When I was a little girl, I was pretty healthy. I caught the common cold; that was no claim to fame. I also had mumps, measles, chicken pox and - horror of horrors - scarlet fever. The mumps just plain hurt; if I remember correctly, my mother tied a strip of sheet soaked with some topical around our little faces to sooth our swollen cheeks. When the measles came it was like a badge of honor. My sisters had ‘em and, finally (whew), I, too, was covered with spots. What a relief! Chicken pox came the same way - like a gift, passed down the line of sisters.
Getting sick held a certain notoriety, you got more attention, and I didn’t want to miss out on that! I remember being jealous of my sister's spots when they began to dot her pretty, round face. And then, of course, the itchy-misery jumped over onto me. Hmmm, what’s going on here? The only fun was when Dad came home from work; stood in front of the three of us huddling together on the couch and laughingly asked, “Hey, how are my three little chickens?”
My bout with scarlet fever occurred when I was really little; maybe two or so. It became a family legend because the Langton’s had to be quarantined for ten days or so. I don’t remember that part, but I do remember a scary swirl of fever-driven dreams and learning the term nightmare to describe them.
Another famous health-related incident took place when I wasn’t even two years old. Picture this: My mother was off somewhere taking a nap, (she was probably pregnant with my sister, Lauren). I’m wandering around by myself in the kitchen and, as I pass through the pantry, look up through a partly opened cabinet door, recognize a bottle of wild-cherry cough syrup, hoist myself up, grab the bottle and slug it down. Ha - some people think counters are for chopping onions — others of us know better and grab an opportunity when they see it! Whenever my mother told this story she’d stress the horror of finding me unsteady on the floor with my eyes dilated into tiny points. And, how the doctor told her to give me ipecac syrup to get me to throw up all that codeine.
Very recently, I experienced another kind of health horror. I had a bike accident where I dislocated my ankle and suffered breaks to both my tibia and fibula. As a kid, I might have envied the attention and notoriety associated with a hospitalization and surgery. Not a week following my mishap, I have a whole new respect for what follows such an occurrence.
A myriad of words and phrases surface to capture the experience and I might do a post on it later (a kaleidoscopic 101 upon being injured?) For now, just this. If I could only choose one aspect of the experience, it would be to call out the support I received during the ordeal. Everyone was just so helpful: my husband, an on-the-scene neighbor; friends and family with dinner food, flowers, books and goody bags; phone calls and emails that consoled and encouraged. Most especially I’m grateful for the countless health professionals whose intentional, heartfelt, skilled help made all the difference in making me feel safe and well cared for: the surgeon, residents, nurses, aids, technicians, EMTs, PTs, phlebotomists, radiologists. Etymologically the word support suggests that which is carried from below; a broken leg certainly sets up that kind of a need. These folks embodied such hope in a discouraging moment, and I don’t want to leave anyone out of my thanks.
May your weltschmerz soon become wellness, from head to toe.
ReplyDeleteI had a bout of pneumonia back in the early 1990s for two weeks that put me in a ventilator and ICU, at United Hospital in Grand Forks, ND. One of the nurses was an older woman who had seen the best and the worst of life's conditions pass through her ward, I think, whom I met upon awakening with a ventilator tube stuck down my throat. She was legend.
ReplyDeleteAnother care-giver there was a physical therapist who asked me about the possibility of growing blueberries commercially on my farm here in its 'light soils' or sandy loam; he had inquired of my farm's location to Beltrami Island State Forest where he knew blue berries grew; the beauty of caregivers literally knowing the local landscape, giving patients something else to think about than their pain, their immediate situation I always appreciated. I've never forgotten him; his name is in my notes somewhere.
I have long respected, especially nurses, as my late sister Sandra Ellgaard, was one. My aunt Irene Davidson-Reese was an LPN, whose call to action along a remote Canadian lake shore, in 1972, saved my life. Where would any of us be without them?
My family had a similar series of childhood diseases along with a syrup swigging sibling.
ReplyDeleteI’ll be staying off bikes, horses and scooters. Better La-Z-Boy than sorry.