New story I mentioned. :) Review if you like, I love reading them! :) And as for an issue people may think of-from all my research (trying not to spoil) you cannot infect a healthy person with this through kissing, even if you have the active form of it as long as you take your medicine and stay away from others until you are no longer contagious-usually a three-week period. Even if you still have the active form of it, and are still ill, you can't infect others after the period you could give it to others has passed through isolation.
December 1911
He remembered that day so clearly. It had been the day his life had effectively ended.
The coughing had started in mid-November, and the fevers he had experienced, mostly at night, had been so bad, all he wanted to do was rest.
However, soon the cough brought blood with it-and soon he found himself coughing up great amounts of blood and phlegm, so his throat felt like it was on fire.
Then there were the spells he felt so dizzy, it seemed like the world was spinning.
Then the chills.
He started staying home from work more frequently, and finally, he had had enough.
He made an appointment with his physician, who had treated the Hockley family since before he was born, and was effectively rendered numb by the news.
He had consumption.
He had never felt more alone than he had felt at that moment-the doctor, carelessly saying the news as though it were just a scraped knee.
The x-rays had come back positive. He would have to go on a strict medicine regimen, full of pills and other bitter substances, and in addition, go to a specialized sanatorium in New York for a time if he wanted to have the best possible chance of recovery-or, in the doctor's words, "enjoy the time he had left." The sanatorium was the Adirondack Cottage Sanatarium in Saranac Lake, New York, established in 1885, and created and run by Dr. Edward Livingston Trudeau, himself a sufferer of the terminal disease. It was very expensive, and very successful for slowing down the disease, and the wealthy of America were more than able to afford it, though the poor were also accepted in.
Was it possible he could give it to others? No, after a certain point of taking his medicine, and being isolated in the sanatorium until he was no longer contagious, he would not be able to transmit the disease to others-though it was important he always take it. He had active consumption. which meant the disease would always be active in his body and he would always have symptoms, and the medicine was especially important to slow down the (eventually lethal) effects of the disease. The doctor had seen this many a time before in patients—curiously, after patients began taking the medicine, it helped a great deal. At first, the disease progressed so very slowly that most days it was like patients were healthy. They even looked healthy. And for the most part, felt perfectly healthy, provided they took their medicine regularly. This would go on for the first few years-eventually, though, over a long period of time, it would spiral rapidly, and medicine would be of no help.
Was there a cure for it? No. There wasn't.
How much time did he have left? His blood had literally run cold as the doctor had smiled and said, one and a half to two years. Maybe three, if he was lucky, and always diligent in taking his medicine. The disease would grow very slowly, but steadily worse.
He wanted his mother. He wanted his poor mother, dead since he was seventeen years old. He wanted Rose. Not that she would ever care or ever return his feelings.
He was glad his father wasn't still alive-his father would have laughed, and said he was even more of a failure than he had ever thought possible—the mantra Cal had lived by since he was small. And all the insults, and all the beatings… God how he had hated his father, glad he was dead…
He went home that night and sat in the parlor of his mansion, alone with his thoughts. He was to die. Die effectively of a disease of which there was no cure. He felt dead inside. He would tell no one about it. No one could know. He would hide it. They would all think him disgusting, even more of a failure than they already probably thought about him behind his back…he was useless to everybody, he had always known that. And Rose…she would find him even more revolting. And Ruth-the engagement would be off like that. No woman wanted her daughter to marry a handsome, wealthy, charming bachelor with consumption. Oh no. No matter how desirable and how good of a match it was.
His heart constricting, he lay on the couch in the warm, darkening room and watched the flickering fire die. But what hurt most of all was the fact that Rose would definitely, definitely, never, ever love him back now.
The process was rather easy. He had made his dreaded appointment, and sent a message to Ruth and lied, saying that he was on a rather pressing business trip to Europe for two-three months, though Saranac Lake, New York was certainly a far cry from Europe.
That had been easy enough.
His arrival at that somber brick building had been horrid, though admittedly it was very nice inside, and the care truly was excellent. Yet everybody there was so depressed. There was fresh air. A bed. A room all to himself. The staff was nice, and the other patients were nice, but none of them wanted to die. And there was no escape from the reality of their disease every day.
Then there were the dreaded medications. Medications that he would eventually have to buy and have continuous prescriptions of. The cost, of course, was of no distress to him.
They tasted awful. At first he grew ill and vomited. The nurses had smiled and said that that was normal.
Eventually, he built up a rather odd tolerance to them. He swallowed the bitter pills everyday, stayed shut up in his room, took walks when told, anything to get out of that blasted place and get his life back.
He missed Rose.
It hurt him that she always ignored him and honestly was always quiet, never saying much to him, even though he honestly never did anything wrong, always smiled at her and said the nicest words to her, tried to engage her in conversation. Tried to get her to at least smile at him. Which she did, once in a while.
He had heard her say to Trudy that she didn't want to get married at all, and wanted to live her life, that it was all her mother's fault.
It had still hurt. He loved her, but she hated him. He could just tell.
Christmas was effectively the loneliest time of his life. On Christmas Eve, he had lain in his dark bed, alone in his little room, and finally succumbed to tears.
He had a nagging suspicion about how he had contracted it. Every Holiday season, around Thanksgiving and Christmas, he made it mandatory for Hockley Steel to donate new toys and games, and even clothes and money, for the less fortunate of Philadelphia downtown—in other words, the poor. He bought a lot of the items every year with his own money. He always took them with some of his friends to orphanages and homeless shelters—places no "normal" first class person ever deigned to visit. Truth be told, he always enjoyed visiting with the children at the orphanage-it broke his heart to see how sad and miserable they all were, with no good clothes, little food, and no love or happiness in their lives. Some of them were terminally ill as well. But it never mattered to him. They were still people, and they melted his heart. The greatest gift was when he would watch them open gifts and earnestly smile and hug him. He remembered how one little girl, who had always wanted a doll, had hugged him when she had finally opened one. And a little boy named Bobby, who the nurses had whispered was ill and was to die soon, had lit up when he had finally received new clothes and the latest 1911 comic book.
He always left with a smile on his face, both from visiting children and the adults, who were also sick, some of them, and he always was glad he had done it. He wanted children of his own so badly some day. He would never treat them the way his father had treated him, and his mother.
He could not bring himself to regret it though-he never could.
Finally, finally, at the end of February, he had been able to leave. For good. He was no longer contagious.
Ironic. He was still ill, of course, still had symptoms, still felt weak at times—though thankfully, those times were few and far between. Still coughed horribly, though the medicine did help. Would still die. But he was free. Free to go home. Free to go to parties. Free to go to work. Free to see Rose.
When he had heard about the ship everybody was talking about, the Titanic, he had booked two tickets immediately for Rose and himself. The perfect way to sail back to America in style for the wedding.
And for him it really was the opportunity of a lifetime. The Ship of Dreams, it was called.
Maybe his final dream would come true.