Medicine: Medieval Childbirth

By Kim Rendfeld

How risky was childbirth in the Middle Ages? Risky enough that expectant mothers were encouraged to confess their sins before they went into labor. Risky enough that midwives were the only laypeople permitted to baptize newborns if the baby was likely to die.

In fact, more than one of every three adult women died during their child-bearing years. With that kind of statistic, it’s easy to imagine that everyone knew someone who died in childbirth or from its complications.

Children were born at home. If they were peasants, babies would be delivered in a one or two room house. The aristocracy, however, had special lying-in chambers, to which the mother would retreat when her time was close. The low-ceilinged room would have fresh rushes or strewing herbs on the floor to make the place smell nice, and the best coverlets were used. Wealth was on display, and candied nuts and fruits were set out for guests.

In a society where girls married as young as age 12, many of the mothers were teenagers. For instance, Charlemagne’s third wife, Hildegard, might have been 14 when she gave birth to her first child. After eight more children, she died in her mid-20s.

A 16th century illustration of a woman
using a birthing chair to deliver a child
(public domain image from
Wikimedia Commons)

When the mother went into labor, the entrance to the lying-in chamber was shut, and the windows were sealed to block out light. With the mother were a midwife, who had learned her craft from her own mother, and five or six female friends and relatives.

No men were allowed, not the father, not even a doctor. Medieval folk considered childbirth a part of life not related to medicine. Considering that medieval medicine was based on the ancient philosophy of humors, it might have been for the best.

The midwife’s duty was to ease the mother through childbirth. She would rub an ointment on the mother’s belly to speed up the delivery. If the labor was difficult, the mother’s hair would be loosened and all pins removed. Doors and cupboard drawers were open; knots were untied. The midwife might have used charms such as jasper or the right foot of a crane. She might have whispered magic words into her patient’s ear.  Cesareans were done only as a last resort.

As the time to deliver drew near, the mother might sit on a birthing chair, whose seat is shaped like a horseshoe. When the baby was born, the midwife would tie the umbilical cord and tie it at four fingers’ length. She bathed the child, rubbed them with salt, and used honey on their palettes and gums to stimulate their appetite. Then the infant would be wrapped in swaddling, which would be changed every three hours.

After the birth, the mother would remain in her lying-in chamber for a month, during which her only visitors were the midwife and her female companions.

An impending birth in the Middle Ages often was greeted with great joy, especially if it meant a longed-for heir. Yet it likely also carried an almost equal share of anxiety.

Sources:

Daily Life in Medieval Times by Frances and Joseph Gies

Europe after Rome: A New Cultural History 500-1000 by Julia M.H. Smith

“Capturing the Wandering Womb” by Kate Phillips, The Haverford Journal, April 2007

Kim Rendfeld is the author of The Cross and the Dragon, whose heroine, Alda, is frustrated that her lying-in chamber remains unused. Her yet-to-be-published second novel, The Ashes of Heaven’s Pillar, has two scenes in a lying-in chamber, one that goes well and one that goes horribly wrong. For more about Kim and her fiction, visit www.kimrendfeld.com.

Medicine: Rabelais, the Physician

By Kathryn A.Kopple

It is possible to say without hyperbole that Francois Rabelais (circa 1480-1553) is one of the most enigmatic figures of the Renaissance.  He led a peripatetic life. He was monk, scholar, translator, physician, and father.  His written output was impressive:  he lectured on Hippocrates and Galen; he worked on academic treatises; he compiled almanacs (albeit humorous); he authored  Pantagruel, Pantagrueline Prognostication, Gargantua, and  five additional books under the title Pantagruel.   Rabelais’ command of classical languages, along with his devotion to intellectual pursuits, distinguished him as a man of learning, but he scarcely fit the stereotype of a dry scholar.  Earthy, fanciful, nonsensical and, playfully obscene, Rabelais enjoyed poking fun at any number of human failings:  ignorance, hypocrisy, and superstition.  For his efforts, he incurred the displeasure of the authorities on more than one occasion.  He further risked life and limb by performing a public autopsy.  To this day, we cannot separate Rabelais the physician from his comedic writings, for without understanding his enthusiasm for pleasure and merriment, we can’t hope to comprehend that the man who wrote Gargantua never deviated from the position that laughter—even in the face of disease and death—was the best medicine.

Donald M. Frame, in his study Francois Rabelais, provides a fine introduction to the times in which Rabelais lived.  New World “discoveries” exposed Europeans to a world richer and more diverse than previously imagined; the conquest of the Indies (as the Americas were known) changed people’s lives in dramatic ways.  The Atlantic “abyss,” deemed navigable, offered Westerners new trade routes and means of colonization.  Nonetheless, devices for telling time remained scarce.  Knowledge of arithmetic, algebra, and science were nebulous.  During Rabelais’s lifetime, the French had yet to adopt to any great extent Arab numerals.  What we refer to as medicine was then seen as a branch of philosophy—or “humanism” as it was then called.   God, miracles, the supernatural all held sway in human affairs.   The Renaissance, in particular the Incarnation, was meant as a celebration of the divine; it was not to be diminished by discoveries that contradicted religious belief—at least, not if one expected to remain out of trouble.   Rabelais, given his genius and temperament, often seemed determined to court trouble.  As the saying goes, and most obviously if we consider his writings, he was not one to suffer fools—and did so only with the greatest possible glee imaginable. 

In 1530, Rabelais, then a Benedictine monk, left the order to become a secular priest.  His desire to become a physician appears to have been the motivation, although it is not out of the realm of possibility that monastic discipline didn’t appeal to him.  Medicine, at the time, was based primarily in the study of Greek texts.  After years of book learning, it took Rabelais a mere six weeks to become a doctor.  His lectures gained him considerable recognition.  His aim, however, was to practice medicine, and in 1532, he was appointed physician at a large hospital in Lyons.  There Rabelais, under difficult circumstances, tended to the poor and ailing the best he could.  The Hippocratic School, based in the theory of humors (the idea that disease is caused by an imbalance of the four elements:  air, fire, water, and earth), also popularized by Galen, had become an object of dispute by figures such as Paracelsus; he was an advocate of alchemy, one of the earliest forms of chemistry, and took a dim view of Hippocrates.  Neither alchemist nor apothecary, Rabelais was ill-prepared to treat his patients.  Laudanum, credited to Paracelsus, was used for alleviating pain.  Rabelais no doubt had access to other medicines.  He may also have had a basic knowledge of cauterization, but the barber surgeon had to be called in for most operations.   In an era in which drugs--requiring specialized knowledge of chemistry--were beginning to replace herbal remedies, Rabelais made an attempt to study alchemy and botanical treatments. He made no memorable contributions.  In 1534, exhausted perhaps by the miserable conditions at the public hospital and the poor pay, he gave up his post at Lyons to become personal physician to Du Bellay, the bishop of Paris.  He later returned to the hospital at Lyons.

If Rabelais’s practical contributions to medical science were scant, his philosophical and linguistic contributions were, to use his own phrase “gargantuan.”  It is one of many words he coined to enrich the French language (for Rabelais wrote his farcical works in his native tongue).  Derived from the Spanish for “gullet,” Gargantua’s adventures are recounted in the book that bears his name.  He also is the father of Pantagruel (meaning “to thirst”).   The names alone demonstrate Rabelais fascination with the body and its functions.   The reader can expect lessons on biology, zoology, anatomy, alchemy, natural law—the list goes on.  In the preface to “Pantagruel,” Rabelais writes:  “I was not born under planet as to lie or assert anything which was not true…  And so, to bring this prologue to a conclusion: I give myself—body and soul, tripe and innards—to a hundred thousand punnets [a form of measurement] of fair devils if I tell you one single word of a lie in this whole story.”  With all of the references to innards, guts, and genitals, readers should expect many of Rabelais’s characters to have the stuffing beaten out of them; crude, he was, but neither did he shy away from cruel jokes.  At a time when Renaissance painters were busily depicting cherubs, angels, the infant Jesus, and all manner of art devoted to the splendors of the Incarnation, Rabelais’s tastes couldn’t have been more different.  The ideal held little appeal for him; he was a great chronicler of the grotesque.  The grotesque too, he seems to tell us, has its truth, its place in the God-given world—and its own kind of beauty.  The wonders of  the unseemly and obscene become in Rabelais’s work a continuous source of laughter.  For Rabelais, and his admiring readers, there is no healthier sound than a good belly laugh, even in the direst circumstances—and, if we be lucky, that laughter will be accompanied by hefty quantities of wine.

Sources

“Experimental Therapeutics in the Renaissance,” editor Stata Norton, http://jpet.aspetjournals.org/content/304/2/489.full.pdf+html  (consulted on 11/16/2012)

Frame, Donald M., Francois Rabelais, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, NYC 1977.

Rabelais, Francois, Gargantua and Pantagruel, , trans. and notes M.A. Screech, Penguin Books, New York 2006.

The Rabelais Encyclopedia, editor Elizabeth Chesney Zegura, Greenwood Press, Conn., 2004

Kathryn Kopple is the author of Little Velasquez, a novel of fifteenth century Spain.

Medicine: How Eighteenth Century Medicine Killed George Washington

By Sandy Frykholm

When I get a sore throat, I stay at home, gargle warm salt water, and choose some of the various potions in my home ‘medicine chest’ for pain relief, fever, and decongestion. If there’s no improvement within a few days, I visit my doctor, and sometimes get antibiotics to treat a bacterial infection. End of story.

In December of 1799, at age 67, George Washington got a sore throat. It developed in just the circumstances that mothers still warn their children about today: He spent five hours outdoors in sleet and cold rain. He was riding around checking on his five farms near Mount Vernon on horseback, and returned home for the mid-day meal damp to the skin, and chilled.

The next day, though he was hoarse and congested, he hiked down the slope from Mount Vernon toward the Potomac River and marked out the location for a gravel walk and fishpond he planned to install. Tobias Lear, who had been Washington’s personal secretary for the previous fifteen years, urged him to take some medicine, but Washington told him, “You know I never take anything for a cold.” He stayed up late writing letters that evening.

He woke during the night with his throat inflamed, having difficulty breathing. His slaves built up the fire and tried to make him comfortable, but turned down Martha’s entreaties to send for a doctor. Lear was awakened at dawn, and wrote this account:  

“I found the General breathing with difficulty, and hardly able to utter a word intelligibly. He desired that Mr Rawlins (One of the overseers) might be sent for to bleed him before the Doctors could arrive. I dispatched a Servant immediately for Rawlins, and another for Dr. Craik, and returned again to the General's Chambr, where I found him in the same situation as I had left him -A mixture of Molasses, vinegar & butter was prepared to try its effects in the throat; but he could not swallow a drop; whenever he attempted it he appeared to be distressed, convulsed and almost suffocated. Rawlins came in soon after Sunrise, and prepared to bleed him. When the Arm was ready the General observing that Rawlins appeared to be agitated said, as well as he could speak

"Don't be afraid." And after the incision was made, he observed "The Orifice is not large enough. However the blood ran pretty freely. Mrs. Washington not knowing whether bleeding was proper or not in the General's situation, begged that not much be taken from him lest it should be injurious, and desired me to stop it; but when I was about to untie the string, the General put up his hand to prevent it, and as soon as he could speak, said "more, more." Mrs. Washington being still very uneasy lest too much blood should be taken, it was stopt after about half a pint. Finding that no relief was obtained from bleeding, and that nothing would go down the throat, I proposed bathing it externally, with salve latola, which was done; and in the operation, which was done with hand, in the gentlest manner, he observed, " 'tis very sore." A piece of flannel dip'd in salve-latola was put around his neck, and his feet bathed in warm waters; but without affording any relief.

In the meantime, before Dr. Craik arrived, Mrs. Washington desired of me to send for Dr. Brown of Port Tobacco whom Dr. Craik had recommended to be called if any case should occur that was seriously alarming. I dispatched a messenger (Cyrus) immediately for Dr. Brown (between 8 and 9 o'clock). Dr. Craik came in soon after, upon examining the General, he put a blister of Cantharides, [Cantharides, in case you didn’t know, is derived from a beetle, has been used to treat warts, and is used as an aphrodisiac, a.k.a. Spanish fly. I’m not sure what Dr. Craik’s goal was in this instance] on the throat, took some more blood from him and some Vinegar and hot water for him to inhale the steam, which he did, but in attempting to use this gargle he almost suffocated. When the gargle came from the throat some phlegm followed it, and he attempted to cough, which the Doctor encourage him to do as much as possible; but he could only attempt it. About 11 o'clock Dr. Craik requested that Dr. Dick might be sent for, as he feared Dr. Brown might not come in time. A messenger was accordingly dispatched for him. About this time the General was bled again. No effect, however, was produced by it. A Blister was administered about 12 o'clock, which produced an evacuation....

Doctor Dick came in about 3 o'clock, and Dr. Brown arrived soon after. Upon Dr. Dick's seeing and consulting a few minutes with Dr. Craik, he was bled again. The blood came very slow, was thick and did not produce any symptoms of fainting. Dr. Brown came into the Chamber soon after; and upon feeling the General's pulse, the physicians went out together. Dr. Craik returned soon after. The General could now swallow a little. Calomel [mercury chloride, a laxative] and tartar em [antimony potassium tartrate, a poison, used at one time to induce vomiting] were administered....”

By late afternoon, Washington had resigned himself to his imminent death, and in his usual pragmatic way, set about finalizing his affairs. He saw that an older version of his will was destroyed to establish clearly his final wishes, and gave instructions about his burial. At 10:10 p.m. George Washington breathed his last.

“Blood-letting is a remedy which, when judiciously employed, it is hardly possible to estimate too highly,” according to Dr. Henry Clutterbuck, writing in 1838. However, it is possible that Drs. Craik, Dick, and Brown did estimate too highly the value of bloodletting. According to Dr. Vibal Vadakan, a pediatric oncologist and hematologist from Los Angeles, the former president was relieved of more than half his blood in the twelve hours or so before his death, in addition to the various toxic purgatives used on him.

Dr. Vadakan is not the first to question the value of the treatments given George Washington. Just six weeks after Washington’s death, Dr. James Brickell wrote an article—which remained unpublished until 1903—critical of the procedures. Vadakan quotes the following from Brickell:

“... I think it my duty to point out what appears to me a most fatal error in their plan ... old people can not bear bleeding as well as the young ... we see ... that they drew from a man in the 69th year of his age the enormous quantity of 82 ounces, or above two quarts and a half of blood in about 13 hours.

Very few of the most robust young men in the world could survive such a loss of blood; but the body of an aged person must be so exhausted, and all his power so weakened by it as to make his death speedy and inevitable.”

From firsthand accounts, Dr. Vadakan estimates: “The total quantity of blood taken amounted to 124-126 ounces or 3.75 liters, drawn over a period of nine to ten hours on Saturday, December 14, 1799.

General Washington was a physically impressive man measuring 6 feet 3 inches in height and weighing 230 pounds. Because adult blood volume is 70 ml/kg, one can estimate the blood volume of President Washington at seven liters. The extraction of more than half of his blood volume within a short period of time inevitably led to preterminal anemia, hypovolemia, and hypotension. The fact that General Washington stopped struggling and appeared physically calm shortly before his death may have been due to profound hypotension and shock.”

While it is easy to criticize the physicians of the 18^th century, they were following the best medical practices of their time, and all had the former President’s best interests at heart. I can only say, I’m glad that any illness I suffer is taking place in the 21^st century, when, though not every attempted cure is successful, at least I am not likely to be bled to death by my doctor. 

Medicine: The Roman Army

The Ancient Romans based their medical knowledge on that of the Greeks, enhancing it over time with their own folklore and innovations. Like other cultures, their pharmacology was based on herbalism; and while it contained a hefty dose of woo-woo, many staples of the Roman first aid kit were scientifically sound. A great example is Pliny the Elder's Naturalis Historiae, a massive encyclopedia of facts, hearsay, myth, and superstition. Pliny was an officer in the Roman army during his youth, so it's not a stretch to speculate this collection of "remedies" was influenced by what he learned in the field; from his writings (and those of physicians like Galen of Pergamon), and from the records and artifacts left by the legions, we can put together a pretty good picture of how Roman army doctors dealt with the aftermath of battle.

Roman surgical tools from Pompeii

Legion medics employed a variety of surgical tools including scalpels, forceps, clamps, tweezers, and saws. What made this hardware slightly less terrifying was how it was treated; Roman doctors kept their own personal kits, and took pride in keeping their collection clean, up to date, and in good condition. They were skilled in setting bones, correcting dislocations, and sewing lacerations, and they knew enough about the circulatory and muscular systems to repair pretty hardcore damage — so except for the most catastrophic wounds, legionaries were not automatically doomed to bleed out or face amputation. As for pain management, they had nothing to rival today's anesthesia, but strong opiates did a lot to dull the senses — you would be awake for your surgery, but hopefully so strung out that you wouldn't care.

But after bones were splinted and stitches tied off, the real trick was preventing infection. Luckily the Romans practiced excellent hygiene, and the army was no exception. Surgeons knew dirty tools caused festering, and they boiled everything before each use; they also boiled the cloth used for bandages and the twine used for sutures. They knew the benefits of rinsing wounds with alcohol or vinegar, and of keeping hands and clothing relatively clean. As for post-triage care, their use of herbalism proved to be less woo-woo and more science, as modern medicine has since discovered. The following five ingredients were some of the most important in Roman field medicine, and while they don't exactly replace soap and penicillin, all five have been proven at least moderately effective.

HONEY
Honey was often used as the base for poultices and dressings, both for its consistency and because it was known to ward off infection and speed up healing. Honey inhibits the growth of bacteria: when applied to a wound, it creates a slow release of hydrogen peroxide, keeping the area clean.

Calendula arvensis, the pot marigold

GARLIC
Crushed garlic was used in poultices or for scrubbing down sick-rooms; as you can imagine, the result was rather fragrant. If the patient could bear it, they would indeed benefit from garlic’s antibiotic properties. It was used as an antiseptic as recently as WWII.

WILLOW
The bark of the willow tree is high in salicylic acid, the main component of aspirin. It was prized by many cultures as an antiseptic, analgesic, and anti-inflammatory, and could be administered in several forms: infused in wine, steeped as a tea, or ground for poultices.

CALENDULA
Calendula — the garden marigold — was a mainstay of the Roman medicine cabinet. The flowers were used in poultices and taken as tea to prevent and break fevers. Calendula is mildly anti-biotic and high in flavonols and saponins. It is widely used today in lotions and skin products.

Achillea millefolium, common yarrow

YARROW
The Romans called yarrow achillea in honor of Achilles, who was said to have required his soldiers to carry yarrow on their person at all times. Its main function was to arrest bleeding; it could also be used to dull pain and break fevers. Yarrow is high in salicylic acid and anti-inflammatory compounds.

The Roman battlefield was as much a scene of horror and agony as any other throughout time; wounds were just as ghastly, risk of infection just as dangerous. But with hygienic practices like cremation of the dead, latrines to prevent dysentery, and sound medical techniques to prevent and treat infection, the Roman legions maintained a state of health and sanitation not found in other military forces. In the ancient world, that advantage alone could make all the difference.

---

Heather Domin is the author of The Soldier of Raetia, set in Augustan Rome; and Allegiance, set in 1922 Dublin. She is currently working on the The Heir of Fortune, sequel to The Soldier of Raetia, and in the meantime enjoys puttering around with her herb garden, which may or may not contain woo-woo elements.

Medicine: Dr. Herff, Medicine Man – Or Ferdinand and Hermann’s Excellent Frontier Adventure.

By Celia Hayes

The practice of medicine in these United States for most of the 19^th century was a pretty hit or miss proposition. Such was the truly dreadful state of affairs generally when it came to medicine in most places and in all but the last quarter of the 19^th century – patients may have been better off having a go with the D-I-Y approach. Doctors trained as apprentices to a doctor with a current practice, or read some books and hung out a shingle. Successful surgeons possessed two basic skill sets; speed and a couple of strong assistants to hold the patient down, until he was done cutting and stitching.

But in South Texas from 1850 on, there was doctor-surgeon who became a legend, for his skill, advanced ideas, and willingness to go to any patient, anywhere and operate under any conditions – and most usually with a great deal of success. Doctor Ferdinand Ludwig von Herff, who dropped the aristocratic ‘von’ almost immediately upon arriving in Texas, was also an idealist, and prepared to live in accordance with his publically espoused principles. He came to Texas in 1847 as part of a circle of young men called the “Forty”, who had a plan to establish a utopian commune along ideas fashionable at the time.

Like the 1960 variety of idealists, most of Ferdinand Herff’s companions were students of various German universities. Originally they were going to establish their community in Wisconsin, but the Mainzer Adelsverein – the Society of Noblemen of Mainz, who had taken up what they thought would be a promising entrepreneur grant in Texas – offered funding and support if they come to Texas instead. In mid-summer of 1847 the Forty arrived in Texas, led by Herff, his friend Hermann Spiess and Gustav Schleicher, a trained engineer who would eventually oversee building of the rail system throughout Texas. They had brought along a huge train of baggage, supplies and equipment, including seeds and grapevines, mill machinery, a small cannon, many dogs, one woman -  a cook/housekeeper named Julie Herf (no relation to the doctor), Doctor Herff’s complete collection of surgical impedimenta … and a good few barrels of whiskey. By late fall, they had moved all this and a herd of cattle to a site near present-day Castell. They set up tents, built a long building to use as a sort of barracks and common-room, planted crops and named their little town Bettina, after Bettina von Arnim – a leading star-intellectual of the day. They settled in to live their dream of communal living, close to the land.

It didn’t last beyond a year, of course. The Forty were long on ideals, enthusiasm and funds, but short on relish for back-breaking agricultural labor. The community foundered on the rocks of human nature and self-interest, but not before Doctor Herff performed a single amazing feat of surgery.

This took place within weeks of his and the Forty’s arrival, during that halcyon period when an Adelsverein-negotiated peace treaty with the Comanche held between the two peoples – the German settlers brought over by the Adelsverein, and the Southern or Penateka Comanche. A Comanche warrior with an advanced case of cataracts appeared at Bettina, asking to be healed. Dr. Herff had already been treating various Indians who presented themselves, and would eventually become fluent in Comanche and Apache dialects… but this was a tall order and a touchy situation. They did not dare turn the Comanche away. Amazingly enough, Dr. Herff had brought the latest in ophthalmologic instruments with him and had performed cataract surgery – in Germany.

There were other challenges to be met; they would have to use ether to anesthetize the patient, and Doctor Herff would have to have sufficient light to operate. Ether being flammable, there was no way to light the surgical site with the usual sorts of lamps and candles with reflectors. Dr. Herff would have to operate outdoors, as would often be the case in his subsequent medical career on the frontier. Being a fastidiously tidy sort of man, he insisted on it being a clear, dust-free, windless and insect-free day, and that only boiled and cooled water be used to irrigate the eyes of his patient. A dozen commune members stood by, armed with palm-leaf fans to keep flies away… and Dr. Herff set to work, probably knowing that this was an operation that could not be botched.

Fortunately the surgery was wildly successful. The patient was ecstatic at being able to see well again, and as he departed, he promised the doctor the most generous reward at his command – a woman. One can imagine a great deal of jollity at Dr. Herff’s expense over the next three months from the other young men of the  Forty – but at the end of the time, the Comanche appeared again, with a young Mexican girl in tow, and handed her over to Dr. Herff. Dr. Herff promptly handed her over to the care of the only other woman in Bettina, the housekeeper/cook, Julie Herf. The girl’s name was Lena, or Lina; she had been a captive for a long time and was never able to recall enough about her original family to return to them. Eventually, she married Hermann Spiess.

Dr. Herff practiced medicine tirelessly for most of the next sixty years, establishing San Antonio’s first hospital, several medical associations and serving on the Texas Board of Medical Examiners. Generally, if there is a surgical “first” anywhere in Texas during the last half of the 19^th century, he was the surgeon responsible for it. There is a historical marker on San Antonio’s Riverwalk marking the site of one of his homes, and another on a hill outside the little town of Boerne, where Dr. Herff and his family later spent the summers.

(The story of the German settlers in mid-19^th century Texas is told in my Adelsverein Trilogy – and Dr. Herff himself also appears very briefly as a character in Book Two – The Sowing. He will also appear again in my next book, The Quivera Trail, which will be released late next year.)

Celia Hayes is the author of Daughter of Texas & The Adelsverein Trilogy. A writer and memoirist, dreamer and adventurer, storyteller and gardener,   mother and military veteran, Celia Hayes lives in San Antonio, Texas. She writes of the past as a means of exploring who we are, of honoring our unknown heroes and heroines, in order that we may appreciate the present which they built for us... and that we may use their lives as a guide for our own future.

Medicine: Medical Folklore in Medieval Wales

By Ginger Myrick

When I began research for my second novel, The Welsh Healer, I knew that information would be scarce. Until modern times, the Welsh language was largely an oral tradition, and so the documentation of their medications and treatments is limited. Even accounts of their folklore are scant, the only good source of which was a book published in 1897. It was compiled by a man who traipsed through the whole of Britain, interviewing old-timers and taking testimony of home remedies passed down through generations. The superstitions are things that I could have never imagined on my own. The remarkable thing is that, although the cultures differed widely, the beliefs were surprisingly similar.

One cannot discuss cures without first addressing the causes. Anyone who reads historical fiction knows about the all-encompassing malignant humors. To remain healthy, it was necessary to keep doors and windows closed against these foul spirits and limit one’s bathing. If one were to open the pores by bathing too often, he ran the risk of disease slipping into the body. And heaven forbid he should bathe under an open window! One would also do well to develop a keen awareness of witches. Witches were a destructive influence causing damage to people, livestock, or crops by casting an evil eye. They were held to be responsible for many illnesses. In order to limit an enemy’s magical power, a person was well advised to conceal personal effects, body clippings such as hair or fingernails, and especially one’s name. (I don’t know how this could be accomplished in a small community where everybody knows everything about his neighbors!) The name, as part of a person, was once identified with the breath of life or the soul. Another way to safeguard the soul was never to wake a man while he was dreaming. While engaged in nocturnal activities, his spirit would be wandering outside the body, and awakening him would result in the life-force failing to find its way back. If this happened, the person would be more susceptible to corruption from external sources resulting in disease, insanity, or death. There were festivals devoted to the prevention of evil influence. 
 

On May Day, systematic efforts were made to protect man and beast against supernatural beings. Dew gathered on this day was said to provide safety against witches. People placed May flowers over the tops of their doors as preservatives against malevolent powers. They carried crosses of rowan, made without the help of a knife, in their hats and fastened them to the tails of the livestock. Further purification of cattle was accomplished by running them through flame on two sides, and setting the gorse on fire was done to burn witches out in the form of a hare. Any game flushed out on that morning was freely shot with the intent to wound the witch/hare, after which she would return to her human form and remain crippled for the rest of her days. If these precautionary measures were unsuccessful, there was still hope for the afflicted. Drawing even the minutest amount of blood from the witch would cause her to lose power, rendering the spell and resultant suffering harmless. Failing that, if the victim could find the offspring of a human and a member of the Tylwyth Teg—the ‘fair folk’ of Wales—he was in luck. One of the chief pranks of fairies was to switch human babies with their own offspring. The descendants were reputed to possess a healing ability and became well-known doctors.

In the event that a person could not be cured by a doctor or rid himself of a witch’s curse, he could go to a charmer. As with the doctors descended from fairy folk, the ability to charm was hereditary. Sometimes the charmer would be consulted even after the best medical advice had been obtained. Through a concoction of herbs or other types of material blessed by said charmer—mountain ash, rowan, and iron were especially valuable in this capacity—and following directions, such as boil and mix with spirits, place under pillow, or rub on suspect object, any mischief or bad luck could be duly removed. The supplicant was charged not to speak to anyone on the way to accomplish his mission and to follow through with the cure no matter what frightening noises he might hear. The outcry would be the evil spirits quitting the area. Sometimes the culprit would be outed by being the first person to arrive after the boiling of the herbs. I would have thought any of the aforementioned remedies far too fantastical to include in a book for a well-informed, modern-day audience. All I can say is that I am glad I write fiction and live in the age of technology! I opted for a more practical application of herbalism. With the resources available online and a little commonsense, I was able to come up with some decent plausible curatives. 
   
Ginger Myrick was born and raised in Southern California. She is a self-described wife, mother, animal lover, and avid reader and knitter. Along with the promotion for THE WELSH HEALER, and EL REY, she is currently crafting her third novel, which takes place during the U.S. Civil War. She is a Christian who writes meticulously researched historical fiction with a ‘clean’ love story at the core. She hopes to persevere with her newfound talent and show the reading community that a romance need not include graphic details to convey deep love and passion.      

Real Life Heroes: Joseph Lister

By Anna Randol

Quick, when I say hospital, what images come to mind? Polished floors and florescent lights? Doctors in white jackets and surgical masks? The smell of disinfectant?

If we had asked this question to someone living in the London in the 1800s, their answers would have been far different. For instance, people often found their way to the surgical ward of a hospital by following the smell of rotting flesh. Doctors saw no need to wash their hands between patients. In fact, an apron covered in layers of gore was thought to show how important and busy a doctor was. Instruments weren't washed between patients and observers might even smoke as they crowed around an operation. If a wound became infected, it was the result of bad air, and as unfortunate as that was, there was nothing a doctor could do about it.

So how did we get from that nightmare to the safe, clean environment we expect from our hospitals today?

Enter medical hero, Joseph Lister.

Joseph Lister was a British doctor in the second half of the 1800s. He began to notice a correlation between cleanliness and infection. For instance, he noted that babies that had been delivered by midwives had a much higher survival rate than those delivered by surgeons. He correctly attributed this to the fact that the midwives washed their hands far more frequently. He also noticed something interesting--compound fractures where a bone pierced the skin had much higher infection rates than fractures that did not. Lister realized that something must be getting into the wounds to cause the infection.

After reading Louis Pasteur's work about the microorganisms that caused fermentation, Lister finally had his answer. With his beautiful and ever-dedicated wife at his side, he began to experiment. Pasteur claimed there were three ways to kill the microorganisms: heat, filtration, or chemicals. Since the first two options wouldn't work on a living person, Lister settled on the third. He'd heard that a nearby city was having great success deodorizing its sewage with carbolic acid, so he began treating wounds with it. When his infection rates dropped dramatically, he also began to recommend surgeons wash their hands and instruments with it as well.

Encouraged by his success, French and German surgeons began to follow his lead. Lister's antiseptic techniques were credited with saving hundreds of soldiers during the Franco-Prussian War

But surgeons in Britain didn't rush to follow his example. Using the carbolic acid took too much time and was too much of a hassle to bother with, they argued. It also burned the eyes and hands and was an added expense. Lister knew that to convince the world he needed to convince London, so he persisted in his cause.

Soon Lister was operating on injuries that other surgeons thought too risky due to the chance of infection. In 1877, he agreed to perform a surgery on a man's fractured kneecap. The announcement met with widespread opposition. Lister would be turning a simple fracture into a compound one, a procedure that usually resulted in infection and death. But Lister trusted his discovery and also recognized the opportunity this presented to prove his theory to his opponents. The surgery was successful, and finally the surgeons of Britain began to follow Lister's example.

Due to Lister's perseverance, hundreds of lives were saved during his time and countless more after that. So next time a doctor dons fresh gloves before an operation or opens a sterile syringe, sigh in relief and give thanks for Joseph Lister.

Anna Randol writes sultry, adventurous Regency romances. Her debut novel, set in the heart of the Ottoman Empire, will be released by Avon in the beginning of 2012.

Women Did It Better: Elizabeth Blackwell

By Jennifer Linforth

Elizabeth Blackwell listened.

She possessed the trait of a good doctor from the start, before ever entering medicine. When a dying friend said her worst suffering would have been spared had her doctors been female--Elizabeth Blackwell took that to heart...and all the way to a medical degree.

Graduating from Geneva Medical College in New York in 1849, Blackwell became the first American woman to earn a medical degree. By 1857 she established the New York Infirmary and helped foster medical education for women.

She started out having no idea how to become a doctor. It was just not done for woman of her era. She turned to several physicians associated with her family who warned her it simply was not done, it was too expensive and, frankly, impossible for a woman.

Blackwell felt otherwise.

Convincing two physicians to allow her to essentially apprentice under them for a year, reading all she could of medicine, she applied to schools in New York and Philadelphia. Twelve schools later she was accepted—as a joke--into Geneva Medical College. The faculty allowed the student body to vote her in. The all male class agreed as a jest, assuming she would never succeed.

Two years later, she became the first woman to receive an MD. Blackwell worked in clinics in the State and abroad but contracted purulent ophthalmia from a patient. She returned to New York in 1851 when it caused her to lose her sight in one eye, thus forcing her to give up her dream of becoming a surgeon.

She went on to open her own dispensary and saw patients three afternoons a week. She wrote several books on medical reform, and in 1854 opened the New York Infirmary for Women and Children. This medical college for women was opened in 1867 and provided training and experience for women doctors. She continued to campaign for reform after her health declined and she gave up the practice of medicine in the late 1870s.

Women Did It Better: Dr. Mary Walker

By Lorelie Brown

The Congressional Medal of Honor has been on my mind lately because of SSG Salvatore Giunta. He's the very first person to be awarded the Medal of Honor for participation in Operation Enduring Freedom OR Iraqi Freedom. My husband served with him at one point--though not at the time of the actions that have earned him the MoH--and he's a great guy. So it's only right that he's earned the United State's top honor for military personnel.

It was kind of a lucky coincidence that I'd already signed up to chat about Dr. Mary Walker--the first and only woman to have ever been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Mary Walker was born in 1832 and she forged her own path fairly quickly. Her parents had a farm in upstate New York and she frequently did her field work wearing men's clothes. Today that doesn't seem like such a big deal. Who'd want to plow a field wearing a skirt and petticoats, seriously? Um, everyone but her. She taught at the local school for a while, but only until she could gather up the funds to attend Syracuse Medical College.

She graduated in 1855. She was the only woman in her class. (Really, there's a lot of "only" and "first" in Dr. Walker's story.) A year later she married a fellow student, Albert Miller, while wearing male dress. She didn't take his name either. They tried to start up a local practice but people were still wary of being treated by female doctors, so it didn't do well. At all. The practice died.

When the Civil War began, Dr. Walker tried to volunteer as a surgeon, but they wouldn't have her. Can you believe it? Turning down a doctor just because she was a woman? But she ended up having to volunteer her services as a nurse. Despite being called a nurse she was at the First Battle of Bull Run in 1861. At the battles of Fredericksburg and Chickamauga she served as a volunteer--as in unpaid, unacknowledged--assistant field surgeon.

Finally in 1863 the Army of the Cumberland (in Ohio) awarded her a position as Contract Acting Assistant Surgeon (civilian). Duh. Guess they finally pulled their heads out of their bums. She had a modified officer's uniform made for herself to commemorate the occasion. Not long afterward she was made an assistant surgeon for the 52nd Ohio Infantry. She was still technically a civilian and she regularly went back and forth across the battle lines to treat anyone she could.

She was captured on April 10, 1864, by Confederate troops. They even charged her with spying. She spent four months in a Confederate prison near Richmond, Virginia before being released in an organized prisoner exchange. (Honestly, this is the part of her story that fascinates me the most. Was she the only female in that prison? What must that have been like? She apparently advocated for a more balanced diet, including grains and fruit, and the Confederate guards agreed.)

Dr. Walker kept working for the 52nd Infantry for a while, but after a while she moved on to first a prison and then an orphanage in Tennessee. In June of 1865, she left the Army and November she received the Medal of Honor from President Andrew Johnson.

But Dr. Walker didn't stop there. She spent the rest of her life advocating for women's rights, along with the better known Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. Eventually she was pushed off to the side because her views were rather extreme; she thought women were already granted the right to vote by the Constitution and only legislation to ensure their rights were lacking. She also regularly dressed in men's style top coats and trousers, all the way to the hat and tie.

There's a down side to her story. In 1911, a reorganizing of the rules pertaining to the Medal of Honor declared her MoH invalid. A military tribunal decided that only those who'd received it due to actual combat experience were entitled to wear it. Dr. Walker was ordered to return the ribbon. She refused. I picture her as a crotchety old lady, telling the Army's representatives to stick their revocation up their bum. She wore it every day until her death on February 21, 1919.

President Jimmy Carter reinstated her medal in 1977.

Tragic Tales: The Elephant Man

By Jennifer Linforth

As soon as I type his name readers will know the tragedy of this man. An image will pop into their heads and they will nod, but it was not his outward appearance that made him a tragic tale of the 19th Century, but the brilliant mind the world would never embrace.

Joseph Carey Merrick, the "Elephant Man."

As a child, Mr. Merrick's story was the first that fascinated me. Like all children I was drawn to the difference setting him apart. As I grew older I understood more about him and he was far more than a deformity and medical marvel.

He was a quiet, brilliant man--though many assumed otherwise.

His doctor, Frederick Treves, first met Merrick at a freak show. His descriptions of what he saw of Merrick are horrifying and fascinating. (This I had a particular interest in, for it is said Gaston Leroux may have been influenced by Merrick's sideshow years when he crafted The Phantom of the Opera.) But the tragedy lies here in what Treves writes of the man behind the monster:

I supposed that Merrick was an imbecile and he had been an imbecile from birth. The fact that his face was incapable of expression, that his speech was a mere spluttering, and his attitude that of one whose mind was void of all emotions and concerns gave ground for this belief.

From: The Joseph Carey Merrick Tribute Website

This is an easy thing to assume for times have not changed. The world is still judged by outward appearance (Does anyone recall Susan Boyle and the audience reaction when she first walked on stage and spoke?) Furthermore Treves shows us this:

It was not until I came to know that Merrick was highly intelligent, that he possessed an acute sensibility and--worse than all--a romantic imagination that I realized the overwhelming tragedy of his life.

From: The Joseph Carey Merrick Tribute Website

That part of Merrick's life echoed with me again while writing The Madrigals, for Gaston Leroux wrote of Erik, the horribly deformed but genius Phantom, "...all he wanted was to be loved for himself."

For a topic on tragic tales I could have gone into Merrick's life, what he looked like and how he lived. Most of the world knows this. Instead I went with how he made me feel. His story is just a brilliant tale--the tragedy lies in the assumptions left in its wake.

Disasters: The Black Death

By Blythe Gifford

A family member, alive and normal in the morning, was dead by nightfall. Nearly one third of the population of Europe died in less than three years. And no one knew why, or how to stop it. That was the pandemic we now call the Black Death or the Black Plague. Europe just called it The Death, and it cleaved the 14th century, indeed, the whole medieval world, into Before and After.

Most of us learn that it was spread by fleas that rode on rats that lived on ships that carried the rats from Cathy to India to the shores of Italy. A map of the spread of the disease shows a relentless, unstoppable march: Constantinople (December, 1347), Paris (June, 1348), London (June 1349). Scotland thought it was immune to the "English disease," until it, too, was hit in 1350.

People died faster than they could be buried. Whole villages were wiped out. Conventional wisdom now is that The Death was a combination of several varieties of the plague: bubonic, pneumonic, and septicemic. (Some current writers have speculated it was caused by something similar to the Eboli virus.)

Primitive as medical knowledge was, they suspected "bad air," and indeed, pneumatic plague is airborne. Bubonic and septicemic plague were spread by the fleas too ubiquitous to be noteworthy.

Sometimes death came so swiftly there was barely time for symptoms. Those, the victims of septicemic plague, were the lucky ones. Pneumonic plague has more flu-like symptoms. For those stricken by bubonic plague, swelling lumps throughout the body turned black, split open, and disgorged putrid pus and blood. Black spots covered the body. The victim bled inside as well as out. Pain was constant. The only blessing was that death came in a week or less.

While some victims did recover, no one knew why some lived when most died. In a time when God was the answer to all questions, they wondered whether He had sent the pestilence as punishment for the world's evils. It seemed the end of the world had come.

Finally, the scourge waned. But the impact on the second half of the 14th century and beyond is nearly as interesting as the plague itself. Priests had died in great numbers, many as a result of tending their flock, thereby putting themselves in harm's way. There was no way to replace them with men of equal stature and education. The shortage of trained priests meant that less educated (and sometimes less godly) men were recruited.

(In HIS BORDER BRIDE, set half a dozen years after The Death hit Scotland, I have a brief reference to the wedding being delayed to find "a priest educated enough to perform the nuptial mass.")

In the aftermath, people lost faith in the Church and its priests, who had been neither been able to prevent or explain what had happened. People could find neither justice nor mercy in it. Good people died. Evil people lived. It was a blow from which the Church never fully recovered. The unwavering faith of the high middle ages eroded, arguably opening the way for the Renaissance and the Reformation.

The huge loss of population also created a labor shortage, and not just among the priesthood. The architects and skilled craftsman who designed and built the churches were lost. Serfs were also in short supply, which shook the foundations of the feudal system. For the first time, serfs were able to leave the land and they saw their standard of living improve. Wages and prices rose. Kings tried to introduce price controls, with the usual success, and raise taxes, with the usual popularity. The Peasant Revolt of 1381 was among the results.

Overall, nobles and the clergy were losers. Kings and peasants were winners. And the Danse Macabre, or the Dance of Death, lingered in the minds of all for generations.

Humans in Nature: Native American Medicine

By Jennifer Mueller

When Europeans came across the New World, they were presented with an entire new system of healing: new plants and new people who had devised new methods to use them. Some of the plants were familiar. Willow, for instance, grows in the Old World and the New and is the basis of the modern aspirin. Others, completely unknown, would soon appear in the settlers' medicine chests, so to speak, alongside their old favorites from home.

While many Native American families would have common plants for common ailments at hand, medicine was often spiritual for more complex ailments, appeasing the bad spirits that were making a person sick, as well as providing the physical remedy. Among the Chippewa of Minnesota, for instance, the medicine men would not just pass on the remedies to anyone, worried that they would not treat the plants with proper respect. Plants were often not even given names to keep them properly revered. Just as a hunter would present an offering of tobacco for the animal they killed to feed them, so too would the medicine men offer tobacco to the plant being used to heal them. Bloodletting, the scourge of Old World medicine, had its place as well, though perhaps it would be said that it was used with more medical purpose than letting out evil humors--when a fall had created too much blood in an area or a sprain had caused the area to swell substantially, for instance. Amputation was also practiced, with nothing more than dried wild cherry bark applied to the wound, often without incident of infection.

If a man was spitting up blood, they made a tea of the spike moss flowers. A tea made of fireweed roots and its inner stem would relieve constipation. These were just a few of the remedies the Blackfoot employed, but every people had their own indigenous plants. It's interesting to note, though, that while the plants stayed in the same in a general region, each tribe would give it its own use as well.

Sage, for instance, a widely available plant across much of the western part of the US, was commonly used for ceremonial purposes. They purified the body before ceremonies or used it as incense, not to mention as protection against evil influences. But among the medicinal uses, you come across much more variety. The Dakota used it for stomach ailments. The Lakota made a tea to remedy constipation, inability to urinate, difficult childbirth, and menstrual irregularity. The Cheyenne would use crushed leaves as snuff for sinus attacks, nosebleed and headache. The Crow used a salve of sage on sores, as a tea for eczema and a deodorant. The Kiowa made a tea to reduce phlegm and lung complaints, as well as stomach complaints. The Mesquakies used it as a poultice for sores and to treat tonsillitis and sore throat. The Omaha used to to bathe in and as a powder to inhale for nosebleeds. I could go on with as many uses as there are tribes. Sage is, of course, common on many a spice rack now, but modern medicine has found that its use as a wash for the skin, helping to break a fever, coughing, and sore throats. Many of the varied reasons that it was used for have turned out to be true.

What the Pipsissiwa once used for kidney stones, bladder inflammations and as an astringent for eye washes is now a secret ingredient in certain soft drinks, causing it to disappear in some areas. Take a look sometime at the vitamin and supplement section and you'll find all sorts of plants that were once carried in a medicine mans pouch.

Bibliography
How Indians use Wild Plants for Food, Medicine, and Crafts by Frances Densmore
Medicinal Wild Plants of the Prairie by Kelly Kindscher
Uses of Plants by the Indians of the Missouri River Region by Melvin Gilmore
Edible and Medicinal Plants of the West by Gregory Tilford
Indian Herbology of Noth America by Alma Hutchens

Thursday Thirteen: A Little Drink Can Kill You

By Delia DeLeest

The Volstead Act, aka Prohibition, did not prohibit the prescribing of intoxicating liquor for medicinal purposes. Problem was, bootleg booze was just as likely to put you in the hospital as it was to cure what ailed you. Today's Thursday 13 involves both.

1. Doctors were allowed to withdraw six quarts of whiskey and five gallons of beer for laboratory purposes.

2. They were not allowed to prescribe more than one pint of whiskey or one quart of wine per person every ten days.

3. There was no friend like your doctor when you suffered from 'chronic thirstitis.'

Of course, if you couldn't get a doctor to prescribe government grade liquor for you, you could always run the risk of drinking bootleg hooch--which was a tad bit riskier.

4. Liquor corroded the zinc tops of mason jars. The resulting zinc salts created acute gastritis, which could be fatal.

5. The 'heads' or first shots of moonshine were high in aldehydes--very strong acids.

6. The 'tails' or dregs of moonshine were high in fusel oil, which could cause nausea, vomiting or even a comatose state.

7. Many times the alcohol was not properly aged, resulting in 'raw spirits' which contained numerous poisons.

8. Some bootleg was made with denatured alcohol, a non-beverage liquor made for industrial usage.

9. Poisons were sometimes added to homemade liquor to give it a little 'kick' (more like 'kick the bucket' if you ask me).

10. Sometimes wood alcohol would be used by mistake, causing victims to die a much faster, more violent death than those who drank either denatured alcohol or corrupt moonshine.

11. The aftermath of bad bootleg liquor could cause delirium so severe it resulted in stupefaction followed by uncontrolled frenzy.

12. Some people had been known to commit suicide from the agitation resulting from bad liquor.

13. And if the booze itself didn't kill you, you always ran the risk of getting caught in the middle of the gangland wars over bootlegging territory.

Sounds like it was easier and safer just to stay sober, doesn't it?

Maladies & Treatments: Ancient Egypt

By Jean Adams

If you had to be ill in ancient times, the best place to do so would probably have been Egypt. Not that it would have been a picnic even there. Unlike the injuries received through accidents or fighting, or scorpion stings and snake bites, illnesses and their causes were mysterious.

The Egyptians explained them as the work of the gods, caused by the presence of evil spirits or their poisons, and cleansing the body was the way to rid the body of their influence. Incantations, prayers to the gods - above all to Sekhmet, the goddess of healing, curses, and threats, often accompanied by the injection of nasty smelling and tasting medicines into the various bodily orifices, were hoped to prove effective.

Preventive measures included prayers and various kinds of magic, above all the wearing of amulets. The importance of the diet was partially recognized, and the natural human craving for diversity and rich well-irrigated soil resulted in a diet which was mostly reasonably balanced: carbohydrates from cereals, vitamins from fruit and vegetables, and proteins mostly from fish. Milk and milk products were only occasionally consumed, as were legumes, seeds and oil.

Healers

The Egyptian priest-physician had a number of important functions. First, to discover the nature of the particular entity possessing the person and then attack, drive it out, or otherwise destroy it. This was done by some powerful magic for which rituals, spells, incantations, talismans and amulets were used. Sekhmet priests also seem to have been involved in the prevention of plagues, inspection of sacrificial animals and even veterinary medicine. Other healers seem to have had recourse to the same methods and scriptures..

Physical medicines such as herbs were mostly expected to assuage the pain only, while magic effected the cure. A section in the Ebers Papyrus is about charms and invocations used to encourage healing. One spell, recited before taking an herbal remedy, reads as follows: "Come Remedy! Come thou who expellest (evil) things in this my stomach and in these my limbs!" The wording of these spells is often followed by a recommendation, such as: "Truly excellent. Millions of times."

Not all Egyptian medicine was based on wishful thinking (and we should never disregard the effect faith can have on our health), much was the result of experimentation and observation.

Nothing certain is known about the way physicians acquired their medical knowledge, but we assume that after (or in parallel to) their formation as scribes they were apprenticed to practising healers.

Medical Knowledge

A few papyri have survived, from which we can learn about Egyptian medicine, one describing surgical diagnosis and treatments and another is on ophthalmology, diseases of the digestive system, the head, the skin and specific maladies like aAa, which some think may have been a precursor of aids and others, perhaps more reasonably, consider to have been a disease of the urinary tract.

The treatments in these texts are often organized into groups. The Edwin Smith Papyrus for instance opens with eight texts concerning head wounds, followed by nineteen treatments of wounds to the face (forehead, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, temples, mouth, chin), six descriptions of how to deal with injuries to throat and neck, five dealing with collar-bones and arms, and seven with chest complaints. It appears that all this knowledge dates to the third millennium BC, even though the papyrus itself is of a much later date.

This knowledge reached Greece through the doctors of Alexandria.

Herbal Medicine

Herbs played a major part in Egyptian medicine. The plant medicines mentioned in the Ebers papyrus for instance include opium, cannabis, myrrh, frankincense, fennel, cassia, senna, thyme, henna, juniper, aloe, linseed and castor oil - though some of the translations are less than certain. Cloves of garlic have been found in Egyptian burial sites, including the tomb of Tutankhamun and in the sacred underground temple of the bulls at Saqqara.

As we still do today, the Egyptians thought garlic and onions aided endurance, and consumed large quantities of them. Raw garlic was routinely given to asthmatics and to those suffering with bronchial-pulmonary complaints. Onions helped against problems of the digestive system.

Garlic was an important healing agent then just as it still is to the modern Egyptian and to most of the peoples in the Mediterranean area: Fresh cloves are peeled, mashed and macerated in a mixture of vinegar and water. This can be used to gargle and rinse the mouth, or taken internally to treat sore throats and toothache. Another way to take garlic both for prevention as well as treatment is to macerate several cloves of mashed garlic in olive oil. Applied as an external liniment or taken internally it is beneficial for bronchial and lung complaints including colds. A freshly peeled clove of raw garlic wrapped in muslin or cheesecloth and pinned to the undergarment is hoped to protect against infectious diseases such as colds and influenza. There was a whole raft of healing herbs in Egypt, too many to address here.

Impact

Egyptian physicians were much sought after in the Ancient World, despite the fact that little was added to the knowledge after the First Intermediate Period (about 2000 BC). Ramses II sent physicians to the king of Hatti and many rulers, the Persian Achaemenids among them, had Egyptian doctors in attendance.

Their treatments were based on examination, followed by diagnosis. Descriptions of the examination - the most exacting part of a physician's job - are lengthier than both the diagnosis or the recommended treatment

Treatment was conservative: if no remedy was known then only such steps were to be taken which would not endanger the patient. Some head wounds for instance, considered as an ailment not to be treated might just be anointed externally with an unguent forestalling infection or the patient might be tied at his mooring stakes, until the period of his injury passes by in order to prevent him from causing further damage to himself.

On the other hand many of the ancient medical practices were ineffective, if not suspect: e.g. excrement used in medicines will only in the rarest of cases prove to be wholesome, and if applied as wound dressing may well cause tetanus poisoning, yet dung continued to be used in Europe until the Middle Ages. The reliance on magic and faith may well have retarded the development of more rational views of the causes of diseases and their cures.

Nevertheless, Egyptian theories and practices influenced the Greeks, who furnished many of the physicians in the Roman Empire, and through them Arab and European medical thinking for centuries to come

*****
Jean

ETERNAL HEARTS by Jean Adams, Highland Press, Spring 2008
Book Video
A PLACE OF HEALING, TBA, Wild Rose Press, Champagne Rose
PRINCE OF SECRETS, third place, opening hook, Wallflower, 2007
BEATS A WILD HEART, TBA, Highland Press