Hospital stay

In November 1947 I was in Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia, and remember it like it was last week, or yesterday as I write this. I was three years old. I was in a crib on one side of the room and a nurse brought in a baby and placed him in a crib on the other side. Later, they brought in a gurney and placed him on it and wheeled him out. Later in the day, the gurney came back with the sleeping baby who had a pacifier in his mouth. Somehow it struck a familiar chord with me.

A day or so later the gurney came back. The orderly asked me if I wanted a ride. My antennas went up. There was something a little odd about his invitation and I didn’t want to go. I shook my head. The orderly persisted, “Don’t you want a ride? We’ll just go down the hall. You like rides, don’t you?” I resisted, but finally gave in after more promises of taking me for just a little ride. He sat me on top and soon we started moving, out the door, he turned right and proceeded down the hall. I felt like the King of the Mountain.

The feeling was woefully short-lived. I suddenly remembered what might happen. I had been in an operating room several times before sometime after the age of one. I became afraid of the tanks next to the operating table; tanks that were the cause of that awful odor which must have come from them. They gave me ether to put me to sleep and I developed a fear that persisted long afterward.

This time I knew what they were going to do. I started to cry. The orderly kept up the pace, even pushed the gurney a little faster. By the time I got to the end of the hall and turned left, I was in full cry and screaming, and by the time I was halfway down the next hall I was crying, “Don’t put anything over my nose! Don’t put anything over my nose!” The orderly hurriedly wheeled me into the Operating Room and they gently laid this terror-stricken kid on the operating table as he kept crying, “Don’t put anything over my nose…” A nurse at the other end of the room called out calmly, “No, we won’t put anything over your nose.” Just then a hand clapped gauze over my face from behind and sprinkled the dreaded ether. I saw circles and sparks and passed out in seconds.

I can only guess what they did afterwards, after breathing a collective sigh of relief. They probed, prodded, cut, snipped, rearranged, swabbed, sewed, and bandaged. I was oblivious of it all—I was in a blessed drugged sleep.

I woke up to find that I was bandaged tightly around the waist. They wheeled me back to my room. The nurses were immediately in attendance, declaring to me and everyone how brave I was. One nurse explained to me that I was to stay in my bed for awhile. “Do not get up until we tell you,” she warned.

My parents lived about 40 miles away and Dad showed up once in awhile. He told me later that I was listed as “The Darling of the Nurses.” They were the ones who saw to my health and welfare, saw that I was clothed and fed. Otherwise, it was rather lonely sometimes.

One evening a man came in, clothed in a suit and tie. I didn’t remember seeing him before, but as I sat in my crib, he walked over to me and asked if I would like some ice cream. Of course, little boys like ice cream—I said yes. He left the room and soon came back with two Dixie cups of vanilla ice cream and two wooden spoons. He opened one for me and then he sat down in a chair nearby. As I ate my ice cream I felt a feeling of importance that someone would spend a little time with me, just a kid. As I remember, he appeared to be in his 20s and he stayed there until he finished his ice cream, and then left. To this day, I don’t know if he was a man or an angel.

I remember being in another room, still recovering from the surgery, and this time I had a roommate about my age. One morning I looked out the window and watched the people walking on the sidewalks far below. Soon my roommate looked out the same window and exclaimed that he saw my Daddy. I remember thinking that he must not be able to recognize my Dad, I never recognized any of those people from the seventh floor. But I expected Dad to show up soon.

Noontime rolled around; no one showed up. A nurse brought our lunch—mashed potatoes, peas, and hamburger. I guess I was disappointed that Dad wasn’t here. I started getting rambunctious. I started throwing the mashed potatoes, peas, and hamburger and persuaded my roommate to join in which he did a bit half-heartedly I thought. The food landed on the floor, some on the wall, and bits of mashed potatoes clung to the ceiling. Soon a nurse came in to see what all the shrieks of laughter were about. She took one look, singled me out as the perpetrator and slapped my hands with a harried, “I ought to make you clean this up yourself!” She sentenced each of us to our individual cribs and firmly raised the bars.

The next shift of nurses saw two little boys meekly sitting in their cribs; haloes slightly askew. They had found out about our little caper but one nurse came and lowered the sides again, “They shouldn’t treat children this way,” she announced in our defense. Later my roommate’s Dad showed up. He had learned about the food fight in Room 721. I watched as he put his arm around his son and talked to him in gentle tones. I felt guilty as sin—and still no Daddy.

I survived the whole ordeal, and so did the nurses I suppose. I was there to acquire a new lease on life. The surgeon had adjusted the internal plumbing to bring about normalcy in a kid who was born with the need for it. But in the process I developed a phobia against ether and alcohol. Every time I got a whiff of rubbing alcohol I would go into a panic. When I was 21 years old I suddenly realized that it didn’t bother me so much, but in subsequent hospital visits I would have a memory of the early days whenever my nose picked up the odor of sterilized sheets.

I wrote the beginning of this story about five years ago and the emotion of that day renewed itself afresh and I was glad I was alone. It is not necessary to see a grown man cry.

Today hospitals are kinder and more considerate of the emotional needs of children. Parents and guardians are allowed to be with a child patient. Doctors, nurses and caretakers are more apt to dress informally to offset the scary severity of a hospital setting.

When I left the hospital I was given the choice of picking one of two toys given to me by the hospital: a toy truck full of toy animals, or alphabet blocks. Dad persuaded me to take the blocks. He knew I had plenty of toys when I got home. I would have preferred the truckload of animals.