At death's door in a hospital back in '71

Death. Public domain image by WikiMedia.

As she entered the room, the nurse threw back the curtain in the center of the semi-private room.

“Good morning,” she said, cheerily, and handed me a warm wet wash rag. “Wash as far as possible from the top, wash as far as possible from the bottom. And then wash possible.”

We both laughed. As I washed, she emptied the urinal hanging on the rail of the bed.

It was a bright morning, and the sunlight streamed in the window where I was recovering from an appendectomy the day before, July 4, 1971.

I had just graduated from high school in May, and I was working for the public works department, cutting brush in the city’s creeks and streams, gullies and ditches, where power equipment could not reach. I and the other young guys who worked that job swung weed whackers all day, or cut with pruners and loppers. Then we loaded all the brush onto a dump truck, and our foreman would drive it off to the dump.

Looking forward to going to the university in August, I was grateful to have a good job to save up some more money for books and extras.

On the night of July 3, though, I stayed up late, watching television and eating apples. The apples were slightly green. Oh, heck, most of them were very green, so they were tart. They were tart and tasty, and I ate a bunch of them.

In the wee hours of the morning, I started feeling sick. I spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom, either bent over, puking, or sitting on the toilet, expelling the apples from both ends.

I kept getting sicker and sicker, and my belly hurt so bad that I couldn’t stand up. I was running a high fever.

My mother took me to the emergency room at St. John’s Hospital, because it was a weekend.

The doctors and nurses determined that the green apples had nothing to do with my sickness. I had acute appendicitis, and I needed to get my appendix cut out immediately.

So I did. Afterwards, they wheeled me to a room where there were two beds, both empty. They put me in the one by the window. I had never been in a hospital as a patient before, and I felt terrible, wiped out. I went to sleep.

A little later, I woke up when the nurses brought in another guy for the other bed. He was older, probably in his 30s, which for a 17-year-old seemed old. He was obviously in distress, for he groaned with each movement.

I don’t remember what I had for supper. I just remember wanting to go back to sleep.

Sleep was impossible, though, because of my new roomie’s groanings, moanings, wailing, crying and screaming. He was obviously near death.

Death watch continued for hours. Finally, I fell asleep.

Soon, or so it seemed, the cheery nurse awoke me and told me to wash up and get ready for breakfast. As I washed “possible,” I saw that the other bed in the room was empty and had been made afresh, awaiting another old man with one of his feet in the grave.

“What happened to that ole boy?” I asked. “Did he die? He was sure in a lot of pain.”

“Oh, no,” the nurse said. “He went home. He was just in here with a kidney stone, and he finally passed it. He’s fine now.”

“Good grief,” I said. “A kidney stone. I hope to God that I never get one of those. He was in so much pain I was sure he was dying.”

“No,” the nurse said. “Just a stone. No big deal.” And she left.

Well, guess what?

Yep, you’re right.

In my left kidney, measuring 13 millimeters. It’s a boulder.

They’re going to bust it up with sound waves tomorrow.