer.

The doctor is well-known, and well-liked, and very busy.

But he makes time when he is needed. 2/

He knocks on the door, and takes a deep breath.

The truth is he has entered many small cottages like this one. There is something particularly wrenching about tragedy, when it visits the poor.

He says a silent prayer, and then nods a greeting as the door is opened. 3/

The parents have a hollow, disheveled look. They have been marooned on an island of despair. Isolated.

There is a wild hope blazing in the father’s eyes as he grasps the doctor’s hand tightly.

“Bless you sir!” He says repeatedly.

The doctor smiles warmly as he enters. 4/

It takes the doctor’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

The air smells musty, earthy.

He hangs his overcoat on a hook by the door, along with his hat. And then he turns to the room.

It is a small, modest place. Two chairs have been pressed together to make a bed. 5/

The child is barely visible beneath the patched up sheets.

Eyes closed, sunken, she seems more ghostly than real. Her blonde hair feathers out on the pillow above her head, a halo.

Her mother sits beside her, gently running her fingers through her daughter’s hair. 6/

“How long has it been since the illness took hold?” The doctor sets his bag on the table and takes out his tools.

There is medicine within this ritual, the unveiling of scientific implements: stethoscope, thermometer, medicines in bottles, tinctures in vials.

Reassurance. 7/

“She fell ill ‘bout going on three weeks now sir.” The father speaks softly, though his voice is strained with fear.

“And what were her symptoms?” As he asks questions, the doctor moves to the child’s side, taking a seat.

Her mother answers. “Fever for a week. A rash.” 8/

The doctor nods, carefully taking the little girl’s pulse, her temperature. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, grimly.

The mother senses it, and her reddened eyes fill again with tears.

“Doctor, please, in the name of all that is holy, will-“. She can’t finish. 9/

The doctor’s voice is calm. “She is very ill, this much is clear. I will do what I can, but ...”

He exhales deeply, and repeats himself, more slowly. “She is -very- ill.”

The tears flow freely now, and the mother rises to her feet, walking to the back of the room. 10/

The doctor sets down a basin of water that the father gives him, and rinses his hands. Then he carefully goes about examining the child

He presses gently on her belly and notes her grimace, listens to the rattling in her lungs, then the slowness of her heartbeat.

Danger... 11/

It won’t be for another three years that the organism causing her illness, typhoid fever, is isolated.

In twenty years, a vaccine for typhoid will be developed, saving half a million British lives.

By 1909, the US military is vaccinating for typhoid.

It will be cureable. 12/

The doctor doesn’t know the future, of course. All he knows is that his patient is in crisis.

The third week of this illness is the most critical. His experience tells him the child’s life is on the edge of a knife.

He can do nothing but bear witness.

Her parents linger. 13/

The hours pass and the doctor keeps his vigil at the bedside, occasionally applying a cool, wet, cloth to the little girl’s forehead. Giving her water, and medicines.

“Doctor, would you like something to eat?” The mother asks.

He smiles. “A cup of tea would be lovely.” 14/

The evening passes into the depths of night.

The world is asleep.

In the small cottage, a struggle as old as time itself is taking place.

The doctor’s gaze never leaves his tiny patient. His teacup is in his hands, and he runs a fingertip along the rim pensively. 15/

The room is still.

Darkness envelopes most of it, except for the first rays of light from the rising sun filtering through the curtains.

A lone lamp has its shade tilted to provide a little more light.

A battle has been waged throughout the night.

The girl is motionless. 16/

The mother is resting her head on a table, quietly sobbing in despair.

The father lingers in the shadows, one hand resting on her shoulder, unsure if he should speak the unimaginable into existence.

“Sir, is my daughter-”

The doctor doesn’t answer.

He checks for a pulse. 17/

The father speaks again. “Doctor. Sir, I beseech you. Is my daughter-“ His voice falters.

The doctor looks away from the little girl for the first time in hours, and looks up at her father.

“No, no, she is with us still, good sir. Her heart beats with more vigor!” 18/

Both father and mother run to their daughter’s side, tears streaming, prayers spilling from their lips.

The doctor carefully puts his instruments back in the bag, and washes his hands.

Slowly he gets to his feet. “She will survive, in time, the worst has passed. Feed her.” 19/

With that, the doctor nods his farewell, taking his black bag and walking to the door. He pauses to put on his overcoat and hat.

The little girl’s father approaches him. “Thank you. Name your price sir.”

The doctor smiles. “Look after your child. Farewell sir.” He nods. 20/

As he steps out of the darkness of the cottage, into the brilliant sunlight, the doctor squints.

He starts walking down the road, black bag in hand, breathing in the cool morning air deeply.

His fatigue is worsening now, but he has far to go yet.

And many patients left to see.

Inspired by, “The Doctor” painted by Sir Luke Fildes, 1891.