Good morrow, fair readers! Who else is counting down the days until the start of autumn? Cooler temperatures; azure skies; changing leaves… sigh! I am aware such anticipation is limited to those Janeites who live in the Northern Hemisphere, so, my dear Southern Hemisphere readers, are you eagerly awaiting spring’s glorious transformation upon the landscape? (For my equatorial readers: as a former Floridian, which was entirely too close to the Tropic of Cancer for my tastes, may God have mercy upon your dear souls whilst you take comfort in Aunt Jane’s masterpieces and the multitudinous offerings of the JAFF community.)
I know not when I shall again contribute to that wonderful body of work, for the tailbone block continues to drown out the voices of my characters. Physical therapy is revealing more complications from the fall back in February, and after seven months, there are days when I believe the pain shall never improve. I mentioned in a previous post how the treatment for a “broken pertookis” has changed but little throughout the centuries, but ironically, Regency Era England would have been more accommodating of my predicament.
As horrifically condemnatory and unaccepting as that period of history was against birth defects, cognitive impairments, and mental health conditions, it was surprisingly accepting of “invalidism”. A broken leg would leave most sufferers with a limp, even if you had the best surgeons managing your care, whilst arthritis was, likewise, an equal-opportunity thief of a painless life and mobility. Gout, a disease considered “fashionable”, afflicting only those who could afford soused gluttony, rendered the ton, the Upper Ten Thousand, limping upon their walking sticks, calling for their sedan chairs, and guzzling laudanum to manage the excruciating pain.
Two hundred years ago, a local apothecary would have prescribed various tinctures for my pain – likely leaving me addicted to the aforementioned laudanum, but we shall overlook that bit of trivia. There was nothing for the surgeon to fix, nor a bone setter, and a physician – were there one local and could I afford one – may not have even consulted with me: a woman with an injury in such an intimate area as the derrière. A country midwife would have been the most helpful, unafraid of the intimacy of the injury and more apt to recommend the same exercises which are proving at least of some relief.
I could also still be active in my own way. Were I part of the gentry or ton, I would have special gowns made to receive visitors, reclining upon a chaise longue, a la Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park (except I would have my beloved baby panther, Stewie, in place of a pug). And if I were or lower status – which, let’s be honest, I would – one of my children or neighbours would have fashioned a bed for me in the main body of the cottage, where I would likely be doing the cooking and general housekeeping (since I can stand and walk for reasonable periods without difficulty), watching/teaching the small children, and sewing or knitting whilst abed.
The acceptance of “invalidism” makes sense, in a way. The onset of such disabilities was on display for society – whether tenants in a hamlet of Northumberland or lordships in Mayfair – to witness. These were not “products” of birth (and perhaps, God’s judgement), nor ill-understood “diseases” of the mind/brain. It was the unknown, the ignorance which fostered fear and discrimination against those like my special needs daughter.
Whilst my ability to physically socialise and see others who do not share my last name is limited in this modern age, I would not go back to Georgian England. Some might accuse me of being lazy for not being able to sit yet, but there is not a day that goes by where I don’t praise God that my darling daughter was born in the 21st-century instead of the 19th.
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