A Childhood Story

Hospitals are where the sick come to heal. Yet, when many walk through the doors, waves of anxiety envelop them. Questions come to mind like, “Will I be ok?”, or “How much is this going to cost me?” and “Did I put on clean underwear this morning?” In a building of science, one would think that a person would be at ease with knowing that there are so many qualified professionals there to help you, but you have to realize that when you walk through the hospital doors you have to leave all humility behind. As a young girl, you don’t think about those things. Eyes grow wide with the sight of strange medical devices, doctors in sallow green scrubs, and the crazy man talking to him self. You don’t know how your fears can grow because at that moment you are still safe sitting next to your mother.

I was about the age of ten. I had ash blond hair; cut in a stylish little bob and I hated dresses, recess, and tennis shoes. I didn’t like sports, yet due to kicking matches with the larger girl next door, my legs were always covered in bruises. I never seemed to get along or function well with other kids my age, which I guess explained the kicking matches.

It all started with a severe cough that I had had for two weeks. Despite my mother’s homeopathic remedies, it developed into a case of bronchitis. After a long painful day of school, I came home with a soaring fever. I couldn’t breathe with out sharp pains in my chest. It felt as if razor blades were lodged between my ribs and with each breath they struggled to get free. My mom, worried half to death, bundled my sister and me into the car and rushed to the hospital.

As a child, between my sister and me, I had always been the sickly one. I was always the one getting sick with strep throat or tonsillitis. Even with chicken pox, I had spent a whole week delirious with fever, watching my Laura Ashley wallpaper turn into a Technicolor dream world and only remembering when to tune into the Pink Panther or Gilligan’s Island. If I had been a character in Little Women then I would have passed away before Clare Danes had gotten scarlet fever. My sister on the other hand, had always been the tough one. Only once had she been sick to the point of going to the hospital.

I can remember sitting in the waiting room, outside of triage, with my dad, kicking my legs against the pleather furniture, my sister and my mother had been behind the curtains for some time now, when the most god-awful scream came from behind the dingy curtain. In my mind, I could see the doctors piercing my sister Kara with huge needles; needles that you could imagine veterinarians using on horses or sick cows. That was how horrible the scream was. With these thoughts of needles and cows running through my mind I looked up to my father, and before I could ask if that really was her scream, he dismissed all notions with, “No, that’s not Kara. She will be fine”. Once again I could hear that scream. I started to get scared. I don’t know what I was scared of, cows, needles, who knows, but the reality of me being in the position that she had been in, was starting to set in.

We had arrived to the emergency room. My sister and I took a seat and my mom filled out some paper work. About an hour later a nurse called my name and escorted my mom, sister, and me into a curtained area. The plump nurse, almost bulging out of her scrubs, held a clipboard and asked my mother a few questions. I had no idea what was going on.

“She looks very dehydrated, I will bring something in for her when I come back to get the blood work.”

“Oh thank you,” my mom replied, “we have been in the waiting room for so long.” The Chubby nurse turned and walked away. Before I could rap my feverish mind around the idea of a blood sample the nurse was back with frozen boxed juices and a tray of two small tubes and a needle. I’m not the type of person to resist what must be done. Bravely, I handed my arm over. With a small prick and an unusual tug, she was done.

“See? That was not too bad. Eat your juice and the doctor will be in shortly.”
I picked at the fresh Band-Aid on my arm and I picked at the frozen juice. Hours seemed to pass by. In a hospital, “shortly” obviously meant when we get around to it. Finally, a tall thin man pulled the curtain and walked in. He asked how I was and proceeded to poke my ribs and ask where it hurt.

“I’m going to order some chest x-rays to see how much fluid has collected, then we will go on from there.” With that he turned and left.

In my head I stared to imagine what the x-ray machine looked like. I imagined my cold naked body laying on a metal gurney and a large machine hanging over. A lightning bolt flashed in the room and the machine lit up to reveal my translucent skin and my skeleton. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to take off my clothes for a stranger.

Suddenly a large black man came in with a wheel chair. With a deep voice he said, “My name is Tyrone. I’m here to take a Kirby Johnson to get x-rays.” Mortified, I got up and sat in the wheel chair. “Don’t worry, we will be right here when you come back,” my mom sang and off we went. Far into the hospital he took me until the smell of old turkey dinners and disinfectant were over whelming. Then we were there. I silently started to cry.

“Now, now don’t you cry. Just stand on the x and it will be over in a minute.” He left the room. There was a loud noise and a bit of light. He came back in and exclaimed,

“All right, time to go back.” I whipped my tears away. I was overjoyed. All my worrying was for nothing. When I got back, my sister and I joked around and drank more juice. The nurse poked her head in and spoke to my mom. The doctor had reviewed my x-rays. There had been a lot of fluid in the lungs, which explained the sharp pains when I breathed. He wrote me several prescriptions and with a little more paperwork for my mom, we could go home. I was ecstatic.

An imagination can do more damage than anyone else can. Fear of the unknown makes cows roam in hospitals and the crazy man look like anything more than a loveable drunk. Fear may paralyze you, but it is your will that pushes you forward.