Too Often A Patient
I should probably qualify that by saying first off, I am not a doctor. But I have been a patient on numerous occasions so hospitals do not scare me. Now in my mid-late 40s, looking back apart from the usual angst of operations, I have warm feelings about the people striving to make my life better through surgery. There is something ennobling about lending your trust to someone else, if even for a short while, to do their very best to make you better. Be it a doctor, a surgeon or other professional staff whose main mission is, -you!
A Brain Tumor?
One of my first operations was when I was about four years old. I had just started kindergarten and was ‘acting strangely’ I guess would be the best descriptor. Supposedly, I was doing things like falling asleep deeply and at inappropriate times (during school lessons, during play dates, etc) and upon waking hours later, I would resume whatever activity I had been doing, exactly where I had left off. So I was told.
I do remember quite a bit from this period in my youth, being diagnosed by several family doctors with the dismissive “oh, it’s just ‘school nerves’”. YES, -several doctors told this to my parents that their son had ‘…school nerves’ whatever this was supposed to mean. And that yes, it would pass. This is crap. It is like having 'growing pains’. –No such animal.
It was my Aunt that tried to intervene, sought and encouraged continuance in the pursuit of finding out what was wrong with me. Her father (my grandfather) supposedly chastised her ‘for meddling…’ and insisted that ‘…there is nothing wrong with the child!’
My mom however, decided that there WAS something wrong, and pleaded with my aunt to ‘continue to intervene’, and she did. My auntie got on the phone and starting making calls to everyone she knew, her church group, her friends, anyone, about whom to enlist to aid this quest.
Intervention
A good doctor in a nearby town was recommended, and he checked me over. -A “Dr. Cummings” as I recall, and HE too, thought something was indeed wrong.
I was sent to Strong Memorial Children’s Hospital in Rochester, NY, where a brain tumor was discovered. Back in the mid-60s, this was still new territory. Few brain tumor operations were successful, but they felt that I would die within a few days anyway if they did not remove this as soon as possible. These next few days I recall with great clarity; screaming in agony in the backseat of the car prior to the cartrip to Rochester, yelling to ‘-go slower over the train tracks!’ even though the car had not even left the driveway. I remember my mom and dad crying in the front seat of the car as I tossed and rolled in the back seat, in pain. The sound the car door being pulled shut was like a rifle shot in my ears!
I recall arriving at the hospital in Rochester, being checked-in and of course since I hadn’t been able to eat for days, being very hungry. Nothing I ate would ‘stay down’.
A bit embarrassing, but someone in the elevator has smelly armpits. Very rank. But you know, there was a mild ‘sautéed onion’ fragrance to this, and I kept saying something to the effect of ‘what smells so good?’ and my dad kept ‘shushing’ me to be quiet… (opps!)
My Aunt is a religious person, and she started or was actively participating in a ‘prayer circle’ at her church for me, to rally my strength. I only found out about this prayer circle many years later, but it extended all the way across the United States.
Chocolate Milkshakes! YUM!
While at the hospital, they offered me a slushy chocolate milkshake and I was able to drink it and keep it down. My strength did improve; at least enough to sit up in bed and consume some calories in the form of milkshakes. I remember with clarity that upon finishing the milkshake they eagerly asked me if I would like another. Yes I would like another! I was not about to upset my hosts and what, -REFUSE(??) another delicious chocolate milkshake. Upon finishing that one, a THIRD milkshake was offered, accepted and I held it down. I was never was offered THREE milkshakes at home! A full tummy now, I recall being very happy.
My strength improved within a day or so, enough to move ahead with surgery. My head was shaved smooth, and I remember the surgeon using some sort of clear graduated measuring card and pen, ‘drawing’ lines on my head. HE was laying out the site for the incisions.
