One of the many very eminent surgeons of whom America can boast once told me that on the occasion of performing a most formidable operation, in which promptitude was a vital necessity, he saw, at a moment when seconds were precious, a friend, who had insisted on remaining present, suddenly turn deadly pale, and fall fainting on the floor, in uncomfortably close proximity to the chloroformed patient. Dr. B stooped down, and quietly rolled the insensible individual into a corner of the room, where he enjoyed undisturbed repose until such time as some one had time to "bring him to."
Thus it may be seen that any one who is in the least nervous, and cannot be certain of his own powers of self-command, acts with truer kindness in remaining absent from such scenes, than by becoming an added source of anxiety, where there is so much already of the gravest character. If, however, a woman has the moral courage to face such trials calmly, and without flurry—if she can do simply what she is told, and nothing more—if she can hold her tongue—wholly dismiss herself from her own mind, concentrating all her attention on the patient, she may be of untold help and comfort. On the other hand, a sick-nurse who asks the doctor endless questions—who presumes in her ignorance to criticise his treatment—who is spasmodic in her sympathy, and ejaculatory in her lamentations, is pestilent in a sick-room, and should, if possible, be got rid of at any cost.
But as well as the nervous and excitable nurse, there is another species of the genus against whom I would warn any one who in the least values his own comfort, and that is, the person who insists upon "helping you" to nurse some very severe case, and never ceases assuring you that she "keeps up splendidly at the time, but afterward—;" and then comes an ominous shake of the head, which is a ghastly intimation of what a time you will have of it with her, when what she is pleased to call the "reaction" sets in. Nothing can be more aggravating than to contemplate such an individual, and look forward to the "breaking-down" which she assures you is inevitable, and which you feel assured will come just when you and everybody else are tired out with nursing the real sufferer, and when you want to go to bed, and sleep your sleep out. The very idea of having to put hot-water bottles to her feet, and mustard-poultices to her side, and cooling lotions to her aching brow, and watch her acting the martyr (the while you are wishing her at Jericho, or some other equally hard-to-get-back-from place), is not a pleasant anticipation, as you sit opposite to her through a long night of watching, and she tells you, with a melancholy yet vainglorious countenance, how she shall "pay for this afterward." But she treats with scorn your suggestion that she should go to bed—indeed, she would be bitterly disappointed if she might not immolate herself—and you. This sort of thing is what I call "selfish unselfishness," a kind of self-sacrifice that is always acting as its own bill-poster.
