Looking back on the 1918 Spanish influenza pandemic

Cynthia Goldsmith (left), NIAID Rocky Mountain Laboratories (RML), U.S. Photo by NIH (right)

It’s not noon on a windy day, and I’m aware that I have washed my hands seven times. When I’m writing, I try not to dimly touch the face or rub my eyes. This is close to the impossibility of self-control.

My voice is a bit faint. Occasionally a sneeze or cough brings pathological thoughts.

Due to the need to be triggered by fear, the coronavirus has made us a country of obsessive-compulsive, hand-sanitizing hypochondriasis, yet its inclusion includes playing epidemiological Whac-A-Mole games. It looks similar. Existentialism question: how bad will it be?

This may be of limited comfort, but it doesn’t remind us of the fall of 1918, when optimistic expressions drowned in the whirlwind of bad news. The devastation caused by the 1918 Spanish pandemic of influenza, which lasted until 1920 and marks the end of World War I, is almost impossible to understand.

The Spanish flu has at least three stages, and the worst is 31 weeks, killing 20 million people worldwide. From mid-September to October 31, 1918, approximately 30,000 people died in New York City alone. The next week, an additional 12,000 urban residents died.

Estimates vary, but overall, the flu kills at least 50 million people, including 550,000 Americans. One in 200 American citizens died. Most of them are young people between the ages of 20 and 40.

My grandmother fits that precedent demographic. She was pregnant with my aunt at age 24 when she had the flu at age 19-actually both death sentences. They survived, but as a precautionary measure, a barely 1 year old mother was sent for several months to live with a relative in Connecticut.

My family was counted for good luck, but the weekly morgue records published in the New Rochelle newspaper correspond to the tragic microcosm of the human genocide.

During the week of October 12, 1918, 12 deaths in New Rochelle were due to the Spanish flu. Nine of the dead were adults who are prime ministers. All of them are ordinary everyday people whose names are all forgotten.

The list included the night coach of the New Rochelle telephone company, Anna Cordon (35). Henry Grab, 28, was a volunteer at the local Hook & Ladder Company. Leonard Fisher, also 28, was a musician who led the band at Fort Slocum on David Island. Philip Cide (26 years old) was a popular barbershop with a store on Mechanic Street. Emma Conrad, 37, was mourned by her husband and “several children” and was buried in Beechwood Cemetery. Three-year-old Tony Mandarino died at home on Six Street and was buried in the Holy Sepulcher.

Photo by Stephane Ladoke

“The devastation caused by the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic that lasted until 1920, the day of the end of World War I, is almost incomprehensible.”

There were more names, more stories.

Five residents of one household died in Hastings. This was considered good news, as 13 deaths were reported in the Yonkers on the 1st, but 20 died the day before. A 21-year-old sick man at the St. John’s Riverside Hospital in Yonkers married from Massachusetts calling his girlfriend to bedside. She arrived with a ring, marriage license, and minister, but the young man died before exchanging vows.

During the fashion, P.T. Admiral Dot, a so-called “famous dwarf” who appeared in. The circus of Burnham died at White Plains Hospital due to the Spanish flu. The night before, 25-year-old daughter Hazel had the flu.

Schools, cinemas and places of worship were closed throughout the county. The hospital was overwhelmed. At some point, the East View County Hospital reported that 6 out of 9 nurses were “very ill”. Some died.

State health laws made it a misdemeanor to sneeze or cough without a handkerchief. Save yourself, save others! I asked Hermann M. Biggs of the Health Commission. With or without law, people wore protective masks called “donkey muzzles.”

A report on the sharp rise in prices at drug stores. Snake oil remedy sold by fraud. “Don’t wait until your cold becomes a Spanish cold or pneumonia,” said Hill’s bromide ad. “Kill me immediately.”
The Tarrytown editor wondered if life would return to normal and wrote, “These are strange times.”

The same can be said now. There is nothing “normal” about social distances, travel suspensions, self-quarantine, and containment zones. The truth is, no matter how many times you wash your hands a day, you don’t know exactly how this will end up. But we know this: someday, this heat will break, and we will appreciate life more and more.

The opinions and beliefs expressed by Phil Reisman are his only and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and beliefs of the editors and publishers of Westchester Magazine. Tell me your thoughts [email protected]