Diary of a Plague Doctor: Chapter 2

 As I walk through the cluttered streets of the lower districts that I have become accustomed to, I try to avoid stepping on one of the countless vermin that inhabit the garbage and call its filth their home. The population here have continued to grow rapidly and many live in squalor and poverty. The only way these people have to rid themselves of their rubbish is to throw it out into the streets. This includes normal household waste as well as human. It seems in this time of great sadness the poor are always hit the hardest. I am on my way now to a home on Drury Lane where a member of a family is said to be ill and in need of my diagnosis. I walk on, slowly glancing at the handiwork of some of my colleagues who have traveled this route as well as myself. Houses, infected with the plague, that have been locked and inscribed with red crosses painted on the door to warn others of the plight of those inside. The lock is to stay on the house for forty days and nights. The only ones allowed in within that period of time are nurses. These nurses are local women with no training whatsoever, but they get paid to visit the homes of plague victims to see how they are getting on and to take food to them if the they can afford it. To me, they do more harm than good though because many of these women take these opportunities presented to them to steal from the very homes they were sent to visit.
 The distant shouting of “searchers” interrupt my thoughts. Searchers are people who get paid to hunt out dead bodies or possible plague victims who have yet to be found by the authorities. The shouted phrase, “Bring out your dead’ can be heard echoing throughout the walls of these already cramped quarters. I stopped long enough to watch a man carry a deceased older man, possibly a relative, out of his home to present to the searcher to add to the already growing pile of dead human flesh he pushes on his cart.
  As I walk on I also hear in the distance the haunting, hallow sound of a chant that I have more than become familiar with in my line of work. They call it, “The Song of the Plague”, but for me I call it, “The Song of Death”. It has a way of lingering in your mind like a bad dream that refuses to go away. It is sung mostly by children and people of medium or high stature who were fortunate enough not to be infected. Taking something so destructive and presenting it as humorous, fun, and even poetic; no doubt was an attempt to sooth their vexed souls and the souls of their families. In my line of work having to deal with this plague on a daily basis and seeing personally the chaos it caused, I believe it to be nothing short of blasphemous to make it anything other than what it truly is, a curse. The song goes as such:

“Ring-a-ring of roses,
A pocket full of posies,
Attischo, Attischo,
We all fall down.”


 Seems harmless, but being a plague doctor I am very accustomed to the subliminal meanings of each of these verses. The first verse is a reference to red, circular blotches that were found on the skin. They might also develop into large pus-filled sacs found primarily under the armpits and in various other places. These buboes were very painful to the sufferer. The second verse referred to the miasma or bad air that spread the plague. The only way it could be stopped was if you carried flowers with you, as the smell of the flowers would overpower the effects of the miasma. The third verse and final symptom was a sneezing fit that was promptly followed by death. Some of the patients did not get this far however, because they were so poor their bodies were even less able to cope with the disease. The last verse is self-explanatory. Out of all the destruction I’ve seen, a swift death was considered to be merciful.
 Finally, I arrived at my destination. I was let in cautiously by the woman of the house. The house was cluttered with debris and several rats scurried for safety as I walked toward the bedroom where the disturbed citizen lay. The man, Thomas Balingraff, who was her husband, lay frail and ghostly white under the covers of the bed. As I pulled back the covers with my cane I saw that he had chills and the color of the face indicated he had a fever. His wife said he complained of headaches, back pain, and soreness in his arms and legs. As I inspected the man all he could do was stare at the mask I wore on my face. He followed me with his eyes as I walked around him inspecting until finally I came to my conclusion. He was infected. His wife cried bitterly upon me telling her this and pleaded that it not be so. I reached out and took hold of the man’s trembling hand and told him to think now of gold, silver, and other things that brought him joy and pleasure. I then turned to the desperate wife once again and told her that I would send for a nurse to check-up on them later. As I walked outside the last glimpse I saw before closing the door was the man’s tear-filled eyes and how they seemed to peer right through me pleading with me for help. There was nothing I could do for him I told myself. There is no cure for what he had; although I would never tell him or any of my patients this. I placed the lock on the door and began to paint a red cross upon it. As I painted, I heard footsteps from inside the home. I peered through a small crack inside and saw the wife as she slowly walked toward the locked entrance. Upon arriving, she leaned in toward the splintered gap, choking back tears and said, ”Good doctor, can you also paint on our door, God have mercy on us?” I nodded my head in agreement and spelled the words out under the cross. The woman upon submitting her request returned to her husband’s side and as I turned to go I heard the woman utter out, “God have mercy on us all.”