Remembering My First Operation

Remembering My First Operation

This is a sketchy recollection of a memorable incident in my life. There isn’t too much that I could remember as a child of three, but this was steadfast in my mind. I remember that my mother and I were sitting in the back seat of a yellow taxicab. She did tell me that we were going to the hospital. I thought nothing of it, since I was happy to go somewhere alone with her.

When we arrived at the hospital, we went into a waiting room filled with other people. We sat there for the longest time until our names were called. I remember the room had benches, which were not unlike the pews in a church. When our names were called out, my mother took me by the hand and we walked along the halls of the hospital. Then we came upon this lady in white who smiled at me as she handed me a lollipop. At the same time, my mother bent down and kissed me on the cheek and hugged me tight. She urged me to go with the nurse and said that she would be back soon. Before I could react, the lady scooped me up in her arms and took me into a room.

The nurse undressed me and I was put into a diaper. That was it! I kicked, screamed and fussed. I was upset because I no longer wore diapers anymore. Then I was rushed into a room, bright with white lights. I was placed into a chair, and before I could indulge further into a tantrum, someone placed a mask over my face. It covered my nose and mouth.

The next thing that I remembered was being back home again. My tonsils were taken out, but I don’t remember my throat being sore. I do recall having Jell-O and ice cream to eat. I enjoyed being the center of attention, too. Somehow, eating that food helped eased the pain of the event.

Years later, I told my mother what I had remembered, and you know, she apologized for leaving me there alone at the hospital. She said that it was necessary because I had diseased and inflamed tonsils and they had to be cut out right away. She then told me about some sad circumstances that occurred that year prior to my trek to the hospital.

Mom talked about my two youngest brothers. I also had a brother that was two years older than me, and a sister who was four years my senior. At the time, my brother, Richard, was a few months old and brother, Edward was 13 months my junior. All five of us had whooping cough, a condition that was prevalent in the 30s. We all recovered except for my two younger brothers. Somehow, they contracted pneumonia. From my mother’s account of the story, I can still visualize both of them in separate cribs, each in front of a window at the back end of our house. The doctor would come everyday to check on all of us. My Mom had nothing but praise for this man. He never refused her cries for help. Those were the days when doctors were revered and adored. At least our family doctor had the patience of a saint.

Sadly, though, my infant brother succumbed from the pneumonia. Brother Edward was sent to an Upstate hospital to recover. He remained there for six months. When he was brought home, he was very frail and thin. It took a long time for him to walk by himself again. He had a long fight ahead of him to regain his strength and motor skills. He didn’t really start talking until close to his fifth year. The early years were difficult for my brother. It seems he was the target for every kind of medical problem. Then he started getting boils, too. He had this condition for the longest time, but when they finally went away, he grew up to be a fine young man. At eighteen, Edward joined the Navy. I could barely believe my eyes when he came home on furlough. He had gained weight and looked like a football player. It was wonderful, and we were all so proud of him.

My mother gave birth to another son when I was five. I do recall that day. I remember the good doctor sleeping on the daybed in the dining room until it was time to deliver the new baby. Mother explained to me that her wish was to have five children. She went through so much to achieve that goal.