The Medea Complex Read Online Free PDF

reach into the desk and pull out Lady Stanbury's folder.
    “Right. I requested your company today so I may learn more
of Lady Stanbury: her habits, friendships, personality, etcetera, in order to
start appropriate treatment. This is a two way discussion, and I welcome any
questions from you both.” As they nod in synchrony, Lord Damsbridge more so
than the other, I continue onward with the speech I give to the relatives of
every new patient admitted.
    “Let me allay any fears you may have with regards to Lady
Stanbury being in, dare I say it: a lunatic asylum.” I raise my eyebrows in an
imitation of mock horror. “Forget the histrionic stories that old wives
exchange on street corners about madmen being chained to the walls. This is the
nineteenth century gentlemen, and our field of expertise is much more advanced
than that which prescribed the inhumane and inexperienced treatments of
yesteryear.”
    “Though it remains true that the people in here are
lunatics, does it not, Doctor?” Mr Stanbury says, spitefully.
    “Well, yes – some of them, but Bethlem is a place of rest
where anyone suffering mental deficiency can come to be treated. We even have
people admit themselves voluntarily, of their own will.” I sift through the
drawer of my desk again, and pull out a form. I put the paper in front of the
gentlemen and reach for my pen. Ah, it is covered with ink. I fumble discreetly
for a spare whilst the men read over the sheet. “Cast your eyes over the
writing at the top.” Aha. A pen. I pull it out and tap it over the paragraph I
want them to read. “It says: 'All persons, of unsound mind presumed to be
curable, are eligible for admission into this hospital for maintenance and
medical treatment'”.
    “Presumed 'curable'?” Lord Damsbridge asks, eyebrows raised.
    “Yes,” I say, pleased he focused on that word. “She can be
cured completely.”
    “Cured of what, precisely? What is wrong with her? Why did
she kill our eight week old son?” Mr Stanbury says, his jaw set tight.
    “She-”
    We are interrupted by the door opening, and Nurse Ruth makes
her way inside carrying a silver dish. Atop lay a crystal decanter, three
glasses, and a bottle of Tullamore Dew.
    “Good choice,” says Lord Damsbridge, lifting the whiskey and
pouring two generous measures. Handing one to Mr Stanbury, he looks at me.
    “For you, Doctor?”
    “I'm a coffee man, myself.”
    He frowns, disapprovingly.
     “But I do enjoy a little indulgence from time to time,” I
lie, as he fills a third glass. “Yes, I would like one after all, thank you.” I
lift the golden liquid to my mouth; loathe to taste that which leads to
perversion of the mind. I sip it tentatively, and it travels down my throat
like liquefied nails.
    Mr Stanbury has drunk his fill before I lifted the glass to
my lips.
    I swirl the liquid, and place it on the desk.
    “To answer your question, Mr Stanbury, your wife is
suffering from a mental illness called 'Puerperal Mania'. I believe you have
both heard this term before, at the time of her first assessment shortly
following her arrest on October 5th, 1885. I stand by that diagnosis. Puerperal
Mania, in Lady Stanbury's case, is the cause of her insanity. Just as others
may go mad because of epilepsy, or alcohol, or fever; pregnancy and childbirth
has caused Anne to become temporarily insane.
    “My Lord, Puerperal Mania tends to have an element of
inheritance. Indeed, it is the chief cause: pregnancy itself being only a
secondary factor. How did your wife fare after giving birth? Can you remember
whether she displayed any signs of seeing to the baby too much, or too little?
Did she retreat to her bed and sleep at unusual times of the day, or suffer
insomnia of a night-”
    He interrupts me.
    “My wife died in childbirth, Doctor. She never got the
opportunity to even hold her daughter.”
    I make a note.
    Patient may have dwelt upon the misfortune
of her mother – whom expired during labour, contributing to