Exposure
Richmond, Virginia
September 20, 1861
From the Private Journal of Eleanor Marie Caldwell
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I am frightened.
Not of this dreadful war, though its horrors multiply daily, nor of the young soldiers who cry for mothers who shall never again answer. I am frightened that I may have absorbed some corrupting influence during these months of constant exposure—moving between the hospital wards by day and Mr. Everett's sickroom by night, with scarce time for proper rest between. Perhaps my constitution has grown susceptible to whatever mysterious malady afflicts him, or perhaps the hospital's pestilential atmosphere has finally taken its toll upon my weakened state.
The realization struck me yesterday when Sarah mentioned lighting additional candles for comfortable evening reading, whilst I sat in what she described as "perfectly pleasant afternoon light" but which felt to me like blazing summer sunshine requiring drawn curtains. The discrepancy was so pronounced I could no longer dismiss it as mere exhaustion from my demanding schedule.
I have resolved to document these observations with scientific precision, not from courage, but because terror compels me toward the familiar shores of rational investigation. If I have indeed developed some constitutional derangement—whether from prolonged exposure to Mr. Everett's mysterious condition or from the noxious influences that surely pervade our hospital wards—and if this alteration might endanger dearest Sarah and little Charles, then I must understand what threat I potentially represent.
I must begin by examining how my exposure to this mysterious condition commenced, and record with precision how and when my contact with Mr. Everett's condition started, as the duration and circumstances may prove medically significant.
The entire arrangement began in early 1859, when Mr. Everett's health took a concerning turn while Charles and Sarah were managing the demands of their new infant, little Charles Jr.
Thomas came south from Boston to assist with his father's care, as Charles and Sarah had their hands full with the baby and could not provide the constant attention Mr. Everett required. At the time, we all assumed the gentleman suffered from consumption—his symptoms aligned with what Father's texts describe as the early-stages of the sickness. The gradual weight loss, persistent fatigue, and periodic respiratory distress created a textbook presentation none of us questioned.
Father quite naturally offered our family's assistance, both from Christian duty and - I most uncharitably suspect- professional curiosity.
Sarah and I had known each other through our Methodist church for several years, though she is some five years my senior, and with her marriage and new motherhood, we had not enjoyed much opportunity for close friendship.
When I confided my growing feelings for Thomas to father, he was skeptical of our differences, yet not entirely opposed—he knew the Everett family well through Charles and Sarah, and understood their local connections made the match less problematic than it might otherwise appear.
What commenced as occasional assistance became daily attendance throughout Thomas's year-long sojourn in Richmond. As Mr. Everett's condition neither improved nor followed consumption's familiar course, my involvement in his care only deepened. When Thomas departed for his ministerial duties—and with the understanding reached between us—I felt even more bound to continue his father's care. Then this terrible war erupted, making our separation complete, yet Sarah and I naturally maintained our shared responsibility for his father's well-being.
Now, nearly two and a half years since I first took upon me the care of the gentleman, I realize the duration has been far more extensive than I initially understood. Between my hospital duties and home nursing responsibilities, I have maintained almost constant contact with sources of potential constitutional corruption. If such influences can indeed affect one's vital constitution through sustained exposure, then I have placed myself in considerable peril through the very dedication I believed virtuous.
I have systematically examined my symptoms against Father's medical texts:
Checking myself against Father's consumption notes, luckily I show none of the respiratory symptoms that characterize consumption—no persistent cough, no blood in my sputum, no fever or night sweats. My appetite has diminished, but I show none of the rapid weight loss that marks the disease's advance.
What I do show instead follows a different pattern entirely. What began last summer as mild preference for dimmer lighting has progressed to genuine distress in ordinary daylight. The autumn days that others describe as pleasantly dim feel blazingly bright to my perception. I find myself seeking the darkest corners of rooms, drawing curtains against what Sarah describes as "perfectly normal illumination."
My appetite, too, has undergone most peculiar alterations. Food has begun to assume different qualities altogether. I consume smaller portions without conscious intention, and water has acquired a most peculiar metallic taste, particularly noticeable during the evening hours. I find myself preferring meat prepared rather less thoroughly than had previously been my custom, though I attributed this to the general upheaval of wartime rather than any fundamental alteration in my constitution.
Most disturbing are the changes in my sleep.
My customary patterns of restful slumber have given way to restless nights filled with dreams I cannot quite recall upon waking. I find myself rising each morning feeling as though I have traveled great distances or witnessed events of terrible significance, yet the specific content of these nocturnal visions escapes me entirely. Sometimes I wake with strange tastes coating my tongue or foreign scents clinging to my hair, despite having passed the entire evening within the familiar confines of my own chamber.
Yet my own altered state concerns me far less than my own condition, is the possibility that I might endanger Sarah and little Charles.
If I carry something contagious, my continued presence in their household represents unconscionable selfishness. Yet I cannot bear the thought of abandoning them during these perilous times, particularly when Mr. Everett requires such careful nursing.
I have begun deliberately limiting my direct contact with little Charles, though I tell Sarah this stems from my increased hospital duties rather than medical concerns. The deception weighs most heavily upon my conscience, yet I cannot burden her with fears I cannot yet prove founded.
Mr. Everett grows less lucid with each passing week, though his peculiar condition persists with troubling consistency. Sometimes he speaks as though he perceives things that are not present, or calls for people by names none of us recognize. Sarah and I take turns with his night vigils, as his restless periods have grown more frequent and quite unpredictable.
Tomorrow I shall consult Father's texts more thoroughly, seeking any reference to conditions that might explain these alterations. Perhaps what I experience represents nothing more than constitutional exhaustion from my demanding schedule, or perhaps exposure to hospital miasmas has finally corrupted my vital forces. I pray most fervently this proves manageable rather than perilous to others.
Richmond, Virginia
November 8, 1861
Continued Observations
Two months have passed since my initial concerns, and I find myself in the most peculiar position of recording both considerable relief and growing unease. My physical condition has achieved a certain stability rather than continued progression:
The light sensitivity remains constant but has not worsened. As autumn progresses toward winter, the shorter days and dimmer natural light provide welcome relief. I can now function normally during morning and evening hours, though midday still requires drawn curtains and careful positioning within rooms.
My appetite has settled into new patterns rather than continuing its decline. I require less nourishment than previously, yet what I do consume provides quite adequate sustenance. The metallic taste in water has become familiar rather than alarming, and my preference for less thoroughly prepared meat has simply become my new normal, as one might say.
Most encouraging, I show no signs of the fevered progression that characterizes genuinely perilous conditions. My weight remains quite stable, my breathing clear, my general constitution sound despite these most peculiar alterations.
Meanwhile, my responsibilities at the hospital have intensified considerably. With Father still absent managing the typhoid outbreak in Staunton, Dr. Merriweather has expanded my duties considerably. I now assist with patient intake, prepare specialized solutions, and maintain detailed documentation of cases that present unusual symptom combinations.
Dr. Merriweather remarked yesterday while reviewing my patient notes that my diagnostic observations continue to demonstrate remarkable precision, and that he believes I possess instincts warranting careful development.
This increased responsibility has brought both deep satisfaction and painful isolation. The other volunteer ladies observe my expanded duties with most visible resentment. Mrs. Patterson makes pointed remarks about "young ladies who forget their proper sphere," whilst Mrs. Davidson suggests to her daughter that my father's medical profession has given me "ideas quite above my station in society."
Dr. Merriweather's obvious favoritism only compounds their disapproval. When he seeks my opinion on treatment approaches or assigns me to the most medically complex cases, I sense their whispered conversations about "inappropriate advancement" and "special privileges most unseemly." Yesterday I overheard Miss Katherine telling her mother that Dr. Merriweather's attention to my education exceeded what was "proper for an unmarried lady of good breeding."
As the other ladies maintain increasing distance from me, I find myself depending more heavily upon dear Sarah's companionship and understanding. Our friendship, which began years ago through our Methodist church but deepened considerably during our shared care of Mr. Everett, has become my anchor in these most uncertain times. She listens without judgment when I describe my strange dreams or mention my difficulty with bright light, accepting these peculiarities as merely another facet of our collectively disrupted world.
"You have always demonstrated more acute observation than most people possess, Eleanor," she said when I described my uncanny ability to identify which patients required immediate attention. "Perhaps this dreadful war is simply sharpening abilities you already possessed."
Our friendship has evolved far beyond what either of us expected when Thomas first arrived to care for his dear father. We share tea each evening after completing our duties with Mr. Everett, discussing everything from household management to the most philosophical questions about this war's meaning. In a world where familiar certainties crumble with each day's fresh disasters, having someone witness my gradual alterations without fear or condemnation proves invaluable beyond measure.
Mr. Everett's condition has grown considerably more demanding as his lucidity continues to fade. Some nights he speaks at length to people who are not there, insisting he must prepare for journeys to places that exist only in his increasingly confused mind.
Sarah and I have developed quite an efficient system for managing these episodes, though the strain shows plainly upon both our faces.
Yet I carry the constant burden of potentially endangering her and precious little Charles through my continued presence in their household. Each day I remain represents a calculated risk based upon my assessment that my condition appears stable rather than progressive. I tell myself this constitutes reasonable medical judgment rather than selfish attachment, yet I cannot escape the suspicion that I continue this arrangement primarily because I simply cannot bear the isolation that separation would surely bring.
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I have also begun to suspect that Dr. Merriweather's attention to my medical education possesses purposes beyond simple mentorship, though nothing untoward in his manner suggests impropriety.
When I correctly predicted complications in cases where no visible symptoms had yet manifested, his satisfaction seemed to reflect confirmation of some hypothesis rather than pleasure in my educational progress. He murmured something about my perceptions developing in fascinating ways while making extensive notations in his private journal, then suggested we might soon discuss more practical applications of my capabilities.
This troubled me considerably, suggesting some hidden utility he might find in my abilities, as though they might serve purposes extending far beyond my own medical understanding or personal improvement.
Yet I find myself most reluctant to question these arrangements too directly, both because I value the intellectual stimulation they provide and because I fear that excessive curiosity might result in the termination of privileges that have become quite precious to me.
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After much reflection, I have reached a resolution regarding my present circumstances.
For the present, I shall continue my somewhat dual existence—maintaining careful vigilance for any signs that my condition might endanger others, whilst pursuing the medical work that provides both meaningful service and intellectual fulfillment most dear to me. My symptoms appear quite stable, my contributions to patient care genuinely valuable, and my presence in Sarah's household still more beneficial than harmful, I believe.
I acknowledge this decision contains considerable elements of selfishness. The thought of abandoning dear Sarah during these most uncertain times, of losing the medical education that Dr. Merriweather so generously provides, of facing complete social isolation—these considerations undoubtedly influence my assessment of whatever risks my continued presence might represent.
Yet I believe my judgment remains quite sound. Whatever alterations I have experienced appear to have achieved a stable state rather than progressive deterioration. I can continue my hospital work, maintain my care of Mr. Everett, and preserve my friendship with Sarah whilst monitoring most carefully for any changes that might require different decisions entirely.
The winter months ahead will provide a natural test of this resolution. If my condition remains stable through the season's darker days, I shall consider my fears about corrupting influences largely unfounded. If new symptoms develop, or if any signs suggest I pose genuine danger to others, I shall immediately remove myself from their household regardless of personal cost.
Until then, I choose cautious hope over paralyzing fear. This dreadful war has taught us all that life must continue despite uncertainty, that we must make reasonable decisions based upon available information rather than surrendering to every possible terror that might befall us.
My beloved Thomas writes so movingly of his crisis of spirit amidst the terrible realities of battlefield service—how I long to comfort him in person rather than through the propriety of inadequate scripture.
I face my own crisis of understanding regarding my altered nature, though mine seems small beside his trials. I pray daily that the Lord grants him strength and protection, and that Father finds success in his work at Staunton and returns safely to us. May Divine Providence watch over all those I hold dear during these most perilous times, and guide me to choices that bring no harm to those who depend upon my care.
Documentation to continue as circumstances develop.
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.« Previous | Next »