The flowers had the sweet smell of death, and each represented bodies buried in the hills.
The Queen Alexandra Sanatorium, London, Ontario, Canada, circa 1917
Source: The Ivey Family Digital Collection, London, Public Library
Book Review: The valley of flowers: A story of a T.B. sanitorium, Veronica Eddy Brock
Before the pandemic, or I should say before we knew that COVID-19 was lurking in the shadows awaiting its deadly ascent, I began researching about tuberculosis in the 1940s. Why such an uplifting subject, one might ask? It wasn’t exactly as if I were prescient to the coming days. No, I was diving into a little family history.
I was aware that my mother’s sister died in 1947 from TB at the Queen Alexandra Sanatorium in London, Ontario, Canada. Still, given that this woman died long before I was born, I certainly couldn’t call her “aunt.” With my mother deceased, there was nobody left I could ask about this individual whose name was Pat.
I was able to find some information about this institution, also called the Cliff Infirmary, from the Ivey Family Digital Collection at the London, Ontario, Public Library. From there, I learned that it opened in 1910 and closed in 1949; although the building still stands today, it has been re-purposed.
What I was looking for beyond archived photos was a story of the people––how they felt, their dreams for survival, and their fears as they endured isolation and quarantine in the absence of drugs. In my research, I discovered an out-of-print book by Veronica Eddy Brock called The valley of flowers: A story of a T.B. sanitorium. Fortunately, I was able to locate what appeared to be the only publicly-available copy of this book at the Research Branch of the Toronto Public Library. A year ago, on a cold and snowy day, just days before we went into lockdown, I devoured this history in the reading room, imagining her isolation.
Although published in 1987, it appears to be a book for our times. The valley of flowers is a work of fiction. As the author indicates, it is closely based on her experience at the Fort Qu’Appelle Sanatorium in the Saskatchewan hills. (Please note the purposeful difference in spelling of the word “sanatorium/sanitorium.”
In the 1940s, the remedy for TB management was rest, along with fresh air in the wintertime and a diet of wholesome food. Although the pathogen that causes TB was identified in 1882, the history, testing, production, and distribution of the vaccine was rocky. It appears that the vaccine didn’t come into widespread usage until the late 1940s, and the character in this story did not enjoy the benefit of that science––nor did my mother’s sister.
Eddy Brock’s story is not one of science and technology, although she does touch upon the pneumothorax treatment, where a needle or tube is inserted between the ribs to remove excess air. She brings pain to the page in her descriptions of diseased and collapsed lungs and rib removal as curative methods. In this author’s story, what struck me was the overwhelming restrictions on physical movement endured by patients and their boredom. She talks about strict bed rest and the necessary avoidance of any physical movement to the extent that patients must avoid stretching, reaching, and sitting. Caregivers put children in straitjackets to restrict activity. She talked about the infirmary where people went to die and the pavilion where they died of boredom. Starved for interaction, she found gossip would have to do. Her days were those of unrelieved monotony where there was complete silence in the morning and afternoons, known as “chasing the cure.”
She described the facility as having long, flat buildings with wooden sidewalks between them for the wheelchairs to rattle over. Light bulbs hung on feeble chains in rooms with two narrow beds. Baths were either scalding hot or wickedly cold, temperatures that emaciated bodies could barely withstand. Starched sheets rubbed elbows raw.
The flowers on the property had the sweet smell of death, and the acres of flowers planted at Fort San represented each body buried in the Saskatchewan hills.
She knew the longer she stayed, the less chance there was for survival, and that she would have to learn to walk again. The character in the story did survive, as clearly did the author, although my mother’s sister did not.
When I discovered this book, we had no idea that a random strand of RNA was waiting around the corner. It’s almost impossible not to draw parallels to our current world and the rampant suffering of those with COVID, our isolation and quarantine requirements, and our wait for vaccines.
The valley of flowers provided what I was looking for, which was a glimpse into the end of days of a woman I did not know, giving me a sense of profound loss and fear for those suffering and the helplessness of loved ones––issues that many in our society face today.
Stay healthy! Wear a mask.