MY PROTECTOR

MY PROTECTOR
(1968)

Dr. Mindell, tall, slender, well-composed, did not behave like a normal orthopedic Surgeon.  The one’s I had met before were all too high and mighty to be human, to look you in the eyes as if you were an equal.  They were accustomed to everyone idolizing them and took it for granted they were Gods.  I did notice that when he made rounds, he carried a little bit of that remote untouchable aura, probably for the sake of his entourage, but when he arrived in my room, he did not stand at the farthest corner nor at the foot of my bed like other physicians.  he came right up beside me and leaned against the mattress as he taught his students about the rare condition being treated.  Rare condition or not, in the presence of Dr. Mindell, I still felt like a human being, instead of a “case”.

Even though’ he hacked away  a large part of my body over several years of surgery to save my life, I don’t necessarily think of him as my protector for the reason of his medical expertise. Just one incident clings to my memory making me grateful for his existence.

After many weeks languishing in the hospital bed, I became well enough to be placed in a wheel-chair instead of a gurney to be transported to other departments for tests or treatments. One day, after a long wait in the radiology dept.  a staff-person wheeled me in for a set of x-rays.  And when all the required pictures had been taken, I was wheeled back and parted in the long empty hallway.

 “Aren’t you taking me back to my room?” I asked.

  “No.” I was told, “Someone else will take you up shortly.”

I sat there in the cold corridor until my butt became numb and the pain in my legs screamed for release.  At which point, I unlatched the lock on the wheels and began to impel myself toward the main hallway.  My arms were weak from having been abed for so long.  The chair, at least a hundred years old, was made of wood, with a very high backrest and huge wheels.  It was very unwieldy to operate, but, struggling mightily, my determination drove me further and further away from Radiology.  It surprised me that no paid any attention to me.  Dressed only in a short backless gown with hair splayed about my head, it was obvious I was a patient making her way alone in the busy hallways.  Visitors passed me by giving wide berth.  Hospital personnel bustled by sometimes blindly brushed up against me
as they passed.

I grew resentful.  Not only had I been forgotten, left to rot in the drafty bowels of the Hospital basement, but I was for all purposes, invisible to the very people employed to watch after my health.  What if something should happen to me?  I would be ignored.  Fearful of my invisibility, I strained harder to reach my goal;  the huge main elevator that could take me up the many floors to my room. By the time I arrived, I was weak, cold and perspiring profusely.  The hospital, as ancient as my wheelchair had an old-fashioned elevator.  Every time I had been taken to it by a staffperson, they had hurriedly forced the wheelchair through the open doors racing against time to get me inside, before the doors clenched shut.

There were no safety features as there are today, no magic eye to bounce the elevator door back open should someone or something attempt to pass through while it closed.  So, when the doors opened, people traipsed in as I struggled to wheel my cumbersome chair through.  Needless to say, the doors clamped shut on me just as I pulled my arms out of the way.  I looked at the people inside, who would not meet my eyes. It didn’t occur to me that this was serious, until the floor raised up beneath me and the wheelchair tilted precariously.

Not able to move my lower body in any way to save myself, I sat there helpless, as the chair began to crunch.  The only view I had at this point was the ceiling.  My last thought was, “after being heroically saved from the bone cancer and surviving, I am going to go by way of an elevator! Oh, well!” There was nothing I could do. I just resigned myself to my fate as I awaited my demise.

Just then, Dr. Mindell scooped me up in his big arms and carried me down the hall and placed me on the nearest gurney and personally returned me to my room. I don’t know what happened to the wheelchair or the people in the elevator. At the time I was too tired and sick to even care.  I was just glad that my protector, my body guard was there to save me.

Jasmine Elizabeth's Birth Day

.

I remember the day you were born. Your Mama was already ensconced in the hospital birthing room with a bevvy of nurses bustling around.

No... wait a minute. They weren't exactly bustling. Maybe more like joking. They were all quite jolly, you see. It seems they all knew each other and your mom from high school and this was like a big reunion. Maybe they all weren't nurses, either. I mean... how could that many nurses be assigned to one patient? Maybe.. um... maybe one was a nurse, one was an aide, one was going off duty and one was hanging around. I really don't know. But, it still boggles my mind that in the center of all these giggling women, sat your mother, calm and tranquil, almost invisible, it seemed, like a beautiful jewel hidden behind a veil of serenity. She had such an amazing aura about her countenance.

Your grandmother was there, too; sometimes involved with the "Ladies of the Court", sometimes focused on your mom. Always the hostess with the mostest, making sure everyone was happy, everyone's needs were met, often relaying messages to those outside, always a smile on her face. Isn't that just like your Mima?

It all reminded me of a nature show I once saw about a beehive, where all the busy bees gather around the Queen Bee. They were buzzing and active, and the queen was simply gestating. Though she's the quiet one, she's the one expending the most energy. Perhaps, in a way, she could borrow their energy in order to make her job more effective. I'm just speculating on that, of course. I know so little about apiculture.

My son, your cousin, was in a new high school associated with Ball State University called The Academy, and since it was the beginning of the school year, the students weren't spending their time in the dorms on the weekends. You must have been born on a Friday, now that I think of it. I had previously committed to pick up some other students and bring them home with Xavier that day. It was such a long way from Indianapolis to Muncie, and at that time there was no such thing as a cell phone. There was no way to get in touch and call another mom to take over the responsibility.

So, as the sun crossed the sky, I sat there rubbing your mama's feet and wishing you would soon bless the world with your presence. I didn't want to miss it for the world. But, the hours passed and it came closer to the time I was to pick up your cousin and his friends. I knew it was time for me to leave. I sent you a message in my thoughts, asking you to wait until I returned.

Xavier was standing on the sidewalk outside the dorm looking a annoyed and embarrassed that his own mom stood him up, and showed up late for that first very important weekend. His friends didn't seemed too concerned and when everyone piled into the car and I explained why I was late, they all understood.

So, there we were speeding down Highway 69, and I mean it. I was exceeding the speed limit, maybe way too much, because everyone was pretty quiet. Soon enough we arrived at the drop off point and we headed east on 70 hoping that you had waited for us that extra forty miles.

I cannot express the sadness I felt that I could not be there for your mom during that time and to welcome you into the world. Yes, of course, your Mima was there, as it should be. But, oh, how I wanted to be there too, but you had arrived before us. By this time there was a nurse, practically on guard outside your mother's door, keeping everyone shooed away. All she would do is announce that the Auntie was present. So many other relatives now were out in the hall, I thought for sure I'd be overlooked.

Yet, still the Queen, your mother had summoned Xavier and me inside and we all hugged, apologized for not being here and talked about our various experiences since last we'd been together. You were not in the room, having been taken to the nursery. Another disappointment for me. I had wanted to hold you, even if I was late. But, that was not to be, either.

After a while the window blinds were drawn on the big nursery window and you were pointed out to me and Xavier. I stood there in awe. I had never in my life seen a baby like you. There you were with your legs firmly planted in the air like a bird on a perch just waiting to take off. Seriously! Has anyone ever told you about that? I expected to see a little snuggled bundled with a dark little head peeking out the top, but those legs of yours were not to be confined.

I think of you often like a bird, always ready to fly through the sky to explore the world, to come back and perch on a branch. Not a very romantic image for a baby girl I guess.

But, now that I think of it, soon, like a fledgling, you will be preparing yourself to begin your journey into adulthood. When the feathers of your wings grow in fully and you are ready, I can see you soaring with the air fluttering behind you, the sun warming you and the clouds smiling as you go by.

Happy Birthday my dear precious namesake.

Suicide Attempt? or Blessing?

I was a youngster, practically. And I used to cry and moan and twist in pain in my hospital bed, saying "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," and "Oh, My God"

Now mind you, I was pretty much out of my head not only with the pain, but the morphine they were shooting into me every four... or if they forgot, five or six hours, sometimes later. Some compassionate woman from down the hall, got herself out of bed to come find the one who was calling on God. She found me and proceeded to tell me how she would pray with me and for me. Praise the Lord, thank you Jesus...

Oh, my. I shut my mouth and smiled at her. There was no way I was going to get into a religious argument with her, no way I was going to go through a major guilt and conversion session, and soon she was gone. I was very bitter, and at that time was Atheist. Little did she know that I had been cussing, "taking the Lord's name in vain", otherwise I don't think she would have been so interested in praying with me. I guess I should have said "goddammit", as my Mother would have said if she was hurting.

Doctor MeanGuy had been in that day to tell me the tests showed my bladder was shreds and there was nothing they could do with it, except connect the ureters to my bowel. Of course that would mean a lifetime of E-coli infections and who-knows-what-all backing up into my kidneys.

I knew little medical terminology. But I sure as hell knew bad news when I heard it.

Since I had cancer and wasn’t expected to live anyway, I just thought I would take things into my own hands and get it over with. I was so despondent about what that doctor had said. I had had enough surgeries!!! I had had enough pain and suffering. I had enough of hospitals, doctors and nurses. Enough of living in fear.

Needless to say, the little old Italian woman, Mrs. Calabresi who was in the bed across from me, (four to a room was a luxury in those wards) watched all this with bright eyes. I loved that old woman. I don't know why anymore. Every morning the priest would come in to give her last rites, every afternoon her adult kids would traipse in to see if she had died yet, and quietly leave. Every evening she would attempt chat with us but mostly listened. I didn't know much about her diagnosis except that she had something terribly wrong with the arteries in her legs, ( I think) and she couldn't walk and was expected to make her exit quite soon.

So, that night when I decided to cut the intravenous line and the bladder catheter tubes (one came out of my abdomen) she figured it all out, got out of her bed, and walked over to me. I was so shocked to see this, you'd think Jesus walked on water! Anyhow, she lovingly stroked my forehead, I got tears in my eyes. Real tears not the tears of the frightened girl in pain. And she touched her heart, then my heart, speaking in her broken Itali-nglish. I understood quite a bit, anyhow, as I lived in Niagara Falls. Either you were Italian or Polish, I was neither but heard the languages all my life. Anyhow, she said things like, “you be better, God will help you.” That's the woman I could be honest with. “No, God wont help me, I don’t believe in God, I'm mad at God!”

She completely disarmed me by saying: “You no like God? Tha's okay! Madre di Dio si curerà. God's Mother make better!”

My mind went completely blank... a concept I couldn't conceive, God’s mother? Calabresi had me and she knew it.

"Okay Now? A pregare la Madonna You pray!" I just stared at her. "You pray! I pray!"

I couldn't say no. I would have done anything she asked me. She had a "green scapula" with her. (How it suddenly appeared threw me. Did she have it in her hand all along and I didn't notice. Why, of course!) She held it up for me to see the Blessed Virgin. She showed me the words encircling her picture. Then we said the words together.

"Again!"

We said it again. We repeated it quite a few times. Then she put it in my hands and curled my fingers around it telling me to pray all the time... well, three times a day, ten times over, or maybe it was the other way around. By this time I was hypnotized, and I can't even remember how fervently I did this. Though it really did calm me, and I felt prepared to go beyond, whatever that would be. I still was mad at God and still didn't believe in him. (Yes, yes, an oxymoron, I know, but had little logic back then. Hmmm maybe less now)

Soon the nurses were in there putting in a new IV and one catheter. They couldn't do anything about the one leaking into my abdomen. The doctor would have to repair the damage surgically.

So, that was why I was cutting things. I had scissors, but no razor, so this would take time. Damned nurses. If I had turned that light on needed assistance they never would have come in all night long. Just when you don't want them, they come along and bother you.

So, the next day, they had to take me into emergency surgery. After I woke up Dr. Neisen (the nice one, see? I remember his name after all these years) came in beaming. I was still kind of druggy from the anesthesia but so glad to see him. He said, "I don't know what happened, but your bladder is all in one piece. All we had to do was sew up the hole where your abdominal catheter was located."

Smiling nurses came in to see that I was comfy and all tucked in. When they pulled back the curtain, I could hardly wait to tell Mrs. Calabresi. But her bed was all made up tight as a drum. She and all her belongings were gone. Nobody had to tell me where she had gone.

The next day, I asked for the priest. He came in. I told him about the miracle, and that I wanted to become Catholic. After he asked a few questions he told me no. It was impossible. I was a married woman, on my way to a divorce and previously baptized and confirmed in a non-catholic church. I was pretty insulted. After all, it had been a Catholic miracle. He agreed it couldn’t have been anything less. But that wouldn't make any difference where my soul was concerned.

He left, and then I was REALLY pissed at god!

For a long time after that though, I went to the shrine of Our Lady of Fatima in Youngstown NY, and had some peaceful times. But, I never converted, even after the "rules" got loosened.

This is the tip of the iceberg of how I coped with the diagnosis and surgical challenges. Very badly, until Mrs. Calibresi stepped in. Then, very calmly, because,  “Tha's Okay.” I could always talk to God's Mother.