Hands-on ministrations, ‘horrors’ and vice-regal tours.
By 1884, the turbulent administration of Dr Kesteven was a memory, but the Hospital still faced public criticism, largely due to its inability to make inroads into the typhoid problem. The causes of infectious disease were imperfectly known, but the appalling state of public hygiene in Brisbane in the 1880s was clearly a contributing factor.
Sewerage and drainage were at best primitive. Large pools of stagnant water accumulated in the streets of the town when it rained, particularly in Frogs Hollow. Human waste was managed by earth closets and water closets. The water closets, where in use, emptied out into drains that, if the residents were fortunate, flowed away from inhabited areas. Earth closets and cesspits were still in use for everyone else.
Emptying of the closets was arranged by the council and was rather haphazardly undertaken, resulting in the waste from uphill often being inflicted on those downhill. Once established, typhoid was hard to eradicate.
REV. STEWART’S MINISTRATIONS
In March, an old problem returned to haunt the hospital. Dr Kesteven had refused the Rev. Mr James Stewart entree into the fever wards of the hospital, reasoning that patients suffering from fever and delirium should not have too many visitors. With Kesteven gone, the Rev Mr Stewart resumed his visits until a mishandled scandal saw him barred from the wards again.
Keen-eyed newspaper readers would note in March 1884, that an extraordinary meeting of the hospital committee was called to discuss the institution’s response to the complaints of several female patients regarding the behaviour of Rev Mr James Stewart. At the meeting, it was decided that an investigation should take place, and then the Reverend gentleman could explain himself in writing to the committee.
Neither the hospital committee, nor the journalists, described the behaviour complained of, which had the effect of creating a bigger scandal than was necessary. Readers came to their own conclusions – female patients, complaints, behaviour, man of the cloth? Victorian imaginations boggled.
The Queensland Figaro and Punch, a gossipy, illustrated raker of muck masquerading as serious current affairs journalism, was, to its credit, the first to offer an explanation for all of the secrecy. It calmed readers, revealing that the Rev Stewart was a devotee of hydropathy, and believed that the placing of hands on a fever patient to measure their temperature was a diagnostic tool. A letter from the gentleman himself confirmed this.
“The fact is that for years, both in and out of hospital, I have been in the habit of placing the point of my open hand under the armpit of fever patients to gauge the temperature of the body… I have occasionally, though not frequently, placed my hand upon the stomach of fever patients, where the seat of the disease is so severe; I have never had the slightest hint that what I did was resented, or even annoying to the patients, until last week.”
Understandably, it would come as a vast surprise to a fever patient, particularly one of the gentler sex, to find one’s armpits and abdomen being handled without a by-your-leave by a person who was supposed to be offering spiritual comfort.
After due consideration, Rev Stewart was excluded from the hospital again.
THE DEATH OF CONSTABLE HEATHCOTE
The fever wards were filled to capacity in March and April 1884, and the Hospital, with limited funds and staff, was finding it hard to cope.
In late April, a young constable named Joseph Heathcote was admitted to the Hospital with typhoid symptoms. He became delirious with fever, and in the middle of the night climbed out of a window in his ward, heading out into the night in only a shirt. He was last seen by Nurse Mary Powditch, who raised the alarm when she saw Heathcote running very quickly towards the fence. Nurse Caroline Delacour rounded up the wardsmen and a search party set out, covering the grounds and surrounding suburbs, but no trace of Constable Heathcote was found.
Several days later, a market gardener named Shang Hoi found the body of a man in his garden. It was Heathcote, who had drowned in the 8 inches of water in an irrigation trench near the fence. Heathcote had in all probability died the night he escaped.
An inquest found that the windows to the fever wards were understandably opened to cool and ventilate the wards, and adequate care and monitoring had been provided by experienced staff. As Nurse Powditch remarked, she had never seen a patient become so delirious so quickly.
THE HORROR OF THE BRISBANE HOSPITAL
The same week, the Figaro published “The Horror of the Brisbane Hospital,” which had the desired effect of bringing the attention of the entire colony to the Hospital. It also began nearly eighteen months of almost constant criticism and crisis management. The article was a melodramatic, racist piece that claimed to be taken from the recollection of a former patient of the female fever ward.
It begins in the measured fashion one would expect:
I shudder, my blood runs cold, and my mind gradually freezes into a nameless blank nothingness —as I mentally review the terrible Pandemonium scenes which it is my duty to now present to my readers. Twice has my quill slipped from my nerveless grasp; twice have my mental energies been steeped in a temporary Lethe of oblivion. But Humanity’s trumpet calls me on, and the direful tale must be told.
Once Figaro managed to get a grip on its quill, it told a floridly-worded but otherwise straightforward tale of a full fever ward with some delirious patients, including indigenous women, and the nurses on duty, who were quite young. One of the nurses may have been unable to manage delirious people in a professional manner. Here are some of the milder quotes:
“There are three aboriginal patients in this ward, right amongst the white women.”
“It seems as though Pandemonium has broken loose, as though one is surrounded by a thousand gibbering and chattering devils who have come to tear out one’s heart and throw it into some witch’s cauldron.”
“That the girl is a good, kind-hearted girl enough, but that she lacks patience and is prone to irritability; hence, when a delirious patient begins to howl, she loses her head and her temper.”
The Hospital committee conducted an investigation, including surprise visits to the wards at night and failed to find the thousand gibbering devils or abusive nursing staff. There were indigenous patients, but none happened to be in the fever ward. The committee decided that the report was “a heap of lies”. This opinion was published in the Courier’s report of the committee meeting, and drew the profound, thunderous ire of Figaro. “I mean to compel attention. I claim to represent the PEOPLE.”
Fortunately, the onset of mild winter weather allowed some respite. Typhoid infections fell, death rates dropped, and the attention of the committee was drawn to other matters.
PAPERWORK AND AMBULANCE-WAGGONS
Record-keeping at the Hospital, as Messrs Forsyth and Bourne discovered in 1882, was haphazard, and the Colonial Secretary found out about it in October 1884. Why, asked His Excellency, had 140 patient admissions been written in a pocketbook, instead of an admission register? Further, would the committee please provide to His Excellency the how, when and why of said pocketbook going missing?
Well, the committee explained, squirming slightly, the person who wrote down patient details was awfully busy, and wrote details in a pocketbook with a view to filling out the register later. The pocketbook went missing at time when there were rather a lot of visitors.
The records were being re-created, and printed admission register books were on order. Move on please. Nothing to see here.
It was better than an open cart.
Fortunately the committee had plenty of time to prepare for November’s Vice-Regal visit, the last high point for well over a year. Dr Jackson was on holiday, making stops at Southern Hospitals to look at the new-fangled “ambulance waggons” and find out how others managed admission registers without incurring the wrath of the Colonial Secretary.
Dr Thomson stepped into the breach and skilfully led Sir Anthony and Lady Musgrave about the Hospital, avoiding legions of gibbering, chattering devils and violent adolescent nurses.
After the usual courtesies had been extended, a start was at once made towards an inspection of the various wards connected with the institution. Each ward visited in succession was found to be most scrupulously clean, while the bedding and curtains looked as if they were fresh from the mangle. The tables were well scrubbed down, and though devoid of any covering were adorned with bunches of flowers.
His Excellency made a most minute inspection of the whole of the buildings, and seemed highly pleased with the manner in which everything was arranged, as well as the evident care and attention bestowed on the patients by the attendants. Dr Thomson and the chairman were kept fully employed replying to the inquiries advanced by Sir Anthony, who was particularly struck with the absence of that peculiarly sickly odour which is to be met with in many hospitals, and was not slow to comment on the fact as being an indication of the great care taken to keep the various wards and their surroundings in perfect order.
This would have been a comforting memory for Hospital administrators, as 1885 would test everyone concerned to the limit.
To be continued.
Moreton Bay and More 