3 April 1636
Patrik was over for tea today, and he seemed more tired than usual.
"Is something wrong, Patrik?"
He sighed. "Do you think often of how you will be remembered?"
"Sometimes."
"I have not done anything worth remembering. I am not sure what I can do now that will be remembered. I cannot help but think that I will be completely forgotten when I pass."
"I mean, we'll all be forgotten," I said. "We all die. We're all forgotten, eventually. I suppose I'll be a grandmother, but after that? I can't imagine it will ever matter."
"You have done something worth memory," he said.
"I failed, Patrik."
He didn't seem to know quite how to respond to that, perhaps because he is part of my failure. "An unfortunate ending does not mean that the enterprise itself was not meaningful."
"I don't think I'll be remembered," I said. "You probably won't, either. But if you want to do something worth remembering, it's probably best to just…be kind."
"Kindness never built monuments."
"Isn't it enough to be remembered by someone close to you? By your children?"
"I doubt they will remember me much. And if they do, I doubt they will tell their children."
"If you want to be a better father to them, it's never too late."
"I suppose so," he said.
"And why would you want a monument, anyways?"
"Because I want to be remembered," he said, as if it were obvious.
"We're all forgotten at some point," I said. "Sooner or later, everyone will be forgotten."
"We can write now," he said. "Books can keep a long time."
"And sooner or later every book rots. I've found some in Dolora's library that I can't read anymore. Languages are lost-Latin, for one. Have you ever read Beowulf? That's our language, and we can hardly read it. Everything goes to dust."
"How do you live if you believe this?"
I shrugged, not wanting to say, "In a constant state of stress and exhaustion," which is the truest way to say it. "I suppose I imagine that whatever good I do for those around me must matter somehow. Like for my daughters."
"Perhaps," he said.
"Perhaps indeed," I agreed, and we lapsed into silence for a time, as is our habit.
We talked a bit more before he left, but I'm still thinking about it. How will I be remembered? Will I be remembered? I hope my daughters remember me fondly when I've passed on, but beyond that…perhaps I'll have grandchildren, and then perhaps great-grandchildren, but I've never heard of anyone's great-grandmother.
I don't think anyone will remember me. I hope that my daughters do, and after that I just hope that I've put enough kindness into the world to make a change.
7 April 1636
It used to be that this time of year was when I mourned, when the loss of my family was so close I could taste the blood in my mouth and hear the screams of my love as he died. I dream of Dolora's body dumped so callously into the river, as if no one would care enough to bury her, and of Simonn's face without his eyes, suffering so much that he couldn't even cry.
And now it is the time of year I have found my eldest daughter, when I made the choice not to take my own life. It is when things started to change for the better, or so I imagine.
I think I'm getting better. I'd like to imagine I am. I'm…I'm pretty sure I saved Meulin's life, and possibly Nepeta's too. I suppose I am an adequate mother to them. I think I am. They say they love me and I know they're healthy. I hope it's enough.
11 April 1636
Thirteen years ago a prison guard cut off my left little finger and laughed as it bled and I screamed. I think I fainted when that happen, but it's hard to know for sure. It's hard for me to remember exactly what happened when in the prison.
My Nepeta found me sitting at the table today after I finished my rounds, clutching a cup of tea in my hands and trying not to cry.
"Mama?"
"Yes, Nepeta?"
"Are you alright?"
"I'm remembering some very sad things," I said.
"Does that make you sad?"
I nodded.
"Sometimes I remember my old mother and father and it makes me sad, too. We were scared, and hungry, and alone, and remembering that hurts a lot," she said. "But it's better now. Linny and I have you. So it's going to be okay. It's already a lot better."
"It will be," I agreed. "Do you know something, Nepeta?"
"What?"
"I love you so much."
"I love you too," she said with a little smile. "Thank you for taking care of us."
"You don't need to thank me," I said. "You're my daughters. If I weren't taking care of you I wouldn't be doing my job."
"But you let Meulin come get me. You could've not let her and not taken me, but you did. And lots of people didn't take care of Linny. Thank you for taking care of us, when other people didn't."
"I-you're welcome, Nepeta," I said. "I will always try to do right by you."
"I know," she said. "Are you busy?"
"No, not right now."
"Can you come out and garden with me? We can pretend like they're ingredients for magic potions."
"Of course," I said, standing up and leaving my tea behind. I love her imagination. She could write fairy tales if she wanted to, or anything really. She has the most creative spirit I've ever seen. I'm glad she wasn't completely crushed by the weight of unloving parents, and I hope she keeps that alive in her as she grows older.
So I helped her in the flower garden until it was dark. She used to hate gardening, the feeling of dirt on her hands, but now she seems to like it much better. I'm glad gardening can bring her joy. I'm glad she has joy in her life.
16 April 1636
Today has been painful since it was the day I buried my love alone in the clearing. Today I decided that I was going to celebrate, since today was the day I found my Meulin and started to build a new family.
So I finished my rounds quickly, especially since most people are alright for now (heaven knows that won't last), and came home and made a nice dinner with baked apples. When my girls came home, I told them I made a nice dinner so we could celebrate being a family.
Meulin's face broke into a huge grin. "Let's eat!"
We all ate until we were full, which felt very right considering how they suffered before I had them, and then read together in the library until we were all very tired. I kissed Nepeta's forehead and gave Meulin a tight hug and they went to bed, Button trailing, and I only cried a little before I went to sleep myself.
19 April 1636
It's time for influenza in the village, of course. It's a bit late this year but proceeding exactly as expected. Usually a little child gets it first, or an older person, and then it spreads. It does not kill as many as some illnesses, but I still see my fair share of children pass from influenza.
Meulin came with me today and she asked me once we were home if I was afraid of catching influenza.
"I try my best to be careful. I take the same precautions always that I do when I bring you with me, and for serious cases I have a mask I can wear. But mostly I know that I'm old enough now that my body can fight most illnesses. The people we need to worry most about are the very young and the very old. Other people will be uncomfortable and we need to try to ease that, but the most danger is in those who are already weak."
"What about illnesses like the pox?"
"Then we have to be more careful. But a lot of those you can only get once, and I've had all sorts of pox."
"What if you did get sick?"
"Then I'd be in good hands with you, little love," I said with a smile. "But really, I'm not worried. I'm not old enough to be really at risk yet. If I do get sick, I will get better."
She nodded seriously. "Alright."
"I love you, Meulin."
"Love you too, Mama."
20 April 1636
I have managed to come down with a little cough myself. It's not as bad as I've seen, but I do not feel my best. I'll be careful with my patients, and I don't think I'll see anyone who's pregnant this week unless I must, but I'm quite alright-just a little tired with a bit of a sore throat.
My goodness, I haven't felt this optimistic about anything in years. The idea of recovering from some illness may not exactly be far-fetched, especially for the midwife of all people, but it's nice to have something to be optimistic about.
23 April 1636
It's getting warmer out, which is good for winter fever and influenza but not as good for poliomyelitis, which spreads much more in the summer. There are so very many diseases to treat. Eleanor (not Hannah's sister, a different Eleanor) has Pott's disease, which I can't do much about, and Jane has glandular fever, and a young woman I'm seeing has lues venera that she's terrified for anyone else to know about.
My goodness I'm tired. Maybe I need another day to rest.
29 April 1636
I took yesterday to rest, and that's good, because today Sarah ran to me in a complete panic and said, "My…my daughter. There was a dog, with…it bit her…"
"I'll get my bandages," I said. "Don't worry. If I can clean and dress the wound, she'll almost certainly recover."
"No, I…the dog had…had hydrophobia."
"Oh no," I said. "Did someone…?"
"Yes, they shot the dog and the men are burning the body now. But my daughter…"
"I'll do what I can," I said. "But I must warn you, as far as I know…no one has ever survived hydrophobia."
Her eyes welled up as I gathered my things and went with her to the village. Meulin was in the village and I didn't go get her because I needed to see to the little girl.
We arrived at Sarah's home and I put on my gloves and said, "I'm going to start by cleaning the wound. Is the bite recent?"
"Yes."
"Then she won't develop symptoms for some time. I'm going to clean and treat the bite, and there is a very, very small chance that she won't develop symptoms, but I can't guarantee anything. Please come with me, but be careful."
I went inside and saw a girl, about eight, with a dog bite on her lower left leg, tears leaking from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to get bit. The dog chased me and I don't run too fast."
"It's alright," I said. "These things happen. Dogs with this illness can move very fast and be very mean."
"It hurts," she said.
"I know, little one," I said. "I'm going to have to clean this, alright? It's going to hurt. You can hold your mama's hand while I do this, and I'm going to be as quick as possible. Can you move your skirt out of the way for me?"
She looked at her mother, and Sarah said, "It's alright, Marie. She's the midwife."
I had my less-nice gloves on, prepared to burn them, as I cleaned and dressed her wound. I covered it as much as possible once the bleeding had stopped, so she can't transfer it to anyone, and said, "All done. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
She shook her head.
"Now, you have to look out for a few things for the next few months, okay? If it starts feeling prickly or burning where the bite is, or if you start getting a fever, you tell your mama right away and I'll come treat you."
"What's gonna happen?"
"I…I don't know," I said. "You might not have gotten sick at all. If in a few months you still feel healthy, then you're going to be just fine. If you do get sick, I'm going to treat you, and we'll see what happens from there."
Her eyes were huge and teary and she said, "Am I going to die?"
"I don't know," I said. "Do you know what you can do for me, while you're waiting to see if you'll get sick?"
"Will it help?"
"Yes."
She nodded.
"You can pray. If you're scared, talk to God. And if you like, I can pray for you, too."
"I'd like that."
"Then that's what we'll do for now," I said. "How about you go to your room and rest up for a little bit? You've had an awfully big day. I'll make you a cup of chamomile tea."
She nodded and went away to her room.
"I have some things to tell you," I said to Sarah. "For one, pick one spoon and bowl and cup, and those are for her-no one else touches them. Hydrophobia happens when people are bitten, so anything that comes near her mouth I would worry about. If she develops any symptoms, such as fever, anything like pricking or burning near the wound, weakness, or trouble sleeping, come straight to me."
"And if she does show symptoms…will she live?"
I lowered my voice. "Almost certainly not. No one ever has."
Her eyes teared up as well and she said, "Isn't there something you can do?"
"I'm sorry, but no. People have been trying for centuries, and no one has ever succeeded."
She nodded at me, looking very tired, and said, "I think I best tend to her."
"Yes. You should know that if she is ill, we might have to take more serious precautions. She will have to be isolated, for one, and if you have any money, it might be best to seek out the physician." I hated to say it, but when it comes to hydrophobia, there is absolutely nothing I can do. And I wasn't going to tell her that it's highly possible that if her daughter doesn't die right away she might be killed. "It might be best not to tell anyone else yet, to avoid a panic." I didn't want someone to shoot the little girl like they've done before with hydrophobia.
"I won't," she said.
"We'll know in three months."
"Three months?"
"I know it feels like forever. Just go one day at a time, and I'll check up on her once a week or so. I know it's trite, but try not to worry. There's nothing to do but wait."
"Will it help to pray?"
"I think it will. I know that if you help her pray, she will feel better."
Sarah nodded and I left her with some tea to help her daughter sleep.
Her daughter will die. All I can hope is that she has the still kind rather than the fighting kind. I hope she does not live out her last moments knowing someone killed her.
30 April 1636
I made another nice dinner today to celebrate Nepeta joining our little family, just like with Meulin. I'm going to make it a tradition. I'm so happy they're in my life, and I want to remember that every year for the rest of my life.
1 May 1636
The children of the village celebrated May Day today, as they often do, looking at the signs of spring. My Nepeta grabbed my hand, as excited as I've ever seen her, as soon as I was downstairs in the morning and dragged me outside to look at her flowers. They were beautiful, bright plumes of color and little green buds ready to burst. I wish I had the skill to draw them, like Simonn did. His drawings were so true to life that I feel my family might jump out of the page and be with me again.
I wish I could draw my daughters. I want to remember them when I'm old and they're off on their own.
5 May 1636
Meulin came with me on my rounds today and we checked up on Sarah's little girl. She's not sick yet but it's hard to know for sure. I burned the old bandages, put on new ones, and made sure they'd been careful to keep anyone else from getting infected. The wound is healing just fine, but that's no guarantee.
We also went to see Winnifred, who's about four months along, and a few usual colds, as well as a few new cases of various illnesses of various severities. One older man has consumption, and he's seventy, so I'm mostly concerned with keeping him comfortable as he passes. A little girl had a little rose fever, which her mother was panicked over but is nothing to fret about. And a young woman had a lingering case of influenza. Her health is fine otherwise, so I expect her to recover.
I've been trying different treatments, trying to see what works and what does not. The problem is that oftentimes, there's not much I can do, and so it's hard to know for sure what is working and what is just the patient's constitution.
I try my best. I hope it's enough.
11 May 1636
I was so tired today. I woke up and felt that moving out of bed would just be too much, like my limbs were made of lead instead of flesh. It was just too much.
I dragged myself upright and went to make breakfast and then decided that today I was going to rest. I drank some tea and did my usual things, hunting and gardening and preparing food and herbs, and then I rested some. I sat with a romance novel and read, just sitting alone, and by the time my girls came home I felt well enough to sit with them and feel better for it.
I think, perhaps, I am getting better.
17 May 1636
The village is in a panic over that dog with hydrophobia. They burned the body, but some people are refusing to let their children play outdoors and I think some dogs have already been killed. I've been careful myself, but Button stays in and around the house and my girls know how to keep themselves safe.
I try not to worry. With consumption and variola and worse around, I try not to worry too much about something like hydrophobia.
21 May 1636
Patrik came by today, even though it's not Thursday, and he said it was because he hadn't been sleeping.
"Why not?"
"I have been having the most terrible nightmare."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He nodded, then said, "In the dream, I cannot see or hear. Everything is dark. I can feel something pressing down on my chest, slowly increasing in weight until I cannot breathe. When I feel I am going to faint from it all, I wake up most suddenly."
"That sounds terrible."
"When I wake up, however, there is no one in my home. I cannot find my wife or my sons. I attempt to find an acquaintance, sometimes going as far as your home, and I find no one. When I return home and lie back down in bed, it grows dark and I feel the pressure on my chest again. It sometimes happens three or four times before I awake in bed next to my wife."
"Oh my goodness," I said. "Are you worrying about something right now?"
"Not more than usual."
"Does it feel better to have told me?"
He nodded. "It need not be secret."
"Why not tell Mabell?"
"She is a lovely woman, but we are not terribly close."
I will never understand how these upper-class people think. I think Patrik's family has no title, but plenty of land, and since they are rich they don't believe in love in marriage at all. I know money is important (heaven knows I know that), but my goodness, I can't imagine spending my life with someone I didn't at least like.
"I can give you some tea, if you like. I make a tea to help people sleep."
"That would be lovely," he said quietly.
I mixed him up some herbs and he went home with it. I hope it helps. I don't know what's troubling him, but his nightmares sound awful.
Maybe the people he killed are coming back to haunt him. I don't mean that in the most literal sense, but he killed people other than just my love before he left Her Majesty's service. Maybe he's having trouble living with those he killed.
I'm angry with him, but I won't deny him the tea. That would be cruel, and I don't want to be cruel.
26 May 1636
Sarah came to me and said her daughter had a fever and her wound was burning and when I went to check on Marie, I knew she was going to die.
"Does it hurt?" I asked Marie.
"Yes," she said. "And I'm really tired."
I checked her for a fever and she had one, not high but present. "Do you want to sleep?"
"Yes, but I can't."
I sighed and said, "Alright. I'm going to give you some medicines to take. They're not going to taste very good, but you'll start to feel better."
She nodded and I gave her a mix of herbs to take, which she choked down. "Okay, little one, have you been sick before?"
She nodded again.
"I'm going to keep treating you, but you might feel worse before you feel better. I'm going to give you something to do for me." I handed her a little packet of nice-smelling dried herbs (cloves and sage, mostly) and said, "Keep this near you, especially when you're asleep. Do you pray every night?"
"Yes."
"Keep doing that. It's very important."
"I can do that," she said, determined.
"Very good," I told her with a smile. "I'm going to go talk to your mama and leave her some medicines for you to take. You just keep praying and keep your new friend safe."
She nodded seriously and I went out to see Sarah.
"So?" she asked.
"I'm sorry," I said. "She is going to die."
Sarah let out a little sob and I said, "I know. It's the most terrible thing to watch a child die, and I'm so sorry. I'm going to do what I can, but I…she will most likely die."
"What can I do?"
"Keep her comfortable. I'm going to give you some things to give her to keep the fever down. If she becomes aggressive or lashes out, she may need to be isolated to keep her from biting someone and passing this on."
"How will I know?"
"I doubt she will, but if she starts fighting back when you try to give her water to drink, that will be a sure sign. I've given her a little bag of herbs to hold on to-you'll know her mind has gone when she forgets it or no longer notices."
She was on the edge of tears and I said, "I know. It's incredibly painful. I'm going to be here the whole way for both of you. You know where my home is; any time I'm not in the village, you can come find me."
"Thank you," she said, barely above a whisper. "I-I'm going to tend to my daughter."
"A good idea," I said. "I'll be back in a few days."
She waved as I left for home. I am not looking forwards to this. I know Marie is going to die painfully over the next week or three and I know I have to be there the whole time for her and her mother, and it is going to hurt so much.
I will tell Meulin, but unless she asks I won't bring her. I don't want her to see this.
31 May 1636
I went to see Marie and she's only getting worse. She has a week at most. She hasn't gotten aggressive, though; it's just that she can't move her left leg, where the dog bit her. So I suppose it will be like that: slowly her muscles will seize up and stop working until it's her heart or lungs and she dies. It's better than her becoming restless and furious until it becomes clear what she has and someone kills her before the illness spreads.
I told Sarah and she sighed deeply. "I…what can I do?"
"I'm going to give you my strongest medicines for pain. I don't typically use these as they can harm the body if taken for too long but that doesn't matter much now. Again, if you have any money to see the physician, he might be able to give something stronger."
"We don't," she said.
"Then I will do my best to keep her pain to a minimum."
"What can I tell her?"
"When it comes to death…" I began, because this is part of my work and I hate it. "You can tell her she will die soon. Let her know that you are there for her, and she will not be alone. You can tell her that when she dies it won't hurt anymore, and that she will go to heaven and be with God. She's young, but children know more than we realize. You can do your best to ease this pain, but she will be afraid. Just remind her that she is loved and cared for. If you can, don't show her how afraid you are. Let her know you're sad to lose her, but don't put undue pressure on her, or she might feel it's her fault."
"I hope I can do all that," she said.
"You can," I said. "You're her mother; your support is what she needs right now. You can see if she has anyone she wants to say goodbye to and carry the message for her; that might help. And of course, her medicine."
Sarah nodded.
"Come talk to me any time. I…my son died, and so I understand some of what you're feeling. It is a pain like no other."
"I'm so sorry," she said.
I nodded my acknowledgement. "Thank you. And I'm sorry about Marie. I wish there were something I could do."
"I understand," she said. "This is how life is sometimes."
And with that, we parted ways. All I can hope is that Marie doesn't suffer too much as she dies.
2 June 1636
Meulin insisted on coming with me to see Marie today.
"Mama, I'm going to have to see children die. I don't want the first time to be on my own."
"Alright, Meulin. But if I tell you to leave, do. She might try to bite one of us."
"I will."
At Sarah's home, I brought Meulin with me to check on Marie with Sarah's permission.
"Hi there Marie. This is my daughter, Meulin. I'm teaching her how to be a midwife like me. Is it alright if she's here with me and helps me treat you?"
She nodded.
I did my usual checkups and found that she can't move either of her legs and her throat hurts when she eats or drinks.
"Do you know what's happening?"
"My mama said I'm going to die," Marie said.
"Yes," I said. "That's right. Can you tell me how you feel about that?"
"I don't want to," she said, her eyes teary.
"Oh, I know," I said softly. "It's very scary. Your mama is going to be here for you, and so am I. We're going to try to keep you from hurting and we'll take care of you until you die. And we'll remember you afterwards."
"Am I going to go to heaven?"
"Of course. Jesus loves all the little children, and you won't hurt anymore in heaven."
I could feel how tense Meulin was.
Marie nodded and said, "I'm sleepy."
"Then get some rest. I'm going to give you some more pain medicine now."
She let me feed her a mix of herbs and I saw her eyes closing as I left.
"That was horrible," Meulin said. "She's a child."
"I know," I said. "It's awful watching children die. It is the hardest part of this work we do."
"I need to go be alone, I think," she said.
"Go ahead," I told her. "Come find me if you want to talk."
It's hard, watching this.
6 June 1636
Marie died today. Sarah came to me in a panic saying Marie wouldn't wake up, and when I saw her her breaths were shallow and her heart slow. After an hour, she was gone.
"She didn't suffer in her last moments," I said. "Find peace in that."
Sarah nodded, unable to speak.
"I'll collect your husband and the priest."
Meulin and I sat with the family today, cooking for them and generally supporting them. It is my work to help the family as these tragedies happen, and Meulin helps me as she does in all my work.
I am rather tired. I think now is the time to read a silly romance novel and go to sleep.
12 June 1636
I was married twenty years ago today. If I remember right, there's some sort of special tradition for twenty years but I don't remember what it is and even if I did I don't have a husband anymore to celebrate with.
I miss him.
18 June 1636
Today would be Simonn's forty-first birthday. He'd be so old. I bet I'd be making fun of his wrinkles as he made fun of mine while his children ran about and Hannah sat with her sisters. Maybe we'd all live in this home together, raising our children and working together as the best of friends. They were my family. I wish they'd been my family for the rest of my life.
28 June 1636
I talked with Sarah today and she's doing a bit better. I don't want her to push her to recover too quickly because that won't be any better for her-or anyone, really. She will suffer and hurt, and one day, eventually, she will get a little better, and will find a new way to feel alive. No matter how we ache, life moves forwards.
30 June 1636
I saw a woman with influenza today. I suppose no matter how I fail, I must push on and keep trying to save people.
I am so tired. I have been trying to rest, to keep digging and find the water beneath my well, but life keeps coming back to take the water I find.
My goodness, I miss my family. Somehow, being with them felt like a well full of water, the same way spending time with my daughters does sometimes.
I have another little cough. I have no idea how this keeps happening to me, and it is going to drive me mad.