Brooklyn Boro

The Hospital — A Good Memory

January 21, 2021 William A. Gralnick
Share this:

What is more aggravating living in a state where there are strict categories for who gets a COVID shot and when or living in a state where with no apparent rhyme or reason doses seemed to drop out of the sky so that some hospitals have a lot, some have a little, some have none. Same goes for drive-in locations where some places have them and some don’t. The nation will soon be seriously sleep deprived as people awaken at the wee hours to try and beat the rush, most to no avail.

A more pleasant memory about hospitals from days gone by I thought might be in order. A day when the insurance company didn’t rule hospitals like Duke’s ruled fiefdoms, a day when if you doctor thought rest was your best cure, you stayed in the hospital for days, or more. In those days mostly there were enough nurses for the patients and the hum of the hospital was even. For a youngster none of this made hospitals any less scary but for most youngsters being separated from one’s parents was scary, no matter where it occurred.

It was during such a time that I was stricken with a wicked sore throat. I had a furnace behind my tongue. The initial thought was mumps but one look in my mouth showed my tonsils had turned into small replicas of boots or large mushroom stems with no tops. Tonsilitis was the diagnosis and a tonsillectomy was the solution.

How well I remember it all. It adds fuel to the discussion of how young a little one can be to have a memory. The nurse, accompanied by my mom, tucked me into this sparkling white bed, nice and comfy. They came and did some tests and explained that the next day, early in the morning they would be back and take me to the operating room where they would put a mask over my face, have me count backwards from 10-1, and somewhere in the middle I’d be fast asleep. I would wake up back in my hospital bed, and when I woke up my throat would hurt. In fact, except for warm soup, I would be unable to eat food for several days. That wasn’t appealing. As a child I ate like a garbage truck; great quality and little discernment. My grandfather called me the bottomless pit. After the operation, I had no desire to eat and all that explanation was academic.

So true to their word, the staff showed up at some silly hour of the morning. They put me on a gurney and strapped me in. My mother walked beside; later it reminded me of a burial without a casket. I have a distinct memory of it being windy in the hallway. I tipped my head up and saw two, large swinging doors against which the gurney bumped pushing them open. It was here I lost my mother’s escort, but someone had slipped me a mickey and I was dopey enough for it not to matter much.

I remember the operating room and feeling like I had been wheeled into Antartica. “Cold,” I slurred. A blanket was produced. A big circular light shown down up me. A man with a gas mask showed up at my side, reexplained the mathematics, and put this mask, hissing vile smelling gas, all the while he’d be alternating between, “Deep breaths—keep counting.” I don’t think I got past breath number three and the number 7. My next memory was being back in my white bed and feeling green. It was then that we all learned that ether and I were not friends. A few metal pans and a pill later I settled down. I also learned that anything that went in either direction in my mouth, up or down my throat, had the effect of standing in front of a blast furnace someone had suddenly opened and sucking in the hot air.

All in all, I was not having fun. I napped off and on and at about five o’clock this overly cheerful, chirpy nurse who obviously had not had a tonsillectomy came in to announce in was dinner time. I was puzzled. “No food for days” seemed to drift through my brain like a sign hanging from behind a slow-moving ad plane flying over the beach. She broke out in a wide grin. “Oh, said she, they told you that you couldn’t eat. Didn’t they tell you the part that for the next few days all you could eat was ice cream?”  They’d missed that in the pre-op chats we had.

Well, that was fine with me. It was long before I became lactose intolerant. I can still feel that ice cream warming and melting on my tongue and sliding down my throat cooking the fire.

Unfortunately, it was my last fond memory of a hospital and maybe because of that I hold on to it like Linus holds on to his blanket.

 

Subscribe to our newsletters


Leave a Comment


Leave a Comment