April

My love, when will you read this note? I am writing it to you so that you will know. You are a father, or must be, because I can feel your daughter kicking in the night, or son. I cannot say which. I hope you will be excited, but I cannot bring myself to tell you face to face, you seem so grim. I know that you must go out, but I wish you would stay in, stay away from all those sick people in town. You won’t even let me kiss you when you come home, and you smell of thieves oil and acid when I make you.

Oh God.

My love.

We are going to have a baby.

I love you.

I want you to find this note so badly so that you will know too.

I want you to be excited, so that I can be excited too.

I wrote this in your little journal where I know you will find it.

When you do, Kiss me, tell me that you love me, and that everything is going to be alright.

(Dated april 1895)

April

Patrick is very sick. I told him he shouldn’t go out of the house, told him I was already doing rounds and that I could get him anything he needs, but he ignored me. Thought he would be immune to the fever because he has some noble work. Now in a very bad place.

Have not told Emily. Thinks that I am quiet because I see the fever take more every day. Steward’s wife died only a few days ago, two weeks after child birth, child died today. Four other children, all sick, and Steward barely able to get out of bed to open door. Terrible disease.

And now Patrick has contracted it.

Did not know he was sick until did not come and answer door. Went up and found him in bed, terribly feverish. Vomit on floor. Spent rest of day sitting with. Terrible. So tired. Patrick always been weak since lost arm in accident. Should never have tried secretion on arm instead of time and patience. Now wants do again, when dies. If. Has prepared secretion himself. Says this time will work. Tests all worked. Complete recovery, if erratic. Says better crazy than dead. I think crazy already. Manic with our work. The time, he says, the time. Not sure if fever makes crazy, of if has always been crazy.

Making me crazy.

I remember him in university, before we began our partnership, the arguments he would have with professors over theories about the nervous system and the function of blood. Old Killdeer always turned red in the face when they argued about it and shouted, “see now I’m all bloody red”, which we would shout at one another in our own heated arguments, often at the Oakley over pints of beer.

Manic then? Or fever bring it on?

Fear. Death.

Emily very scared when came home late. Wanted to ask questions, but did not when saw face. Just held and did not let go.

What would I do without her?

She deserves better than me. Someone with more words for her than the few I must eke out every day to tell her of the things I have seen and done. Worse now. Would want to hear of Steward’s wife and baby? Would want to hear of Patrick? Do not know. Wish could protect her from all harm, from all horrors and pains. I wish I could make her forget that they were out there, the way she helps me forget.

She makes this place a home, even with servants gone, and father, and now Patrick.

I could never give her enough. Never. Never tell her how much, in words.

Must tell her something, anyhow, of Patrick. But not yet.

So tired.

Must decide what to do with Patrick. Why sat down.

Do not want to make experiment. Not ready. Arm demonstration of that. Serum much improved since, but on mice, not men. Must use much higher dosage, much, to saturate what must be stimulated once the blood has set. Has prepared gallons of stuff, insists on particular lay out, has even marked own arteries, tattooed with ink, the unique positions he would set the needle when he has died.

Manic.

What to be gained.

Knowledge, he says. Chance to carry work to extremes we have both dreamed of. What doing for if not to bring back the dead? Because of father, steward’s wife and baby. What doing, if not to reverse the dead? If works, end fever, bring back all it takes. Gain great fame.

Alone.

He talks of it as though we will do it all together.

And we might.

If it works.

But I do not want to turn my friend into part of our experiments, not like he did with his arm.

I do not want to do this research on my own.

Was very sick when left him. Fever very high.

Must decide soon.

Before dies.

I do not want to.

(Dated April 1895 )