Dec. 11, 2004 - 20:01 MST

THE WONDERING JEW

I Ought To Know

There is a difference between medical practise and surgery nowadays compared to yester-years.

Jim Lawrence had an entry today, much of which concerned his daughter Jill's very recent quite successful tonsillectomy.

Which took me back to a story of ancient times when I was little.

Seems as if my tonsils were removed (they thought) when I was a wee baby. But I guess there were enough left of them that they thrived and grew.

Trying to pinpoint time is hard from this end of the time line. It was before I went to school, I could communicate but was still sleeping in my crib. About as close as I can come to it was about three and a half, four years old.

I had been back and forth to doctors with Mom for quite sometime, how well I remember that big round reflector that the doctor wore on his head so he could look down my throat and see if my shoes were tied. That plank of tongue depressor and "Say ahhh. But nothing was told me, I just thought that going to the doctor periodically was the normal thing.

I had in my memory the times of sore throats, earaches, colds and that sort of thing. The only odd thing I can remember is Mom telling the doctor that I was going deaf, and if he said anything to her about it was while I was in the waiting room.

Enough of setting the scene. A spring morning, sunshine lighting up the bedroom, birds chirping cheerfully. I woke up and saw this strange man clanking stuff around on the top of our dresser. To the point I said, "Who are you ?" I got the answer, "Never mind, go on back to sleep."

I was a crotchety little kid, especially when awakened like that. Damned if I could go back to sleep. I kept pestering the guy to no avail.

Pretty soon my Dad came into the bedroom, "Heck," I thought, "He should be at work, whats up ?" No time for formalities, Dad came over, picked me up and carried me to the kitchen.

Now what's a kid to think on the way to the kitchen, is he going to be an item for breakfast or what ? Dad wouldn't answer my questions either.

I was laid on my back on the table and my arms and legs gently restrained. I wasn't gentle though, I was trying to get off the table and out the door. I didn't know what was up but didn't want any part of laying on top of the kitchen table, arms and legs held by others. Main man on the scene was this imposing figure with a white mask and that damnable mirrored reflector on his head.

I continued to make every effort to vacate the premises, to no avail and getting more and more frightened as time went on.

Then something was put over my face and as I breathed something went wrong and I was gone. I continued to fight to the very last bit of consciousness remaining to me. And I was still fighting when I awoke, crying like crazy. My throat was totally on fire. Familiar people like Mom and Dad were around me and trying to comfort me, but I had been betrayed, jerked from bed, slapped on the kitchen table and attacked by a strange person.

The usual things were told me, "The more you cry the more it will hurt, don't try to hold your breath, that will hurt too." And other things of that nature, things rejected by my mind immediately. All I wanted to happen was for that hurting to stop and those damnable fuzzy cobwebs to get out of my head.

Thinking back, my Dad did spend several days at home with me while Mom tended things around the edges. Finally ice cream made its wonderfully welcome appearance given me little spoonful by little spoonful.

Chicken soup, broth and things like that were about all I could handle for quite a time. I remember that one afternoon after Dad gave me some ice cream I went into the bathroom and when I came back out asked Dad to hook up my coveralls, seemed I was too weak to make much headway. I backed up to him and as he took hold of the bib I hemorrhaged a big spout and lost consciousness.

Seems that I spent a day or so in bed after that -- a bit blurry there and there is no one still alive to fill in missing pieces.

So, of course recovery after that went as well as could be expected of a young sprout and without a hitch time marched on.

Still the element of betrayal worked on me, way down deep. One time several years later I was able to get one on one with Mom and put the question to her in words similar to these, "Mom, why didn't you tell me what was going to happen before I had my tonsils out ?" The heartbreaking answer I received was that, "Aunt Martha thought you shouldn't know before hand what was coming up and she is usually right."

I think perhaps words were said by me that day that Mom didn't know I knew or knew I knew what they meant. She got me calmed down and made me promise to not fight with Aunt Martha. Which worked for awhile.

Now Aunt Martha came from Europe as a young lady whose parents were so poor that her clothes were made from flour sacks and her folks eked out a living as best they could. Time jump, I was going with a young lady named Heather, yeah my Heather, when one evening at dinner Aunt Martha made some remark or other about it not being wise for me to be going with a girl from the other side of the tracks.

She and my folks were still friends, but Aunt Martha and I never spoke to each other again.

Sure took a long time to get over a tonsillectomy and the associated fol-de-rol.

This was a story ? Nuh uh, I was there I Ought To Know . . . . . . . . . . �

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