Carol arrived at Vellore in October 1923, and Ida set her straight to work. Like so many other Westerners, Dr. Carol, as she was called, was shocked by what passed as “medicine.” She cringed when she unwrapped a serious wound and found that it had been “treated” with ashes from a fire and neem leaves, then bound in a filthy rag. Ida patiently explained to her how their role as doctors was to overcome ignorance with knowledge while keeping an eye out for any Indian practices that had medicinal value.
In November Ida took Dr. Carol with her to show her how to conduct a Roadside. She knew it would be overwhelming at first, especially for a young graduate who had worked at the Mayo Clinic, one of the top medical facilities in the United States. It was hard to imagine a greater contrast than between the sterile, businesslike conditions of the clinic and the dusty, chaotic setting of the Roadside. Dr. Carol watched Ida at the first two stops and then jumped right in to help out. As usual, the number of patients seemed to expand to fit the number of medical workers, and it was late in the afternoon before Ida headed the Model T for home.
By now Ida loved to drive the car herself. She was just pulling away from the side of the road when she spotted a woman leading three men across the rice fields toward them. For a brief moment Ida was tempted to slam her foot on the accelerator and leave before they reached her, but she could not. Instead she stopped the car, got out, and waited until they came closer.
As the men stumbled along the mud banks that separated the rice paddies, Ida realized that they must all be blind.
“We are coming,” the woman yelled as she waved to Ida. “Please wait.”
Ida waved back, and Dr. Carol got out of the car. Soon the three blind men were standing in front of them. They were exhausted but jubilant.
“We walked all night to get here in time. We were afraid we would miss you, but we have not,” one of the men laughed. “We have made it. We hear that you can cure blindness.”
“We will first have to see what the problem is,” Ida said as she reached out and examined the first man’s eyes, which were dull and lifeless. Ida’s heart went out to the man as she questioned him.
“Did you have the disease called smallpox?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And did you go blind then?”
Once again the answer was yes.
Ida shook her head. “There is nothing I can do for you,” she said. “Blindness from smallpox is permanent.”
The second man, who had also had smallpox received the same disappointing news, but the third man had not had the disease. Ida stared hopefully into his eyes, which were badly scarred. Soon the man’s story came tumbling out.
“I lost my sight when I had a fever,” the man said. “The temple priest told my wife to grind up some glass and mix it with cayenne pepper and oil and rub the mixture into my eyes. It hurt a great deal, but I endured it because the priest said that the gods would grant me my eyesight back. But it has not worked. Can you restore it to me?”
Ida sighed and turned to Dr. Carol. It was a rude introduction to the despair and ignorance that lay all around them.
“I am sorry. There is nothing I can do for any of you,” she said. “Some forms of blindness are curable, but not the types you have.”
“Are you sure you can do nothing, Ammal?” the first man asked. “We do not have much money, but we are willing to give you all we have. Only restore our sight to us.”
“I am sorry,” Ida repeated quietly. “There is nothing I can do.”
The drive home was somber. Ida thought about the immense needs in the villages beyond Vellore. Yes, she could use Dr. Carol and a thousand more like her before the need would be met!
Two months after Carol’s arrival, the governor of Madras officially opened the Cole Dispensary and Medical Ward. The impressive, two-story building had a wide entranceway flanked by ornate wrought iron. Just walking through the waiting room left Ida feeling serene—until patients began crowding into it.
Even with the opening of the new ward, it seemed that the need for more beds grew quicker. This was because when the hospital was first opened, many of the women were so frightened that they had to be coaxed to come. Now that the hospital had so many successful operations behind it and a reputation for being welcoming and caring, women flocked to it. This meant that there was always plenty for everyone to do.
Few of Ida’s staff ever considered leaving. They were as dedicated to helping the women of India as Ida was. By now Annie had been faithfully working with Ida for twenty-three years, and Gertrude for eight years. Mrs. Scudder had been Ida’s faithful support since Ida’s father died, and even Mrs. Gnanammal, the first pharmacist, was still there, working alongside Salomi, who had started out as the Scudders’ housemaid and was now a trained pharmacist herself.
Ida relied on each person’s fulfilling his or her role, and everyone did it willingly and cheerfully. The patients, few of whom had ever had anything to do with Christianity before, noticed the dedication of the staff. One day a Muslim woman was admitted to the hospital during a malaria seizure. When she recovered, she was embarrassed that she had been seen writhing on the floor and flailing at the nurses. She apologized to Ida for her behavior. Then a thought struck her. “Tell me!” she demanded, grabbing Ida’s hand. “Tell me, why didn’t you lose your temper with me when I went out of my mind?”
Before Ida could answer, a Hindu woman from the next bed sat up and smiled. “Don’t you know?” she chided the Muslim woman. “That’s what their God is like, long-suffering and slow to anger.”
Ida nodded. She could not have said it better herself.
Many encouraging incidents like this occurred along the way. Ida would need more of them, though, because in February, Annie became ill. Her skin was yellow, and she had a high fever. As much as Ida hated to face it, there was only one diagnosis—cholera.
As Ida sat by Annie’s side, she thought of all the good times she and Annie had shared. She recalled their antics at Northfield Seminary, the personal letters they had exchanged, the way Annie had teased Ida about being a missionary, and how Gertrude had provided the money for Annie to join her in India at the beginning. Annie had been there when Ida wept for her father and when she struggled with the overwhelming needs of the hospital. Now Ida fought desperately to save her friend’s life. She gave Annie saline injections, and she and two other doctors spent fifty-six hours sitting by Annie’s bed. But it was no use. Annie was slipping away from life. Her last words were, “Finish the building.” In true Vellore style, right up to the end, Annie’s thoughts were about expanding the facility.
The funeral service was a huge affair, a testament to the hundreds of women who had come to know Annie as their friend in the twenty-four years she had served at Vellore. When she first started visiting the women in their zenanas, very few of them were open to her. Before she died, not a house in the whole of Vellore did not welcome Annie to visit.
The following days were lonely for Ida. Annie’s death made her feel old too, and at fifty-three Ida wondered how many years of service she had left.
In April Ida knew she needed a rest, and once again she headed for the hills of Kodaikanal. She had always found solace there, and now she had another reason to go. She had purchased eight acres of property there. To Ida it was a scenic delight, and it had cost her only one hundred dollars. She called the new property Hill Top and planned to build her own bungalow on it one day.
Once she arrived at Kodaikanal, Ida found that she could not remain idle for long. She drew up plans for a house at Hill Top, and with a generous gift from Gertrude, she began the project. It was a painfully slow process, though. Everything had to be hauled to the site, four miles above the town, by bullock cart.
Many of the other missionaries thought the task was foolish, but Ida did not care. For once she was able to build just what she wanted without worrying about committees and rules. Her imagination ran wild as she planned formal gardens with rockeries and trellises, and informal ones with masses of brightly colored flowers and apple trees. Whenever she could, Ida went to the building site to dream and direct the project. She took her mother up to the property several times to see it, but Mrs. Scudder suffered from rheumatism, and the bone-jarring road was difficult for her to cope with.
Sophia Scudder did not live to see the house at Hill Top completed. She died in her sleep on August 30, 1925. She had spent sixty-three of her eighty-six years in India and had touched many thousands of lives during that time. Even though Ida had watched her mother grow old, she was still devastated by her death. It seemed so strange that she was not there to greet Ida when she came in for lunch or ready to sit and talk at the end of a long, discouraging day.
Half of Vellore lined the streets as Sophia Scudder’s casket was driven from the church to the cemetery. It was a moving sight for Ida to see so many people, Muslims, Hindus, and Christians, men and women, all standing silently in honor of her mother. The fact that they were willing to stand side by side was a tribute to the impact the gospel had had on the town.
The year ended on a happier note. It was Ida’s silver jubilee. As hard as it was to believe, twenty-five years had passed since Ida had returned to Vellore to take her place as a doctor beside her father. The medical college designated her fifty-fifth birthday “College Day,” and many of her old students came back to help Ida celebrate.
It was a time of great satisfaction for Ida. By now four classes of doctors—seventy students in all—had graduated from the college and spread themselves around India. Twenty-eight of them worked in mission hospitals, twenty-three in government hospitals, nine in rural villages, and five in child welfare centers; two were in private practice; and one was in New York doing postgraduate work. The last two, Ebbie Gnanamuthu and Kamala Vytbilingam, were on Ida’s staff.
Twenty-five years had whisked by with its challenges and triumphs. Ida now had a medical school, a nursing school, and a large hospital, but still there was much more to be done. Ida found herself wondering what her next challenge would be.
Chapter 13
A Large Garden to Water
He has accepted the invitation, and he’s coming!” Ida announced to her latest class of students in 1927. A general twitter of excitement filled the room. It was not often that a man came to address the students and staff, and perhaps only once in a lifetime it was a man like this. The man was Mahatma Gandhi, the most controversial man in India. He wore nothing but a coarsely woven loincloth and a string around his neck, and he preached nonviolent opposition to the British government and self-sufficiency for the people of India.
Many English people in the area turned up their noses when word spread that Ida intended to have Gandhi speak to her students and staff, but Ida did not care. She was as interested in meeting him as anyone, and she wanted him to see and understand the work of the medical school and hospital.
Gandhi arrived at Vellore in a red motorcar piled high with hand-woven towels, tablecloths, bedspreads, and saris, which like the hand-woven loincloth he wore, had all been made by poor Indian women as a means to support their families. As he stepped from the car to greet Ida, she was suddenly aware of what a strange sight they must be. Gandhi was a folk hero, and everyone who could be spared from his or her studies or duties was waiting for him in a ward that had been emptied of beds for the occasion. Four hundred people in all were crowded into the space to hear him speak.
Gandhi sat cross-legged on a table, and Ida sat on a chair next to the table. Gandhi spoke for only a few minutes, urging the students to serve others with a simple heart and to resist becoming proud when they gained recognition. When the talk was over, Ida showed her guest around the hospital complex, which by now consisted of an administration building, the Cole Dispensary, the children’s hospital, a maternity and gynecological block, and a beautiful, white-domed chapel. The crowds thronged after Gandhi, bowing and kissing his feet whenever Ida stopped to point something out to him.
