Chinese medicine: Dr. Yee saves Jane Stanford's life

                                                            Chapter 50

Summer 1862: Sacramento, California

Jane Stanford (34)

Moy Jin Mun (15)

Moy Jin Kee (18)

Dr. Yee Fung Cheung

The river has overflowed again. Jane is on the lake with Leland, rowing, rowing. And then he is gone, and she is alone, and the boat is sinking. The water is over her head, now, in her mouth and nose…

All she can see is a murky gray. And she can’t breathe. It occurs to her that she is drowning.

She sinks deeper and deeper underwater. Far below her, at the bottom of this lake, she can see the shadow of her house. As she drifts down toward it, a tightness in her chest tells her the end is near…

Then through the murk, she glimpses a pale young face, and somehow hears a voice through the water.

“Mother, you must breathe—”

 Jane jarred awake, gasping and hacking through the phlegm in her lungs.

Her houseboy Jin Mun stood over her bed, pressing a steaming hot towel to her chest. A warmth began to permeate and spread. The heat eased her coughing, bringing her some relief. She took a shuddering breath…

Jin Mun’s face was pale and anxious. “Very sick, Mrs. Jane.”

She knew the infection was severe. She hadn’t been able to leave her bed for days. And Leland was off in San Francisco on important business.

 “Don’t … alarm the Governor,” she protested faintly. But the boy was already gone.

Jin Mun tore through the upstairs hall, down the sweeping staircase, across the entry hall.

As he burst into the kitchen, his brother Jin Kee turned from the stove, his hands wrapped in a cloth as he held a large steaming porcelain bowl. An earthy, spicy scent filled the air.

“Now,” Jin Mun gasped. “You must come.”

When Jane opened her eyes again, Jin Kee stood above her bed in his cook’s whites, holding a steaming bowl.

He balanced the bowl on her chest, holding it steady. She felt the warmth of the porcelain on her skin, and as the steam rose, her nose wrinkled at the smell: a heavy, spicy scent. And suddenly there was a loosening in her lungs.

She breathed deep of the redolent steam.

Jin Kee spoke rapidly in Chinese to Jin Mun. Jin Mun turned and darted from the room again.

“Breathe, Missy Jane,” the cook urged. She inhaled again, vaguely identified the scent as eucalyptus. She drew in another shuddering breath. And then she passed into fretful sleep.

When she awoke, she looked up at a dark figure hovering at her bedside.

The Angel of Death, come for her….

But it can’t be...

The figure in black was Chinese, dressed in black silk robes, with a black cap and long black queue.

There were three Chinese, standing around her bedside, peering down upon her. She heard Jin Mun’s voice.

“Mrs. Jane, this is Yee Fung Cheung. Chinese doctor. He will help.”

The little man in black silk took her hand gently in his small, strong one and pressed his thumb against the pulse at her wrist. Then he slipped his other hand behind her back and lifted her carefully to sitting. “Please to cough.”

She looked into the earnest, benevolent face—and managed a racking spasm that nearly cracked her ribs.

The man lowered her back onto her pillows, turned and spoke in Chinese to the brothers.

Jin Mun stepped forward, bent over her. “Mrs. Jane, he will give you ma huaung. Help for lungs.” 

“Thank you,” she whispered weakly, and sank back onto her pillows, fighting against the pain in her chest.

But the three men stood, and looked down on her with compassion, and she knew she would not die that day.

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