Chapter 4
Bilbo sat beside his nephew's bed and watched the lad sleep.
Frodo's breath rattled in his small chest and often he was woken by
harsh coughing fits. The fever had returned as well, so Bilbo every
now and then blotted Frodo's skin with a damp cloth.
"Dr. Whiteberry is here, sir." Gilbo announced about an hour
later when he opened the door. Bilbo turned and saw another elderly
hobbit (probably in his late 60's early 70's) behind the owner. The
doctor carried a satchel and looked very weary, as he told the owner
to let them be for the present.
Once Gilbo had left, Dr. Whiteberry introduced himself to
Bilbo and shook hands with him before going straight to work on
Frodo. "How long has he been ill like this? He has a high fever, Mr.
Baggins."
"He came down with a cold last week—we were visiting
relatives in Buckland. He was feeling a lot better after a while, and
we wanted to get back to Hobbiton before the first snow.
Unfortunately," Bilbo stroked Frodo's burning cheek. "I was a bit
overconfident."
Dr. Whiteberry smiled as he pulled the blankets down and
lifted Frodo's woolen sweater, placing the metal end of his
stethescope against the tweenager's bare skin. "Ahhhhhh! It's cold!"
Frodo wailed, his voice cracking as he attempted to slide up against
the headboard.
"Frodo, lad—lay still. This is Dr. Whiteberry—he is going to
help you, but you also must cooperate."
Frodo gazed at the healer through fever-bright eyes.
"There's a good lad. When I tell you so, take a deep breath.
All right? Inhale."
Frodo did as he was told, fighting the urge to cough, for
breathing so deep made his chest tighten. Dr. Whiteberry shook his
head and clucked his tongue. "The boy is coming down with pneumonia,
Master Baggins, I'd hate to tell you. You should have waited till the
worst of the snows passed before heading home. He will have to stay
in West Farthing till he feels better."
Bilbo took Frodo's hand in his own, squeezing it gently and
nearly choking on tears when he felt Frodo squeeze his hand in
return. "What can we do to ease the pain?" the old hobbit asked the
healer who was checking Frodo's temperature.
"Just sponge him down every so often with cool water—cool,
mind you—not cold. However, if his fever gets any higher…….." The
healer took the thermometer from Frodo's mouth and read it. "101.5.
If it gets much higher, than an ice bath will be needed to cool him.
Fevers can be dangerous and fatal for a young hobbit."
Bilbo nodded in understanding—he had helped his nephew fight
through a few illnesses, nearly loosing the lad to Scarlet Fever two
years before he moved into Bag-End.
"I understand, Doctor."
Dr. Whiteberry smiled. "Just keep him in bed and accompany
him to the privy if he needs to use it, though I would suggest
keeping a bedpan in the corner of the room. I will prescribe some
cough medicine and a fever reducer, and we'll see how they help."
Frodo opened his eyes, feeling very weak, and reached for
Bilbo's hand. "I'm scared, Uncle." He whispered hoarsley. "I want t-
to go h-home."
Bilbo took Frodo's hand in his own and kissed it softly. "I
know, sweetheart. I know you're scared—so am I. But I am here for you—
I won't leave—I promise."
Dr. Whiteberry watched the interaction between the two
hobbits and patted Bilbo on the shoulder. "Hopefully," He
began, "Frodo will pull through this. It will take some time, and you
must be patient. Sick lads are sometimes difficult to deal with."
Of course Bilbo knew this, having dealt Frodo's being ill
numbers of times. Even with a cold the lad became cranky and
irritable, and often wanted to be left alone. Frodo broke into
another fit of harsh coughing, followed by a series of gasps for
air. "It hurts, Bilbo." He whimpered. "And I want to go home. Please—
I just want to go home."
Bilbo turned to the doctor, who shook his head firmly. "You
musn't take the lad anywhere until he is feeling better. I promise
you—if you need anything, I will come straight away. Just ask Gilbo
and he'll know where to find me."
"Thank you, doctor." Bilbo said in almost a whisper as he
watched the healer leave the room. When the door closed, the old
hobbit turned to his young nephew, who was attempting to fall
asleep. "Please, Frodo." He begged. "Fight for me, lad." Once again,
he dipped a wash cloth into the bowl of luke-warm water and wiped it
over Frodo's sweat-covered brow.
Bilbo sat beside his nephew's bed and watched the lad sleep.
Frodo's breath rattled in his small chest and often he was woken by
harsh coughing fits. The fever had returned as well, so Bilbo every
now and then blotted Frodo's skin with a damp cloth.
"Dr. Whiteberry is here, sir." Gilbo announced about an hour
later when he opened the door. Bilbo turned and saw another elderly
hobbit (probably in his late 60's early 70's) behind the owner. The
doctor carried a satchel and looked very weary, as he told the owner
to let them be for the present.
Once Gilbo had left, Dr. Whiteberry introduced himself to
Bilbo and shook hands with him before going straight to work on
Frodo. "How long has he been ill like this? He has a high fever, Mr.
Baggins."
"He came down with a cold last week—we were visiting
relatives in Buckland. He was feeling a lot better after a while, and
we wanted to get back to Hobbiton before the first snow.
Unfortunately," Bilbo stroked Frodo's burning cheek. "I was a bit
overconfident."
Dr. Whiteberry smiled as he pulled the blankets down and
lifted Frodo's woolen sweater, placing the metal end of his
stethescope against the tweenager's bare skin. "Ahhhhhh! It's cold!"
Frodo wailed, his voice cracking as he attempted to slide up against
the headboard.
"Frodo, lad—lay still. This is Dr. Whiteberry—he is going to
help you, but you also must cooperate."
Frodo gazed at the healer through fever-bright eyes.
"There's a good lad. When I tell you so, take a deep breath.
All right? Inhale."
Frodo did as he was told, fighting the urge to cough, for
breathing so deep made his chest tighten. Dr. Whiteberry shook his
head and clucked his tongue. "The boy is coming down with pneumonia,
Master Baggins, I'd hate to tell you. You should have waited till the
worst of the snows passed before heading home. He will have to stay
in West Farthing till he feels better."
Bilbo took Frodo's hand in his own, squeezing it gently and
nearly choking on tears when he felt Frodo squeeze his hand in
return. "What can we do to ease the pain?" the old hobbit asked the
healer who was checking Frodo's temperature.
"Just sponge him down every so often with cool water—cool,
mind you—not cold. However, if his fever gets any higher…….." The
healer took the thermometer from Frodo's mouth and read it. "101.5.
If it gets much higher, than an ice bath will be needed to cool him.
Fevers can be dangerous and fatal for a young hobbit."
Bilbo nodded in understanding—he had helped his nephew fight
through a few illnesses, nearly loosing the lad to Scarlet Fever two
years before he moved into Bag-End.
"I understand, Doctor."
Dr. Whiteberry smiled. "Just keep him in bed and accompany
him to the privy if he needs to use it, though I would suggest
keeping a bedpan in the corner of the room. I will prescribe some
cough medicine and a fever reducer, and we'll see how they help."
Frodo opened his eyes, feeling very weak, and reached for
Bilbo's hand. "I'm scared, Uncle." He whispered hoarsley. "I want t-
to go h-home."
Bilbo took Frodo's hand in his own and kissed it softly. "I
know, sweetheart. I know you're scared—so am I. But I am here for you—
I won't leave—I promise."
Dr. Whiteberry watched the interaction between the two
hobbits and patted Bilbo on the shoulder. "Hopefully," He
began, "Frodo will pull through this. It will take some time, and you
must be patient. Sick lads are sometimes difficult to deal with."
Of course Bilbo knew this, having dealt Frodo's being ill
numbers of times. Even with a cold the lad became cranky and
irritable, and often wanted to be left alone. Frodo broke into
another fit of harsh coughing, followed by a series of gasps for
air. "It hurts, Bilbo." He whimpered. "And I want to go home. Please—
I just want to go home."
Bilbo turned to the doctor, who shook his head firmly. "You
musn't take the lad anywhere until he is feeling better. I promise
you—if you need anything, I will come straight away. Just ask Gilbo
and he'll know where to find me."
"Thank you, doctor." Bilbo said in almost a whisper as he
watched the healer leave the room. When the door closed, the old
hobbit turned to his young nephew, who was attempting to fall
asleep. "Please, Frodo." He begged. "Fight for me, lad." Once again,
he dipped a wash cloth into the bowl of luke-warm water and wiped it
over Frodo's sweat-covered brow.