Breath

George was eight years old and very small for his age. He had been sick for some time, refusing to eat and now he was struggling to even breathe. His parent’s fears were slowly becoming real. They had done everything they could think of with rudimentary treatments. Nothing was working. That after- noon George’s father sent his oldest son to town to get the doctor. Hours later, the doctor arrived in escort of Bill and the family mule.

The doctor spent time with George examining him and then finally giving him a shot to abate the symptoms. He told George’s parents that the child did indeed have an advanced case of diphtheria, the current plague moving through the piney hills of eastern Texas. He told them it was severe. George’s throat was closing shut from the swelling of muscles in his neck and he would eventually suffocate. He said he was sorry but he was doubtful that the child would last through the night.

The doctor climbed into his buggy to begin his ride back into town but then got back down again and went to George’ s father. He told him one thing he could try to do was to soak a washcloth in water and gently squeeze out drops onto the back of George’s throat. By doing so, the muscles would continue to work and maybe this movement would allow for a small air passage. With this, the doctor went back into town.

All through the night, George’s father sat at his bedside and slowly squeezed water onto the back of his throat, soaking and re-soaking the washcloth in a pan of cool water. The next morning, George’s mother continued with the washcloth while his father went into town for the doctor. He was so tired he could barely focus, but his son was still alive.

The doctor returned to examine George and was both delighted and amazed. He gave George another shot to help reduce the swelling and the same advice. The second night passed as the first, with George’s parents taking turns with the pan and washcloth. George’s struggle for breath could be heard throughout the wooden dogtrot all night long. The following morning, George was still alive although weakened severely. The doctor came and helped George take a few spoons of broth and gave him yet another shot. He told Georges’ s parents that he was encouraged by George’s will but remained cautious of recovery.

The ritual of dripping water continued on through the third night. Again, George’s strained grasping for air mixing with the night sounds of the rural east Texas evening. Early the next morning the fever finally broke and the air passage in my father’s throat began to open. It was summertime, 1924.