My parents brought me from NJ to a Park Avenue surgeon when I was almost eight. He was a stranger, not my pediatrician. I was informed that I was going to "have your tonsils out." When it was explained to me that they would put me "to sleep" and my tonsils in my throat would be cut out, I freaked. I waited until my mother was distracted and literally ran out into the streets of Manhattan, thinking if I got lost, no surgery. (Well, I WAS eight.)
They caught me and tried to reason with me. On the ride home, Mom stopped at a diner and bought me a hot fudge sundae in order to appeal to my sense of reason. More of this if I got the surgery.
They even gave me an insipid record to play to get me used to the idea. Peter Ponsil Lost His Tonsils.
Fast Forward to the morning of the surgery. I was checked into, no less, Mount Sinai Hospital on Fifth Avenue. (Holy cow! For tonsils???) My mother was with me. I was told about the ether and the mask. And I was told I'd get a shot to help me sleep. And I was expecting to get that shot in my arm like the other ones, like tetanus. And I hated shots. But no, I was misled. The nurse told me to lower my pajama bottoms. What for? For my shot. What? Who does that? It almost sounded perverted (to an eight year old). I looked helplessly at my mother, hoping for parental intervention. No dice. If anything, Mom looked tired and perplexed. What are you waiting for? (So much for my patient advocate.) I didn't want that shot in my butt. I knew that crying and throwing a fit wouldn't change things. And I was getting that shot. I figured all I could do was stall for time. The nurse was poised. I looked up and asked her, "Nurse, is that needle clean?" Yes, I asked a nurse in a premiere hospital whether the needle on the shot was clean. Mom looked aghast and maybe would have put me out before the shot hit me.
Post-surgery. I woke up and my throat was screaming in pain. Swallowing saliva was torture; same with water. I went on a hunger strike. Refused ice cream. They made me roast chicken. (Are you kidding me? It was akin to swallowing broken glass at that point.) And they kept me in the hospital for longer than usual because I lost a lot of blood during the procedure. And they gaslighted me, telling me that losing a lot of blood meant the surgery went very well. (It sounded like malpractice to me.)
I was released. At home, while still coping with a very raw throat, I contracted measles or mumps during my recuperation. Double the pleasure, double the fun. (Note the sarcasm.) And I "celebrated" my birthday during this time period. I was miserable. And I missed a lot of school.
Because I lost so much blood, I was quite anemic. That meant I had to take these awful green pills to build up my red blood cells. I could barely get them down. And it also meant getting the finger-stick blood tests alternate days to check my blood count. I swear the technician not only used the same finger, but also managed to stick me in the same spot on my finger, which was howling painful. The other option to build up my blood was to have me eat the vegetables I most eschewed: spinach, Brussel sprouts, etc.
This whole adventure lasted from February to April.
While I don't
think I have PTSD from all this, you can tell it made an imprint on my memory.
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