My First Surgery

When I was eleven years old I had my tonsils removed. This was a relatively simple procedure that was done a lot in the fifties, and many of my friends had had it done, so I was confident that I had nothing to fear. Over the span of about two years I had missed a lot of school because of tonsillitis and strep-throat, so finally my doctor advised my parents that removing my tonsils would be the only solution.

I remember some of the medications that I took for my throat problems. At the first sign of a sore throat my mother would drag out the Vicks Vaporub, a couple of old rags, lemon juice, honey, black tea, and the Bayer Aspirin, and she would set out to save money and cure me with her home remedies. I was ordered to bed with a cup of hot steaming concoction that was the most awful tasting drink I think I have ever tasted. It was hot tea, and this is where the honey and lemon juice went, into the tea. I think this was supposed to wash the ugly stuff from my throat, but all it really did was make me gag and throw up. Mom would enter my room periodically to make sure I was drinking, but what she found would be a full cup of tepid liquid. The longer I put off drinking it the colder the tea would become. And the colder the tea would become the nastier it tasted. My mother didn't give up easily, but neither did I. I was prepared to die before I would drink that stuff.

Next came the neck wrap. I was slathered up and down my chest and all around my neck with Vicks. Then she would wind the folded rag around my neck and tie it in the back, or she would use a large safety pin to secure it. The purpose of this was to keep the greasy stuff from getting everywhere; on my bed, on my clothes, and especially out of my hair. It didn't work. It just made me stink. The Vicks was also applied to the space between my mouth and nose so to inhale the menthol and clear my head. When I tried to sleep I would turn constantly trying to find a comfortable position, but each time I turned the rag on my neck would move until it would be so dislodged or so tight around my neck that I would scream out with the discomfort. Mom would come in to straighten the neck piece and order me to take a drink of the tea from hell. Actually, the thought of having surgery and someone cutting inside my throat with a sharp knife sounded like heaven compared with the suffering at my mother's hand. Bring it on!

When my mother's torture didn't work I would be taken to the doctor who would send me home with sulfur tablets or even better sulfur gum. These were little mint green pellets that I chewed, and they didn't taste too bad. Other times I would have to have a shot of penicillin. I didn't really mind shots then, and I still have no problem with nurses coming at me with long needles. But I always wanted the shot in my arm. I wasn't presenting my bare butt to the doctor or anybody else.

I need to tell you a little bit about my doctor who delivered me when I was born and attended me until I was at least sixteen. His name was Dr. Stappenback. I used to know his first name, but that has left my memory. He had been our family doctor since Marvin was small, and he and my parents were very good friends. I both loved and loathed visiting his office.

The waiting room was a large, square room with wainscoting surrounding, and with at least twenty straight backed chairs lining the walls. There was a desk as you entered the door, but seldom was there a nurse seated. Above the wainscoting were some pictures and plaques, but what I remember specifically was a US flag (with 48 stars) and a framed picture of President Dwight Eisenhauer and one of Vice President Richard Nixon. Windows were placed along the top of the wall on three sides of the room, and outside were large trees lining the street of Humboldt, Nebraska. This doctor's office originally was a large, beautiful, two-story home with a large porch wrapped along the front and side.

Doctor had a large office with a huge bay window covered with venetian blinds. His office was also his examining room, his storage room, with his file cabinets and best of all his gigantic fish aquarium. It was taller than I was. It was longer than I was tall. It was about 3 feet from the wall, and it held more fish than I could ever count. I know, because I tried many times. The colors of the fish and the contents of the aquarium were mesmerizing for me, and I could have stayed there forever to watch it all.

It all came to a crashing halt when tall, scruffy-looking, Dr. Stappenback walked into the room. He smelled of rubbing alcohol and all kinds of medicine smells, and he had cauliflower ears. I don't think my eyes ever left his ears when I visited him. They terrified me. I was sure he had some communicable disease or leprosy, or something quite hideous. He adored me, and I could never understand why, as I was terrified of him. I wouldn't talk to him. I wouldn't do anything he asked me to do. I was sullen and pouty beyond anything I would have tolerated in my own children. Dr. Stappenback always told me that I no doubt would drown in a rain storm because my nose was stuck so high in the air. Or he would say that a rooster was going to perch on my lower lip and peck off my nose. I must have secretly liked him, but it took me years to get over my fear of him.

Dr. Stappenback came into my hospital room before my tonsillectomy to assure my mom and I that everything was ready to go, and that I was going to be just fine. I wasn't taking any chances. Tucked into the palm of my hand I tightly squeezed my furry, red rabbit's foot. They would never get me in that room without it.

The hospital was a large three story brick building, and I think the first floor was just for the crazy people; you know, the psych ward. The operating room was just another room on my floor and situated just a few feet away from my room. I walked in, climbed up on the hard table, and after talking for a few minutes with the doctor and his one nurse, they began to put me to sleep with ether while I counted backward from 100. I don't remember 97.

I'm told by my mother that Dr. Stappenback knew all along that I had my rabbit's foot in my hand, but he waited until after I was asleep to pry it out. They would never allow that today.

I awoke in my room with a very sore throat and my mother sitting at my side singing softly. The nurses were in and out constantly and I was allowed as much ice cream as I wanted. I don't remember seeing the doctor until a few weeks later when we had to visit for a follow-up of the surgery. But that was a blissful time of recuperation when I wasn't allowed to go to school for two weeks and ate ice cream day and night. I remember my teacher coming to the house with my homework and missed assignments, and I would lay on the sofa and watch soap operas and do arithmetic and spelling words.

I didn't get sick much after that, and my school attendance was regular again. I loved school, and I hated to miss because of the make-up work that you had to do. I was a good student, and I loved being in the classroom.

There is something that you will never find in my house today. It is Vicks Vaporub, though I do use, and like the smell of, Mentholatum. I used the Vicks on my children when they were sick with colds, and I think John still uses it frequently for a cold. I seldom have a cold, and when I do, there is no tea, no Vicks, and no neck rags to twist around my throat. If orange juice and vitamins won't cure it, I'm off to the doctor; the one without cauliflower ears.