little_scary (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} little_scary) wrote,@ 2008-01-12 14:34:00 |
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Doctor Morgan Michaud-Carre's Journal
(In a slightly inellegant, if reasonably legible scrawl)
December, 1940. My heart aches for the state in which I too often find my patients, of late. So many are sick, and so many sicker than they should be. Since the rations became more strict in September, I've seen more and more who should get well not do so. Too many children losing weight. Too many parents becoming increasingly thin. I do what I can, but I am only one person, and the growing lack of access to proper medicines only compounds the problem.
On a more personal level, I still miss my beloved Chretien with all my heart, yet realize that I must begin to let go. I have mourned him now for a year. I am not an old woman, but likely will not marry again. Of course, who can know the future, I suppose. Still, I feel that I must again begin to live, at least as much as current circumstances allow. I must care again better for myself. My grief does not serve my patients well, and I shall need all of my strength to continue in helping them in these times most particularly.
On a more political note, well, I shall simply say that I hope that this occupation, this war, that all of the ugliness end soon. I do not hold out very much hope, however, as things seem to only be getting worse. Something must be done.
(In a slightly inellegant, if reasonably legible scrawl)
December, 1940. My heart aches for the state in which I too often find my patients, of late. So many are sick, and so many sicker than they should be. Since the rations became more strict in September, I've seen more and more who should get well not do so. Too many children losing weight. Too many parents becoming increasingly thin. I do what I can, but I am only one person, and the growing lack of access to proper medicines only compounds the problem.
On a more personal level, I still miss my beloved Chretien with all my heart, yet realize that I must begin to let go. I have mourned him now for a year. I am not an old woman, but likely will not marry again. Of course, who can know the future, I suppose. Still, I feel that I must again begin to live, at least as much as current circumstances allow. I must care again better for myself. My grief does not serve my patients well, and I shall need all of my strength to continue in helping them in these times most particularly.
On a more political note, well, I shall simply say that I hope that this occupation, this war, that all of the ugliness end soon. I do not hold out very much hope, however, as things seem to only be getting worse. Something must be done.