Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn't.
 - Mark Twain

Going to school was not always my favorite activity.
I was not a very out going child. In class, I didn’t participate and tried my best to blend in with my desk, wishing I could crawl into it when I was asked a question. Pull my pigtails, anything, but please don’t ask me a question. Miss Swanson, the teacher, would have us do math problems at the chalkboard; I would not be able to do the problem and start crying right in front of the class.

Miss Swanson was known to carry a wooden ruler for discipline and I never wanted to be on the wrong end of her swat. To top off my humiliation the kids would laugh at me which only made me cry harder. Who would want to go to school and endure that torture?

There were a number of times I faked not feeling well to avoid these experiences. If I told my Mom that I was sick; maybe held a damp cloth over my head and pinched my cheeks rosy red, she would believe me. When she took my temperature and left the room, I would warm the thermometer up a bit under the faucet before she came back. That usually worked, but I had this feeling that she knew what I was doing.

The rule was when my sister or I were sick, we had to stay in bed. We couldn’t go downstairs or watch television. I really didn’t mind too much, as my room was a very special place for me. It was small; it felt safe to me. My bed was tucked under an alcove under the eave of the house, so it was close and cozy all around me. I had a lot of stuffed animals who I slept with; Mom said it was hard to find me sleeping amongst all of my friends.

My room was my island; my bed was my boat. My stuffed animals all sailed with me. The hold was filled with books to read. I had a very special crew handling a large number of passengers that included just about every animal from bears, to giraffes to kangaroos. My Crew Commander was Mr. Stubbs, a wonderful sock monkey with broad red lips (it looked like he had gotten into his mother’s lipstick).

He gave commands very well to the other crew members, Zebra, Patty, Sleepy Bear and Otto Octopus. I could count on them to keep the passengers comfortable while I read to them. One of our favorite books was The Boxcar Children. We always fantasized being able to venture off on our own as the brothers and sisters did in the story finding an old boxcar and fixing it up to live in so they could stay together. At the end of the day, Mr. Stubbs guided our boat back to the island, another trip safe from pirates and thieves. We were all tired, but happy from the day’s sailing ready for the evening rituals.

My father, who worked at Sears and Roebuck in Chicago, came home by train about 5:30 P.M. Dad had the nicest brown eyes and was the kindest person ever. Usually, after he cleaned up and changed his clothes he would bring me some tea and visit.

Dad and Mom seemed to understand my situation at school, neither reprimanded me of my tactics to stay home. I guess they decided the day home wasn’t hurting me grade-wise and knew I would grow out of it.

Unfortunately, there were other times when I was really sick and missed a lot of school. Strep throat and ear infections plagued me on a regular basis. At times, it felt like swallowing a sword of fire. Those days I would have gladly traded for the classroom. I would have put on a suit of armor, pulled the sword out of the stone and valiantly fought my fear to the board and attempted to do a math problem. At least, the class wouldn’t see me crying as I had pulled my helmet down over my face. I might have even gotten the problem right, because I couldn’t see what I was doing.

Dr. Morgan, our family doctor, decided my tonsils needed to come out. My friends and classmates were all in awe. I was pretty hot stuff. Going to the hospital was a whole new adventure for me.

This ‘adventure’ was bringing out a different personality in me. I was conjuring up stories I never thought I could tell to others. It was rather amazing. For example, one day walking to school I told D.D., Georgie, and Cindy stories that made their hair stand on end.

“What will it be like?” asked D.D..

I responded with, “They make you drink this awful tasting yellow stuff that about makes you puke. Really bad. Then, I heard to put you to sleep they give you 12 shots with needles 6” long all in your butt.”

Georgie’s eyes were wide open, “How do they take your tonsils out? Going to sleep is creepy enough, I don’t know if I want to hear this.” His hands were covering his ears just in case.

I looked at them all seriously, “It isn’t pleasant. First, they break your jaws with a hammer and chisel, just like the tools your dads have. That’s so your mouth is wide open. Second, they clamp your tongue with a big metal clip like a clothespin to your lower lip and third the doctor reaches in your throat with a sharp knife and goes WHACK! WHACK! Off come your tonsils.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Georgie said nearly falling off the curb. “I’ll never have my tonsils taken out! My folks will have to hog-tie me first.”

Cindy (whose father was a doctor) always felt she knew everything, cried out, “Stop this nonsense, Ann! I can’t stand to hear it any longer. How can you say such things when you have never even been in a hospital?”

Our walk had taken us to the schoolyard; the three-minute bell rang warning us to get to our classes. I was literally ‘saved by the bell’ and ran fast. Hopefully, Cindy would forget my stories and get on with her day.

The time came for my first visit to the hospital. My own stories were bothering me and I was beginning to worry. I wondered if the surgery was going to be worth it. Even being ‘hot stuff’ did not seem important now.

It was a cold wintry day, icy and slick roads made the trip slow. It was bitterly cold sitting in the backseat of our 1955 black sedan Galaxie Ford with vinyl seats that froze in the winter and stuck to the back of your legs in the summer. The heater blew hot air as far as the front seats so Mom and Dad were always warm. I couldn’t seem to get warm despite all the winter clothing I was bundled up in. I never said a word to Mom and Dad up front.

We pulled up to the hospital and I slid down in the seat as if to hide and not be noticed, ‘perhaps no one will see me and forget why they came here in the first place.’ My Dad opened the door reached in and took my mittened hand.

“Come on Pumpkin, we need to get you checked in,” He said gently and with a smile. “Don’t worry everything will be OK.”

Dad, Mom and I stood in the hall with a small built, blonde nurse who said her name was Angie. She had big green eyes and a nice smile. I put my hand in hers and, carrying Mr. Stubbs under one arm, walked the long hallway to my room. Angie showed me my bed and all of the neat things it could do with the crank and the buttons. Then she showed me a button I could push if I needed a nurse for some reason, like getting up to go to the bathroom. Get this, my bed had side-rails on it, like a baby and I couldn’t get out of bed by myself. Now for the most humiliating part of this trip. Angie handed me the gown I was to wear for the stay in the hospital. It was white with little pink and blue bears on it (ugh!). To top it off I wore it backwards, tied at the top with maybe three ties, wearing no underwear with this huge air gap showing your fanny. Excuse me, there was a lot of information that I was not told about this stay and this was a very critical piece.

Mom and Dad stayed with me until sleep time, giving me hugs and kisses, assuring me they would be back here early when I woke up. Mr. Stubbs and I held on to each other with the scratchy sheet and rather wimpy blanket wrapped around us tightly. Angie would come in and check on us, “You need to get some sleep now. The both of you have a big day tomorrow.” Stubbs was her patient, too. Finally an extra blanket was thrown over us. The welcome warmth relaxed my fetal position and we drifted to sleep.

“Ann,” my Dad gently whispered in my ear, “It’s time to wake up. Dr. Morgan is here and needs to talk with you before your surgery.”

In a soft voice Dr. Morgan said, “Ann, the anesthesiologist is here to meet you.” He leaned over the bars of my bed and whispered, “This guy is kind of a nut, see if you can handle him.” Standing up straight and clearing his throat Dr. Morgan stepped back making room for another man. “This is Ryan, your anesthesiologist.”

Laughing, a red-headed freckled, skinny, tall fellow reached out to shake hands with me. “Can you even say that long word? It would be a good word to take to school with you to stump your classmates. By the time you leave here, you will not only be able to say anesthesiologist, but spell it too!”

I looked at him, hesitantly reaching out to shake his hand. Ryan also shook hands with Mr. Stubbs. This guy was all right.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to learn how to say anaseestheezzy whatever. Maybe I could earn some extra credit.”

“Say that would be a good deal,” Ryan said with a big grin

“Hey, Ryan, will you be with me the whole time?” I asked hopefully. I really liked him (Mr. Stubbs did too). 𠇎very minute,” Ryan told me. “I will be there when you wake up and visit several times after you get back to your room. Does that sound good to you? Gotta practice with that word, you know.”

“All sounds good to me. Now let’s get this over with. I’m ready.” I was getting impatient and getting nervous again.

What I remember next is floating on a cloud. Mr. Stubbs was still with me and we were lying back with our eyes closed enjoying the warmth of the sun and the blue sky.

Mom and Dad were close by. She was brushing my brow reassuring me, “Everything is going to be fine. We will wait for you with Mr. Stubbs in your room.”

Ryan‘s voice said, “Ann, just relax,”

He continued without any interruptions, “ I am going to place a mask over your face, breathe slowly and deeply and count from ten backwards then you will go to sleep. When you wake up, the surgery will be all done. Here is the mask. Now breathe and count.”

“10...9...8” I counted and slept and missed all of the action. Once again, my waking was to voices speaking softly. At that point, I really didn’t comprehend much. All I knew is whatever that man put me to sleep with (I later found out was called ether) had the most horrid smell ever.

The doctor not only whacked my tonsils out he then decided to scrub my throat with a wire brush. Oh, as an after thought, he decided to leave the brush in my throat. Mr. Stubbs, Mom and Dad were waiting for me in my room. It hurt too much to cry. I held onto Stubbs who was sleeping restlessly.

I survived. It wasn’t but a few days and I was going

home, eating sherbet and being spoiled by my parents. They let me eat while in my bed or downstairs in front of the television. My big sister was pretty cool for a while too, letting me borrow some of her books and use some of her TV time.

This didn’t last forever. After staying home for two weeks, I was getting tired of eating Jell-O and ice cream. Mom’s home-cooked pot roast, mashed potatoes, and gravy sounded pretty good to me and tasted even better. I was even ready to go back to school. Besides, I had a new spelling word for my teacher.

You know what? I never had strep throat or ear infections again. I guess that Doctor Morgan didn’t do such a bad job after all.

My episode happened in 1960; in the spring of 1983 my oldest son experienced the same surgery. Peter also had continual problems with strep, ear infections, and sore throats. Finally, Dr. France, our family physician decided his tonsils should be removed. Peter, at the age of thirteen, was quite ready to find an end to all of his miserable sickness.

His blood work had been done on an outpatient basis and the next day he checked in, had his surgery, stayed in the hospital for 24 hours and checked out. When we checked him out, he was so hungry that he wanted to stop at Taco John's and eat. To my amazement he was able to eat two burritos without any problem at all. Peter recuperated rapidly and returned to school to tell morbid stories of his traumatic surgery.

My son’s surgery was 20 years ago. Today, I can imagine this relatively simple procedure can be done with one-day laser surgery to a drive through ’Snip & Clip’ Service.

Despite how times have changed dramatically over the years in medicine, I still have my best medicine: Mr. Stubbs and his crew as we sail out on our boat, safe from the pirates of the sea, listening as I read to them our favorite stories.

Originally submitted to the Englewood, Colorado Centennial writing contest, April, 2003

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