The year is 1631.
I now live in Venice, a once great city state that for a time was the richest city in Europe,
but today is ravaged by a mysterious disease that has in just a year claimed the lives
of thousands.
But I can not let my fear of the epidemic and the horrible fate that awaits the infected
overcome me, because I am a Plague Doctor.
I prepare for the day by dressing in a special outfit: tough leather breeches to protect
my legs, a long heavy coat that covers my entire body, the wide brimmed hat that all
doctors wear, and of course, my mask, the beak filled with herbs and perfumes to ward
off the foul smelling air of disease.
I spend my days traveling to the homes of the sick, checking in on the infected and
diagnosing new cases.
I employ the most advanced medical knowledge of the day, performing blood lettings and
advising the ill to rub onions on their sores.
I use a cane to examine the very sickest of my patients so that I don’t have to touch
them.
Will these techniques work?
Will I be able to cure the sick or at least offer them some comfort in their final moments?
Will I be able to find the source of the disease?
And most importantly for me, will my precautions protect me from the same fate?
This is far from the first plague.
The historians tells us that they’ve occured for centuries yet each seems as if the world
is finally coming to its end.
From the plague of Justinian that ravaged the eastern Roman capital of Constantinople
to the black death that left over a third of europe dead.
Now, three hundred years after the last terrible outbreak on the continent it has reappeared
here in Venice.
And this plague has hit our city hard.
Once a center of culture and commerce, we are seeing our time as a powerful city state
waning.
The streets are empty and shops are barren with over a third of the population dead or
dying.
We’ve tried locking the sick away in pesthouses, stripping those who show signs of disease
of their clothes and possessions and burning them, and even quarantining them to an island
in attempt to do something, anything, to stop the spread, but nothing has seemed to work.
The number of infected grows by the day and the death count rises higher and higher.
The plague is a true nightmare for those unlucky enough to become stricken by it.
Strange swellings appear on the body, especially under the arms and around the groin, growing
to the size of apples and weeping blood and pus before erupting into painful sores.
The body is then overcome with fever and chills, the patient can keep no food down and is wasted
away by diarrhea and vomiting.
It can progress so quickly that there’s nothing I can do.
Often someone goes to sleep healthy with no symptoms and is dead by morning.
We are unsure of where the plague came from or how it spreads.
Some think it comes only from the touching of an already infected individual, others
believe that spirits jump from the eyes of the sick into those of the healthy carrying
the death with them.
As for myself, I believe that a foul air, known as miasma, carries this horrible malady.
It’s also why my most important piece of equipment is also the one that marks me most
clearly as a plague doctor, my mask.
Each day I fill the nose with fresh flowers and herbs, using the pleasant smells to ward
off the plague.
I coat my clothes in a thick layer of suet, or animal fat, in order to seal the fabric
and prevent any bad airs from penetrating to my skin.
I focus on combating the odor that seems to follow the sick and encouraging the healthy
to stay well by staying indoors and surrounding themselves with pleasant aromas.
I employ other techniques on those who are not yet at death’s door, such as bloodletting
with leeches, or lancing the swollen boils in an attempt to drain the sickness away,
though I must take great care to ensure that none of the potentially deadly fluids touch
my skin.
I am also cautious not to touch the sickest of patients at all.
My cane allows me to examine their bodies from a distance, though when they are at that
advanced stage usually all I can do is direct the family to remove the body from the home
when the patient eventually succumbs.
Their bodies are added onto the carts that patrol the streets daily.
Stacked high with corpses, these carts are dragged along by some poor soul who will no
doubt be joining his cargo soon.
They’re taken out of the city and given a Christian burial if they are lucky and burned
in great piles if they are not.
Day after day I see more and more falling victim to this plague.
I dream of a day when we can return Venice to its former glory.
Where hundreds of trade ships passed through our harbor and princes summoned the world’s
most talented artists to create great works to adorn their palaces.
I fear those days are dead and gone and that there is little anyone but God can do to stop
this unending march of death.
I make the long trek back to the section of the city where my home is, an area that luckily
has been largely untouched by the plague.
On my way, I stop to pray to Saint Mary of Health at the new Basilica that is being built
in her honor, in hopes that more offerings to God will end this catastrophe and perhaps
serve as a penance for whatever of our worldly deeds have brought this biblical punishment
upon us.
The day grows long and I feel very tired so I make my way home.
I take great care while removing my mask, checking that there are no openings where
the diseased air may have seeped in.
I lay out my roll of tools so that they are ready for another day of tending to the unwell.
I carefully remove my coat, my breeches, and am once again just a man.
A man who sees that the day I’ve been dreading yet always anticipating is here.
I lift my arm and see it.
A swollen lump.
It’s now only a matter of time.