What is Accomplished in Tuberculosis Among My Own Race Here in Atlanta

Abstract

Atlanta, Georgia THE CURTAIN rises upon scene one of first act. is a drama of Negro life. picture shows one room of a little four-room threadbare cottage on outskirts of Atlanta. In bed lay a young woman about twenty-five years of age. Her features are sharp and drawn. A pungent aroma of strong deodorant penetrates heavy atmosphere. extreme tranquility is broken every two or three minutes by a paroxysm of coughing, eminating from that frail bit of humanity lying there on bed. After each cough, which shakes her body comvulsively, she expells a mouthful of greenish, thick sputum and then she goes into, a sort of tantrum of throat clearing get out a part which has cleaved her larnyx. viscid secretions rattled in her chest sounding like what many have called rattles. Her mother, a woman well over sixty, sat in a chair beside bed. On a small nearby table was an assortment of medicine in bottles of all sizes and descriptions. She was reading from a phamplet given her by tuberculosis clinic. Mother, said her daughter Why must stay here in bed ? feel well enough get feel that will lose my strength by staying in bed all of It reads here, Mary, said mother, to rest as much as you can. Maybe you've been needing a rest for a long time. Now is time take it. Stay in bed twentyfour hours every day. Rest, strict rest, is your main hope. Stay in bed until your doctor says you can be up. Mother, she said, I do not feel that will ever be well again. believe waited too long before going doctor. You remember when had that side pleuresy in college before graduation year? can just recall that my roommate kept up a bad cough, and she is now down with tuberculosis. should have gone doctor then and had an examination. little mother merely raised her head in acknowledgment of this latest deduction by her daughter. What did she know about scientific diagnosis and modern treatment for T. Bs? She spoke softly must be Lord's will. Mary was right. clinic doctor had said her lungs looked on x-ray picture, as if bits of cotton had been stuffed into them. There were large circles in tops of both lungs, which looked like huge signet rings. They had recommended that she go sanatorium but it takes months be accepted there. Besides why leave all that is near and dear one, when near end? These wrinkled knuckles were washed bare send three children college. One sister dead, another across hall sick. glanced about room at a table laden with school books and up walls, where a dozen diplomas or teacher's certificates hung. thought of lines the moving finger writes and having writ moves on. must have been a reminiscence of my college days—a selection from Rubaiyat taken from Omar Khyyam. Tragically enough, having witnessed above spectacle between a loving mother and daughter, felt dejected. Faith takes on renewed courage at humbleness and servility of this Negro mother, in caring for a sick one of her brood. next Sunday's paper carried her obituary on last page. The friends and relatives of Miss X are invited attend her funeral at Tanner's Chapel. Pastor Brown spoke beautiful words over inert form, draped beneath a bed of flowers. He said, is will of God. In this bed grave episode, have carried story further than usual for a point. We who read death statistics are prone pass over fact, that so many