The Fear Of Hospitals

I never told my doctor why I was afraid of hospitals, but he knew I was alright. I went to him to have a pestering, itchy patch on the side of my neck looked at. It was a rash that wouldn’t clear up; I tried everything, including witch hazel, isopropyl alcohol, iodine, Merthiolate, mercurochrome, and other home remedies that didn’t work at all; the damn thing just kept itching and itching and getting bigger.

When I first saw it, it was about the size of a pinky fingernail, but, after a couple of months, it was now about the size of a dime, and getting bigger. The itch went from a nagging, irritating itch to a burning itch. And although the burning was no more than a one or two out of ten on the pain scale, it was still very irritating.

I went to a friend of mine who was a family doctor and who was taking over his father’s practice who was retiring at the end of the year. My friend and his father both looked at it then looked at each other. The patch was now an ugly dark brown and turning black, and was beginning to smell something awful.

“I think you have a melanoma,” the elder physician, Dr. Robert Michael James said to me and motioned for his son, Robert Michael James, Junior, to also have a look.

The elder doctor said to me, “Melanoma is the most dangerous form of skin cancer It comes from pigment-producing cells called melanocytes. It’s usually caused by UV exposure. Have you been spending an inordinate time outside in the sun, Derek,” he asked me.

“Uh, no I haven’t.”

“We’ll have to get you into the hospital and remove it as soon as possible.”

“Why is that,” I asked.

“Because it can spread very quickly,” He said. He turned and left the room to phone the hospital admitting desk to make the arrangements.

“Mike?” He used his middle name to differentiate himself from his father. “What’s he talking about?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Doctor Mike said. “He always talks that way.”

“But, surgery?”

“What they’ll do is put you to sleep, make an incision about twice as large as the patch, cut it out, going below all the layers of the skin, then, because the skin has great elastic properties, pull the edges of the incision together, and sew it up. You’ll be out in just a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours,” I repeated.

“Yes, what’s the matter,” he said seeing the expression on my face.

“Well, can’t you and your father do it here?”

“No, of course not?”

“For one thing, we don’t have the instruments. For another, once the patch is removed, it has to be taken to the lab and tested for cancer. If it’s negative, all well and good. If it’s positive, then we have to schedule a regimen of treatments.”

“What regimen?”

“It depends on the type of cancer it is, and there are hundreds of types.”

It was then the elder physician reentered the room.

“It’s all set,” he said. You’ll check in at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Mike and I will both be there; our receptionist is clearing our schedule as we speak.”

“But—but.”

“Now, don’t worry about a thing. Everything will be alright,” he said in the usual doctor’s soothing voice, holding up his hand. Then, he frowned at me. “What’s wrong Derek?” he asked me.

“Uh, nothing.”

“Oh come now, you’re worried I can see it in your face.”

“It’s just that I’ll have to clear my schedule for tomorrow too.”

“You’d better clear it for the rest of the week.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You’ll be having some pain and be on a painkiller. Better clear the rest of the week.”

“Oh, all right,” I grumbled and left the father-and-son office.

I met the son years before in the sixth grade after my family had moved into Brentwood, Indiana, because my father, a skilled-trades employee with an automobile manufacturer, received a transfer to Brentwood with a fifty percent raise in salary and all expenses-paid for moving.

Immediately after that, I was hospitalized with a rather severe case of strep throat and pneumonia in the left lung. (They ultimately removed the lower third of that lung.) The sore throat was so bad, it even hurt between swallows! It was during this hospital stay that I met my friend and his doctor father.

When my parents first checked me into the hospital, it was in the children’s ward. The first thing I became aware of was the smell. It was a combination of medicine (at least I think it was medicine), urine, feces, and vomit. (I thought these last three was the smell of death and wanted out of there right now! I didn’t know until much later what those odors actually were.)

After I was body slammed into a bed by a nurse built like King Kong, she strapped me in tightly, starting with my chest, waist, legs, and then placed my left arm straight out and battened that down, too. She said it was because it was closer to my heart than the right arm, so they were going to put in the IVs there. The left arm was strapped down extra tightly (at least that what I thought), so they could insert the IV tubes.

Once I was entrapped (for life I thought) in the bed, I heard a deep, whooshing sound, like, “Woo, ah, woo, ah woo, ah.” Years later, I learned this was the sound of whooping cough. It seemed the sound came from somewhere behind me.

It continued constantly, day and night, and on about the fourth or fifth night, I suddenly woke up at about one or two o’clock in the morning, it was deadly quiet, the only sounds were the soft soles of the nurses scurrying around and whispering. I lay there wondering what was going on when it suddenly dawned on me that the kid making the “Woo, ah,” sounds was not making them anymore and that’s why it was so quiet. In my ten-year-old mind, I knew this was not natural.

Panicky, I hit the nurse-call button with my right hand. King Kong came in (did she ever go home?) and breathless said, “Yes, Derek, what is it?”

“Why is it so quiet? Why can’t I hear that kid anymore?”

“Uh, he went away,” she said hesitantly.

I knew a cover-up when I heard it. “This late at night,” I asked, incredulous.

“Well, we put him in a different room.”

“Why?”

“Because he was keeping the other kids, like you, awake. So, we put him where he wouldn’t bother you.”

I believed that like I believed you could walk on water without sinking. Jesus could, but no one else could. But since I had no proof otherwise, I didn’t argue. I just laid my head back down and listened to the nurses and other people who I heard joining them, running around. I finally fell back to sleep. I have no idea how long it took, but I don’t think it was very long.

The next day, my fourth or fifth in the hospital, I got violently sick from the treatments they were pumping into my left arm from a bottle suspended above the left side of my head and a little behind so I couldn’t see it. I had been feeling a little queasy since the day after my parents checked me into the hospital, but this day, it hit me really hard, like a semi truck.

It seemed like every ten seconds I was puking my guts out and ole King Kong was right there, patting me on the head and wiping my mouth, saying, “There, there. It’ll be all right pretty soon, now.”

It wasn’t until then I noticed she had a voice like a foghorn and that didn’t soothe me at all. But, since I was too busy puking and pooping and peeing myself with every heave, I didn’t have a chance to say so, especially since I discovered to my utter dismay, when you squirt puke, you also squirt poop and pee if your bladder and bowels are full. Very messy! But, ole King Kong was right there for me, helping me to get clean after each spell. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all?

It was only a day after that, that they put two tubes into my left lung, one to drain fluids, and the other to pump oxygen in to prevent a collapse of that lung. After that, it was a blur of being bounced like a basketball, tubes being inserted and removed, and oxygen mask strapped tightly over my mouth and nose.

“You’ll feel a little pressure, nothing more,” (my mother’s ass! How would you like it if I did it to you?) then, someone jabbed the world’s longest needle into my left side.

Then came the elder Doctor James’s voice about two hours later. “Mr. Caine, your boy is very sick. The left lung is not draining out like it should. The X-Rays show an obstruction, maybe a tumor. We’ll have to operate immediately.”

After that, someone changed the bottle hanging above my left ear, then blackness. When I came to, it felt like the world’s largest steamroller was sitting on my chest. An object that looked like a punching bag hung above my head and I could see it expanding with a WOOSH, then it contracting with a loud TICK. Over and over again, WOOSH! TICK! And my entire trunk was in excruciating pain. Then, some lunatic (I don’t remember if it was a nurse or a doctor) said, “Tell me how bad the pain is. One for the smallest pain you’ve ever had, and ten for the worst pain you’ve ever had. Although I couldn’t speak, in my mind I yelled, “OF COURSE IT’S A TEN YOU MORON! WHAT DO YOU THINK, IT TICKLES OR FEELS GOOD?”

I must have been squirming because the person said, “Well, I’ll just mark it as an eight.”

AN EIGHT? AN EIGHT? I’LL EIGHT YOU, IF I CAN JUST GET THESE STRAPS OFF!

As I was destroying the speaker in my mind in the worst way I could destroy a person, I suddenly felt very warm, and then, I was in La-La land. I didn’t notice anyone coming in and giving me a Mickey Finn, but I was sure glad they did because along with the sleep came the absence of pain, and that was very welcome. After several weeks, most of it spent trying to relearn how to breathe again and without screaming in agony, I went home and continued my recovery.

And that is why I passionately hate hospitals. Oh, I know, I shouldn’t, but when your first time in a hospital (I mean after birth), is this bad, you really don’t want a return trip. At least, I didn’t.

*

An antibiotic cream cleared that patch up in just a few days, so I didn’t have to hear another kid dying of the whooping cough, or have Nurse King Kong care for me, or anything else, although I could swear the nurse applying the cream was Nurse King Kong. The funny thing was if it was she, she hadn’t aged a day. I wonder why?

The End