Letter from Mrs. Martin to her brother Isidore CF 33
8 1868 June.
My father is very, very ill. Yesterday, Sunday, I did not know what to do, I absolutely wanted to write to you to arrive quickly, my husband preferred that I wait today. The doctor came on Wednesday and Friday. Whenever this poor father wants to sleep, suffocation seizes him; at night, you have to open the windows. This last night, he had never suffered so much and could not hold on to bed; we had to put him in his chair. In addition, he suffers a lot from anthrax, but weakness still prevails. Yesterday, he told me that it was over, that he was going to die.
Don't worry, I am constantly with him, I don't leave him, so to speak. It's me who bandages his pain twice a day. I give him the best I can imagine, but he has no appetite and when he has to take something, it's real torture for him and for me. He can't move or sit on his bed, my husband has to come and help us and if this continues, it will take two men to lift him up. This poor dear father makes us a deep pity, he bears everything with great patience.
I have worries over my head. Here is the trade waking up, I get orders in a hurry, very in a hurry. If I miss them, I will lose a lot; I would like to do everything and I don't know how to go about it. I have just received a letter for an order that I must deliver on the 18th. I no longer know which way to turn, I have been up from half past four in the morning until eleven at night. ; it would take all my time for my father and that I have nothing else on my mind.
Our dear patient talks about you to everyone; your ears must be ringing. All his talks with Doctor Prévost revolve around you.
I worry about whether I should bring a priest right away, it torments me. The doctor told me that the illness was not serious, that he saw nothing to worry about apart from his 79 years, but I find it hard to persuade myself, everyone would tell me the opposite that I wouldn't believe it.
