“We can estimate,” I proposed.
“Not good enough,” Joanna said at once. Her eyes rapidly scanned the room, from the unlighted fireplace to the bookshelves to the individual pieces of furniture. In a quick motion, she brought her gaze back to an old chair with a straw seat that had seen better days. She hurried over to it and tested the firmness of the knitted straw-like material. “It needs to be replaced.”
“I will get to it eventually,” my father promised.
“It is fortunate you have not done so, for we shall put it to good use.” Joanna reached for a sturdy knife she used to pin important messages to a bulletin board, and carved out a six-by-six-inch square from the center of the straw seat. “We shall place a bucket beneath it and Johnny can use it as a bedside commode. This setup will allow us to obtain an accurate measurement of his output.”
“We will require a good-sized bucket, for in cases of cholera gravis patients can lose an enormous amount of fluid, at times exceeding a quart an hour,” my father noted. “And when he leaves the bathroom shortly, we should have a quart of liquid ready for him to slowly consume. I have the recipe written down in one of my files.”
“I know it all too well,” Joanna said and hurried to a nearby cupboard, from which she extracted bags of sugar and salt. “And we have plenty of the ingredients on hand.”
“Excellent,” my father approved, but then added a solemn caution. “We must hope that he is not affected with the nausea and vomiting that may accompany the disease.”
“Did he complain of these symptoms?” Joanna asked worriedly.
“He did not, but then again he was in a rush to relieve himself.”
A cry came from the lavatory, followed by another.
“I had better attend to Johnny,” my father said, racing for the bathroom and closing the door behind him.
Joanna remained stoic for a moment, then flew into my arms and whispered in a trembling voice, “I am so frightened, John, for I find myself in the midst of events I cannot control. All of my wit and cleverness are of no use to me at this dreadful moment.”
“We shall make certain he recovers,” I comforted.
“From your words to God’s ear.”
For the first time in our marriage, Joanna showed helplessness and vulnerability which she could neither control nor hide. But then again, I reminded myself, her most precious possession, her son Johnny, was at real risk and just the thought of losing him was more than she could endure.
“I am so fortunate to have you at my side,” Joanna breathed, as her lips brushed my cheek.
“And I, you,” said I, holding her close and knowing I could never love another as much as I loved my dear Joanna.
We parted as the door to the lavatory opened and my father reappeared. “He is fine.”
Joanna quickly regained her composure before asking, “What was the cause of his discomfort?”
“A bit of intestinal spasm,” my father reported. “It has passed.”
“Let us pray it does not recur,” said Joanna, relieved at the diagnosis. “How long will the diarrhea persist, Watson?”
“Usually two to three days, but sometimes longer if the dose of the cholera bacteria is large.”
“Does the same hold true for the other diagnoses you mentioned?”
“I am afraid so. Thus, the length of time of the symptoms does not distinguish between these infectious disorders.”
“So time is of no help.”
“None whatsoever,” said my father. “But they can be separated by having the bacteriology laboratory culture the lad’s stool specimen. If it is indeed cholera, the bacteria will grow out on a culture plate within twenty-four hours.”
“That test should be set up at St. Bartholomew’s as soon as possible.”
“I will see to it.”
The three of us busied ourselves preparing the sugar-salt solutions that were to be used to rehydrate Johnny. Joanna placed several quart-sized bottles containing the liquid on our windowsill, so that the chilly outside air would cool the sugar-salt solutions and make them easier to swallow. I was reaching for yet another bottle to fill, when the door to the lavatory opened wide. Johnny stepped out into the parlor on shaky legs and slowly made his way to a chair by the fireplace.
Sitting down heavily, he complained in a weak voice, “The runs are dreadful.”
Joanna came to his side and was about to reach out for Johnny’s hand, but decided not to, for such contact could spread the disease to her. With patience, she explained every aspect of the disorder to him and how it was to be treated. She emphasized the absolute need for the fluid lost to be accurately measured and replaced ounce for ounce with oral liquids. “We will set up a bedside commode so we will know your exact losses and this will determine how much you have to drink in order to avoid becoming dehydrated.”
“How long will this awful business last, Mother?” Johnny asked through parched lips.
“A few days, so it is imperative that you follow our instructions to the letter.”
Johnny nodded weakly. “I shall do my best.”
“Your symptoms will occur intermittently,” my father told the lad. “It is during the calm periods that you must replenish yourself. Drink slowly, giving each mouthful a chance to reach your stomach and be absorbed into your system. Do not attempt to force large amounts down all at once, for this can result in regurgitation.”
“I do not believe I could ingest large quantities of fluids quickly, even if ordered to do so.”
“Are you having any nausea and vomiting?” my father asked concernedly.
“No, sir,” Johnny replied and rubbed at his stomach. “I do feel a bit queasy now and then, however.”
“Not to worry,” said my father. “That is to be expected.”
“I am sorry to be of such bother,” Johnny apologized.
“Nonsense,” my father insisted. “You will never be a bother to us.”
A faint smile came to Johnny’s face, but it quickly faded. In a
