In The Strangest Places

I did not want to be there. Truthfully, the doctor actually lied to me to convince me that it was necessary, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to have this surgery. The idea was even worse than the daily thrashing that was inflicted on me by the bullies at school. What can be said to an eleven year old about such things? The pediatrician told me, well, after he told my mom, that if the procedure was not performed, that her son would not be able to have kids. Even at that age, my thoughts were that having a family of my own was quite important. A baseball team, yes, nine kids was my goal (and now, including step-children, the team has two extra players). Oops, I might have given away some of the story too soon. Dang.

To add to the problem, I have had a severe phobia of needles ever since my tonsillectomy at the age of 2 1/2. Yes, I remember the whole thing. They gave me the needle to put me under, and did not wait for me to go to sleep, but that is another story for another time. Anyhow, weeks later, there I sat knowing that in the morning they were going to cut me open (in the most delicate of places) to supposedly protect the future of my progeny. The room was bare and cheerless, as hospital rooms were in those days. The room was a semi-private and the other bed was empty. Even a children's hospital was a place of depression at that time. Today, thank goodness, people who have given deeper thought to how much faster kids, and people in general, can recover if there is some sort of lively spirit in the recesses of buildings that harbor medical assembly lines, have given them a cheerful whitewashing. If they would only do something about the hospital food. Dreadful.

So, as I sat alone, on the bed, almost sick to my soul about the next day's events, another kid was wheeled into the room. He looked much the way that yours truly felt. His conversation with his mom was spoken in low voice, so it was difficult to understand what they were talking about. Eventually the mother of the boy sat down in a chair and just watched him sulk. It was understandable, as he was no happier about being here than I was. He did have one of his parents there to keep him company, but even that did not seem to be overly helpful towards making him feel better about the situation.

There was a television in the room, and the boy's mom looked at me and pointed to the set. I nodded and she turned it on. For the life of me, what we watched can not be recalled. It might have been sports, baseball or something like that. It's hard for me to pass up the opportunity to be friendly, and so some comment or another came out of my mouth. The boy said nothing back. This made me wonder if he was just not in the mood to talk or if he was ignoring me. His mother said something to him that I did not understand. He smiled and nodded his head towards me. Mom explained to me, in carefully placed words, that her son did not speak English. My thought was "Oh great. Here is a companion to at least take a bit of the gloom off the evening, but we can't even chat".

But, he did look a little bit more at ease now than he had when he arrived. We watched the game, and occasionally looked over at each other. Once, when something good happened (no idea what it was now after all these years) I nodded and had a scrunched up smile on my face. The boy nodded back, enthusiastically. The game went on, and every now and then we would exchange a smile, a funny face or a bobbling of the head. Eventually, the mom kissed the boy good-bye and left us alone, but not before slowly telling me "I'm glad he has a friend to talk to".

The rest of the night went along much as it had after that first smile of his. We spoke, with hand gestures, fingers pointed and nods with funny faces. It completely changed the mood in that dreary room. Having a friend to talk to made the rest of the time before sleep a time to remember in a much nicer way than you could have imagined under the circumstances. Eventually, the nurse came in and shut the television off. It was time to nod in a different manner.

In the morning, when I woke, my best hospital friend had already gone for his appointment with the surgeons. I recall blocking my arms in the doorway as they tried to wheel me out. After much effort by the orderlies, they got me dislodged and took me to my surgical destiny. The procedure was performed, unsuccessfully it must be mentioned, and I spent the next five days being poked by doctors, receiving best wishes from school mates (at the urging of the teacher for sure) who hated me, and visits from family friends (one of whom was Mrs. Van, a nice lady who worked with my father and brought me a box of "vitamins", read candy here, to help me get well). Of course my parents were there as well to cheer me up as my release from the institution crept closer.

All of this was helpful but, even though we never saw each other again, my former roommate and our lively conversations, without words, is what got me through that first night at the hospital and I will always be grateful for that silent chat.

Oh, and even though my surgery was not a success, please don't tell my eight biological kids that it was a failure. It might unnerve them.