Tonsils

15. My parents seemed to have more than their share of sick kids. Thank goodness, the illnesses were mostly normal childhood diseases, but either Sue or I seemed to come down with sore throats and colds every month. Finally, our doctor suggested to my mother that we both have our tonsils taken out. We were quickly scheduled for a weekday morning in November at St. Anne’s Hospital, where we were born, and repeatedly assured that the whole procedure would be painless, ending with a dish of vanilla ice cream.

Sue and I were scared out of our minds as Mom and Dad brought us into the hospital. We were directed to a children’s ward and put in beds next to one another. The first thing the nurses did was inform us both that we had to have a shot but they knew we were big brave girls and wouldn’t cry. I made a fist and as much of a muscle in my arm as I could - only to find out the injection was much more painful when I did it. Word of the shot was about the last thing Sue could handle. She was so scared she became belligerent, much to my mother’s dismay. The nurse tried to talk sweetly to her but she made it obvious she wanted to go home and didn’t appreciate anyone touching her. We had some time before the operations so the nurse suggested that we go down to the children’s room at the end of the hall.

“These are baby toys,” Sue said as she looked disdainfully at the sad assortment of books and toys.

“Come on, Susie, want to read a book?” My father was trying to get the smallest of smiles out of her but she stubbornly held on to her fear and her displeasure at being in the hospital. Dad’s efforts were short-lived, however, as the nurse came in and announced, “we’re ready for you Susan.”

She looked at all of us as if we had betrayed her. Mom went to take her hand but she folded her arms and stood firm. I stood there, coloring book in hand, feeling a bit embarrassed that they didn’t take me first, since I was the older girl, the bigger girl. She had hardly had a minute in this playroom and already they were taking her to the operating room. She had to be brave and be first. I was older and should have gone first so maybe she wouldn’t be so scared.

By the time they did come for me, I was anxious to get it over with - complacently letting them put me on the gurney, strap me down, wheel me into the operating room and put a smelly rubber mask that reminded me of the end of a toilet plunger over my face. I closed my eyes and saw rockets blasting off, fireworks against the night sky, then - darkness. Before I knew it, I was waking up in a bed next to Sue, feeling like my throat was on fire. Waking up from the anesthetic, we were both whiny, miserable and upset. Talking was a major effort. Before the whole procedure, we had been assured that ultimate treat of a dish of vanilla ice cream would make up for whatever we had to endure. When the nurse arrived with it, along with the expected fanfare from my father, we both turned our faces into the pillows turning the treat down cold.

“Hey you two, this is great ice cream,” my dad was saying, trying to coax us. He hated seeing us in such sad shape. “MMMM...if you don’t want it, it will be gone in a second....how about just a little taste?”

We both gave the ice cream a try, but swallowing was nearly impossible, despite the intended cold, soothing effect. We continued to whine - crying hurt too much. After letting us rest for a few hours, the doctor released us. Our parents bundled us up in blankets and took us home.

Tonsillectomies were routine for most children in the ‘50s. The doctor who removed mine and Sue’s was the same man who delivered me - Dr. George. He was pretty much considered a saint by anyone who worked at St. Anne’s Hospital. He probably didn’t expect that within 48 hours, I - and then Sue - would be return visitors to St. Anne’s.

Not much interested in eating, we soon fell asleep for the night. Hours later, I found myself coughing into the pillow because it seemed like saliva or some liquid kept accumulating in my mouth. By the dim glow of the nightlight in the hallway, I could see that there were dark streaks staining my pillowcase. I was not sure what it was, but it obviously came from me and as I sat up, a sudden surge of nausea overtook me.

Nightmares, tummy aches and fevers usually brought us running into our parents room, to my mother’s side of the bed, waking her with a “Mom, I had a bad dream!” or “Mom, I don’t feel so good,” or - as on this night - “Mom, I feel like throwing UPPPP!!!” and then depositing the contents of my stomach on her side of the bed. This, of course, caused my father to leap out of bed, but my slower moving mother caught the brunt. Once my father flipped on the light, it became apparent that I had vomited blood and that my throat was bleeding from the operation.

My mother’s “Ohmigod!” woke up my sister Judy, asleep in the crib, who began crying. Both of them were running around between the bedroom, the bathroom and my bedroom, looking for towels, another nightgown, a glass of water - anything to remedy the situation. Judy is now screaming, my mother is yelling directions at my father about taking me to the emergency room, she and I are both wearing blood soaked nightgowns that make us look like victims of a massacre, my father is trying to dress as fast as he can, and I am about to faint between my parents’ bed and Judy’s crib.

Despite all the mayhem, Mom managed to clean me up, bundle me back up in the blankets, and tearfully send me off to the hospital with my dad. In the ten minutes it took to reach St. Anne’s, I rode with my head against the side window and white as a ghost. My father did his best to keep up the conversation while driving like a madman.

“How ya doin’ there, Skeezix?” He wanted to make sure I was conscious and I responded with feeble answers.

I can still see the black wrought iron fence surrounding the hospital flying past us as we headed for the emergency room. Dad carried me in and the nurses quickly put me on a gurney and wheeled me into the e.r. Fear suddenly gave me a tremendous amount of energy as I tried to sit up, watching my father disappear behind the doors of the waiting room.

“DADDY!” I shouted, only to be firmly pushed back down on the gurney. “I want my dad!” I told the nurse.

“We have to take care of you first - you’ll see him in a little while,” she said, but I was having none of it. I stayed down, trying to look around to see what they were planning to do to me. Apparently, my father was giving information to the doctor on call, who, when he came into the area where they kept me, looked like he had just been awakened from a sound sleep. He did a quick check of my throat then talked to another doctor. He ran one hand through his thick, dark hair and scratched his butt with the other. He looked too sleepy and out of place to be taking care of me - he didn’t look like kindly, older Dr. George. I kept looking to see if I could catch a glimpse of my dad.

Before I knew it, I was surrounded by nurses and this sleepy doctor. They spoke to one another, not to me, and the doctor had something behind his back.

“I want my dad!” I told them, but they ignored me as the doctor explained the procedure to those all around. He then brought out a huge hypodermic needle, filled with some brownish fluid, that caused me to scream for my father.

“Now, now, just lay back, this won’t hurt,” one of the nurses said. Seeing the needle in the doctor’s hands as he began to get closer to me, I knew she was lying.

“NO! STOP! WHERE’S MY DAD??!!! DADDY!!!”

The doctor held the needle above my head as I lay on the gurney. He was inching it close to my nose, trying to hold my head still. I could not understand what he was doing - only that he wanted to give me a giant shot in the face. I covered my face with my hands and rolled over on my stomach, screaming and crying for my father. They kept talking to one another over me and then I heard someone count, “1-2-3...”

Before I could fight it, I was flipped over on my back and strapped down to the gurney; I probably weighed all of 50 pounds. A nurse was holding my head straight and tipping up my chin. The doctor approached when they got me still and proceeded to empty the contents of the syringe into my nose and it then dripped down into my throat. It was painless in that I did not get pinched by the needle, but the fluid made me feel as if I was drowning. Crying only made it worse and I figured that the quieter I stayed, the sooner it would be over. When it was, they took me up to the children’s ward where I eventually fell back asleep, scared but too exhausted to cry. My father had to leave without seeing me.

I awoke in the morning to see my mother coming into the room with a new coloring book and crayons. The emergency room nightmare was far from my thoughts as I cracked open a fresh pack of Crayolas and started in on the book filled with pictures of Santa and his elves.

My hospital stay was only three days; but I couldn’t wait to go home. The worst part was the food. The main staple seemed to be jello - not one of my favorites - and my request for coffee and toast at breakfast was literally laughed at:

“Children don’t drink coffee, and besides, toast is too rough for your throat. Do you want it to bleed again?” said the nurse.

“I drink coffee every morning,” I told her, “with milk and sugar and I can dunk the toast so it won’t be so rough.”

She smiled sweetly, “Here’s your jello.”

Eventually, Sue suffered the same setback from her tonsillectomy, but only had to stay for a day and we both went back home together. Over the years since, my mother constantly swore that the colds, sore throats or bouts of flu went down dramatically after getting our tonsils out.

But to this day, I still hate jello.