Winter Songs

A funny thing happened...

Being twelve, or being really dense (not sure which applied then, becoming quite aware of my limitations now) I know that they didn’t just pull out a gown and gloves. However, not too much later I was in a room in what was referred to as ‘Babies Hospital’. Again, strings were pulled and somehow I ended up in a single, with it’s own sink and air conditioner. Recall that this was 1975, and while many hospitals today are up to code and built like honeycombs, Babies Hospital was old, and looked it. The hallways were dark, there wasn’t the constant barrage of intercom calls and they still had that crank that lifted your bed into the ceiling so that a lightning bolt would strike and bring you back to life. Oh wait, that’s Frankenstein…where was I?

After what I’m sure were exhaustive tests and visits from all kinds of doctors, I was scheduled for surgery. One of the hurdles was that they couldn’t just go in and remove the tumor. It resided on the optic nerve and would have left me blind had they treated it that way. However, a hospital, with all that shiny, new equipment wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to use it.

A gurney was sent to bring me from Babies to the Operating Room. The hospital was interconnected with a series of tunnels so that travelling from one to the other required mules, tents and canteens. Since I didn’t feel sick, nor did I fully understand the gravity of the situation, I recall walking along with the gurney, at least part of the way there.

I was first taken to a large room where a guy began to cut and then shave off my hair. I recall that they then rushed me off to be prepared for surgery. However, I was able to see my bald reflection in a paper towel dispenser. I looked quite strange, particularly with the words Georgia Pacific written backwards across my forehead.

I was in my rolling bed, in a hallway outside of anaesthia waiting my turn to count backwards from 100. A man stepped up to me, introduced himself and said he’d had a call and did I know so-and-so. It was my neighbor, who just happened to be an anasthesiologist who called to make sure I was doing well. It was a lovely thing for her to do and the tech seemed quite impressed.

Although I’d seen the routine in movies and television shows, I was surprised to find that they actually did tell you to count backwards. I recall my final words before I was out cold, “I’m not gonna fall asleep from……”; and out I went.

I woke up. I was still in my bed, only I had obviously arrived at another destination. Since I didn’t recall any brilliant white light, or men with wings and harps, I knew I was still in the hospital. A team of nurses surrounded me, one took blood pressure and other readings, while another began the quiz. Where are you? Who are you? What happened to you? I replied to each one, the heads nodding along. However, when they asked me for the date, I replied, “July 8, 1975”. This shocked the questioner. He said, ‘No it’s July 7th.” We went back and forth again, and then he thought to check his watch; the second hand wasn’t moving.

I was told to sleep, and who was I to argue. When I awoke later, I was in a corner of a brightly lit room. I would be there until I was healed enough to move to my own room. I quickly became aware of the voices around me. Kids were crying, kids were yelling for the nurse, and all this over the blare of several televisions tuned to different channels. I had tubes in all parts of me, my head was bandaged. I probably looked quite extraordinary. My stay in Pediatric ICU is quite a blur. However, there were some high and low points.

I was blessed with being in the corner that happened to have a little record player. (yes, actual vinyl records) I had a small collection of albums at home, but I recall my parents offering to purchase what ever I wanted. I was a big fan of the group Chicago, and had many of there albums, but there was one that I simply could not afford. It was a live set at Carnegie Hall, 4 or 5 albums and yet one of the most amazing live recordings I’ve heard. They brought it and I remember being able to stack the albums on the ‘record changer’ and listen for what seemed like hours.

I was quite uncomfortable, but the nurses were able to remove tube after tube and it wasn’t long before I was no longer draining. I soon insisted that they let me use a bathroom. The catheter (squeemish yet?) had done it’s job, so had a bed pan, but I wanted to a) be vertical and b) do those jobs for myself. With one hand on the rolling IV stand, I was able to hobble over and well nuff said.

Soon after they decided I could have ‘real’ food, that is to say, I was not limited to broth. However, some sadistic dietician ordered my first meal. It was a hotdog and french fries. I greedily ate it, but at the same time, I knew that after going that long without food, that I should have been eating something a bit easier to digest.

Finally the day came for my great escape. I rolled back out of the hospital and to the long dark halls of Babies Hospital. There I spent three weeks waiting for someone to bring a cake with a file in it.

Posted by bbrother at May 9, 2005 02:56 PM | TrackBack