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Authors: Gregg Olsen
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afternoon when Nurse Sherman reported Dora’s mind had wandered in a rambling and confused measure of delirium.
Confined to her own bed, Claire couldn’t get to her sister to help her. She lay there as still as she could, straining to hear what was being said beyond the drawn curtains.
“Doctor, she’s been like this all morning,” Nurse Sherman said, as Dr. Hazzard began to pat Dora’s face.
“Dear, listen to me. You must come out of this. Now!”
Dora murmured something incomprehensible.
“It’s your brain, dear,” she declared. “Your trouble is not your body, but your brain. There’s been a reason why doctors haven’t been able to figure out what is wrong with your health . . . it is your brain.”
Dora looked up and nodded.
“Yes, my brain.”
T HE WILLIAMSON sisters were in dire shape, and Nellie Sherman knew it. Though she had never done so in her long nursing career, she went to another doctor for a second opinion. She felt she had no choice. She went to the Seattle offices of Dr. Augusta Brewer. It was, she felt, the safest tack to take. There was good reason for such a supposition. Dr. Brewer was not only a good friend of Nellie’s, she already knew the Williamsons.
Augusta Brewer, an osteopath of impeccable credentials, had treated Claire with some spinal treatments in July of 1910.
When Nellie Sherman arrived at the doctor’s office on March 29, she did so with the idea that she would get some medical books to study for clues on how to help the girls over the hurdle that was before them. She didn’t want Dr. Hazzard to know that she was there, and she knew her friend would never tell her.
The look on her face could not hide her genuine worry.
“The girls are so weak from hunger,” the nurse said, nearly succumbing to tears.
Dr. Brewer reached out her hand.
“What are they eating?”
“Only a broth. A broth made from the boiling of tomatoes and asparagus tips.”
“Nothing more?”
“Oh. A half cup of orange juice.”
“Give them more food, Nellie. They ought to have more food.”
“I have tried. I tried to give them some milk and raisins, but they wouldn’t take any of it.”
“Why not? Are they not hungry?”
“Augusta, they won’t take any more unless Dr. Hazzard tells them to. They are absolutely under her dominion.”
“This is very wrong. This treatment is wrong. Nellie, you know I do not approve of Linda Hazzard’s methods. She is not a graduate of any osteopathic school. She doesn’t know what she is doing! She is not equipped to handle these kinds of cases!”
Linda
Hazzard, not
Dr.
Hazzard . . . Augusta Brewer was one of the many who refused to give the fasting specialist the title of doctor.
“I don’t know,” Nellie offered, more composed. “She has cured many, many people. I know that.”
“Think what you wish, but do something to help the girls. Feed them at once!”
D OROTHEA KECK ran a small neighborhood grocery store at 608 East Pike Street, only two blocks from the Buena Vista. She knew Miss Sherman from her occasional visits in the spring of 1911. She also knew that the Williamsons were patients of the nurse working under the direction of Linda Burfield Hazzard. Tomatoes and asparagus were the only groceries Nellie Sherman purchased.
On April 19, Nurse Sherman arrived for her last visit. She had called a few days before to request that the last bill would be made ready as they were transferring the sisters to the sanitarium at Olalla. Mrs. Keck made out the bill. It came to just under $5.
“How are the girls?” the lady grocer asked as she counted out change.
“Mrs. Keck, I don’t know. I’m worried about them. Claire had a very bad fainting spell. I just revived her from it before I came down. Whenever she has a spell, it gives Dora a setback, to see her
Confined to her own bed, Claire couldn’t get to her sister to help her. She lay there as still as she could, straining to hear what was being said beyond the drawn curtains.
“Doctor, she’s been like this all morning,” Nurse Sherman said, as Dr. Hazzard began to pat Dora’s face.
“Dear, listen to me. You must come out of this. Now!”
Dora murmured something incomprehensible.
“It’s your brain, dear,” she declared. “Your trouble is not your body, but your brain. There’s been a reason why doctors haven’t been able to figure out what is wrong with your health . . . it is your brain.”
Dora looked up and nodded.
“Yes, my brain.”
T HE WILLIAMSON sisters were in dire shape, and Nellie Sherman knew it. Though she had never done so in her long nursing career, she went to another doctor for a second opinion. She felt she had no choice. She went to the Seattle offices of Dr. Augusta Brewer. It was, she felt, the safest tack to take. There was good reason for such a supposition. Dr. Brewer was not only a good friend of Nellie’s, she already knew the Williamsons.
Augusta Brewer, an osteopath of impeccable credentials, had treated Claire with some spinal treatments in July of 1910.
When Nellie Sherman arrived at the doctor’s office on March 29, she did so with the idea that she would get some medical books to study for clues on how to help the girls over the hurdle that was before them. She didn’t want Dr. Hazzard to know that she was there, and she knew her friend would never tell her.
The look on her face could not hide her genuine worry.
“The girls are so weak from hunger,” the nurse said, nearly succumbing to tears.
Dr. Brewer reached out her hand.
“What are they eating?”
“Only a broth. A broth made from the boiling of tomatoes and asparagus tips.”
“Nothing more?”
“Oh. A half cup of orange juice.”
“Give them more food, Nellie. They ought to have more food.”
“I have tried. I tried to give them some milk and raisins, but they wouldn’t take any of it.”
“Why not? Are they not hungry?”
“Augusta, they won’t take any more unless Dr. Hazzard tells them to. They are absolutely under her dominion.”
“This is very wrong. This treatment is wrong. Nellie, you know I do not approve of Linda Hazzard’s methods. She is not a graduate of any osteopathic school. She doesn’t know what she is doing! She is not equipped to handle these kinds of cases!”
Linda
Hazzard, not
Dr.
Hazzard . . . Augusta Brewer was one of the many who refused to give the fasting specialist the title of doctor.
“I don’t know,” Nellie offered, more composed. “She has cured many, many people. I know that.”
“Think what you wish, but do something to help the girls. Feed them at once!”
D OROTHEA KECK ran a small neighborhood grocery store at 608 East Pike Street, only two blocks from the Buena Vista. She knew Miss Sherman from her occasional visits in the spring of 1911. She also knew that the Williamsons were patients of the nurse working under the direction of Linda Burfield Hazzard. Tomatoes and asparagus were the only groceries Nellie Sherman purchased.
On April 19, Nurse Sherman arrived for her last visit. She had called a few days before to request that the last bill would be made ready as they were transferring the sisters to the sanitarium at Olalla. Mrs. Keck made out the bill. It came to just under $5.
“How are the girls?” the lady grocer asked as she counted out change.
“Mrs. Keck, I don’t know. I’m worried about them. Claire had a very bad fainting spell. I just revived her from it before I came down. Whenever she has a spell, it gives Dora a setback, to see her
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