Postcards from the ER
We always had to write postcards home from summer camp. Otherwise some, or more like ALL, of the children would be having so much we would forget we had parents. Camp Robinson Crusoe was an eight-week adventure in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, begun by a family of Eastern European Jews and run in a manner most easily described as friendly and compassionate socialism. We raised our own food, greeted each other as “Comrade” – NO, just kidding, but it had the feeling of a super liberal, sharing commune for kids with pot smoking counselors who once had promising careers in folk music. Several campers went on to successful jobs in Democratic administrations, except for the one serial killer.
But postcards were a weekly ritual, pre-stamped and addressed, so all we had to do was scrawl a few words: “Dear Mom and Dad. I’m fine. I thought I had cancer when two of my teeth fell out eating caramels. I guess that happens when you’re twelve years old.” Or “Dear Mom and Dad. I’m fine. But the kids in my bunk will beat me up if you don’t bring salami on Visiting Day.” Even now, I wax poetic when thinking of Nathan’s on Coney Island.
Now that I’ve gotten older, I thought a collection of postcards from the Emergency Room visits over the years would make for good conversation and reminiscence. “Dear Mom and Dad. I’m fine. Or I would have been except for the lasting early memory of when I had my tonsils and adenoids surgically removed. The claustrophobic experience of an ether mask placed over my face is a terrifying trauma I will never, ever forget.”
“Dear Mom and Dad. [Although I should just say, Dear Mom, since Dad was largely absent during most of my childhood] I tripped on the pile of clothes Robert left on the floor and got a few stitches in my right eyebrow. But not nearly as many as the kid next door when he fell out of a tree, so no bragging rights for me.”
“Dear Mom. I don’t understand why you never took me to the hospital to visit dad when he was being treated for heart disease. Of course, it’s a trauma for a kid to see his father in an oxygen tent but at some point, it’s important to know that he is actually ill and not just out playing golf. Weeks after he died, I was still waiting for him to come home Sunday night smelling like the country club locker room.”
“Dear Mom. I’m getting a hernia repaired at the local hospital from a doctor who looks like he stepped out of a Civil War reenactment. But the ski corporation is paying because it “might” have been a worker’s comp injury. Wouldn’t you know it? The Mary Tyler Moore show episode when Chuckles the Clown dies in a peanut suit was playing and the laughter was excruciating.
PS: I got to stay an extra couple of nights so I could be there for Saturday steak night.”
“Dear Mom. Nick kept getting sicker and sicker during the night until we took him to the emergency room at dawn. The pediatrician made a point of meeting us and realized he might have meningitis. The spinal tap test came back positive and he was flown to Children’s Hospital in Denver with his mother. I drove down as calmly as I could and his ICU room became home for the next two weeks. Sesame Street came on twice a day and when he finally started watching the Count talking to his batty bats, we knew he was on the mend.”
“Dear Mom. It’s called craniosynostosis, which means the soft spot in his skull has fused prematurely. Supposedly it occurs only once in 2500 births which is why the outbreak in Steamboat and throughout the Colorado high country defies the odds and has caused a panic among potential parents everywhere in the State. The department of health found no environmental causes. But for Alex it meant a highly risky neurosurgery and two and a half years wearing a styrofoam helmet. I donated the pint of blood he lost.
PS: since you died several years ago you won’t be able to know this but he’s starting to go bald like his father and the lumps are showing.”
“Dear Nick and Alex. While taking the lame horse out for a short walk on his lead rope, he suddenly jumped a drainage ditch and cow-kicked sideways. As I was flying through the air, I remember thinking this wasn’t going to end well. I didn’t have a cell phone and spent the next hour crawling back to the barn to get to a phone, expecting my broken femur to kill me from blood loss. Fortunately, the x-ray was negative; although the ER doctor suspected I might have bone cancer and to return on Monday. One of the most miserable weekends I can remember ended with a negative bone scan and a shoulder shrug from the orthopedist.”
“Dear Nick and Alex. I’m getting a pacemaker/defibrillator installed tomorrow. It’s like an automatic jump starter for a cold battery. But I’m going to imagine there will always be a doctor and nurse at my shoulder just waiting for a cardiac event so they can flip the switch and shock me back to life. Not a pleasant experience I’ve heard, especially for older people who really should be allowed to have their hearts stop and die in peace rather than jerking around like a dissected frog hooked up to a battery.”
“Dear Nick and Alex. I did what I always do once or twice a night, at least, but after flushing, I next found myself coming back to consciousness on the floor, holding a bath towel like a security blanket. I thought this was going to be a strange way to die, in a new town where I had hardly established roots, and where I would scarcely leave a ripple in passing. How long would it take someone to find the body!!?? No memory of how long or what caused the blackout but after a bunch of scans and blood tests, I’ve got some new meds, a reminder of the inevitable mortality we all face, and to remember that life is always uncertain so be sure to eat dessert first.” Love to you all and please keep in touch. After eating dessert. But avoid the caramels if you’re teething.
