A Private Room, Please
When I reflect on the word sickness, I feel that I’ve hardly ever been truly sick. But as I think back, I can see that over the last ten years, I seem to have made up for that. I’ve had a couple of serious illnesses, but I just never chose to consider them life-altering.
As a child, I had the usual lineup: chicken pox, measles, mumps, colds, the flu, all those “lovely” little sicknesses that keep life interesting. I especially remember one day in kindergarten, coming home to find a big red sign posted on our front door. It announced that someone inside had a contagious illness and warned others to stay away. At the time, this was a common practice, though not long afterward, that way of announcing illness disappeared.
We moved to the northern part of town when I was in first grade. Whenever we were sick, my mom would call the doctor. Now, back then, the doctors would come to the house, and you would get a checkup, diagnosis, and the horrible, anticipated shot that, for some reason, seemed to be a cure for everything in our house. We were also leery, not to say horrified, to call the doctor, as we knew we would either get a shot or be sent to the hospital. We feared both of these things beyond your imagination. A fate worse than death.
When I was in fifth grade, I came down with pneumonia. So, you got it, Mom called the doctor. I got not only several shots, but a rather long and unappreciated stay in the hospital. Remembering back, I am actually embarrassed to remember that I was not a very good patient. First of all, I was put in a baby bed because they were out of beds. I kept getting up and out to show whoever was unlucky enough to come to visit the lady sharing my room that I was not a baby. I’m sure it was quite obvious, but I had to be sure. Then, I got lucky and was given a twin bed. Now I loved to jump on the bed and pretend it was a trampoline. There was a lady who shared my room who had a large oxygen tank between our two beds. While doing my shenanigans, I bumped her tank, and it fell over. I don’t remember what happened after that because she was not sharing my room anymore. I hope I didn’t kill her by destroying her oxygen supply. I sort of stopped my bad behavior when I heard a large booming voice standing in the doorway saying, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING. That was the voice of Dr. Kores, our family doctor. I can’t help but laugh to myself when I realize he would never get rid of me, as he had brought me into this world, took care of me all through my childhood, and then had the privilege of delivering my two girls. Lucky guy!
Back to my stay in the hospital, and the dreaded event that happened. My little sister, Judy, also came down with pneumonia and was put in my room to share with me. I considered this a real pain as she was always asking me to do things for her. The worst thing was when she woke me up in the middle of the night to share that she had shit her pants, had rolled her whole bedding up into a large ball, and was standing naked in the middle of the bed. To say that I wasn’t unbelievably embarrassed would be telling a lie.
That was my only stay in the hospital gives me nightmares to this date, to realize how naughty and inconsiderate I was.
I need a private room, please, no family allowed.
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