When I read back about my little mishap at the age of 2, it reminded me of another encounter I had with hospitalization at the age of 6.
My 3-year-old younger brother suffered from a perpetually runny nose and had colds practically the year through, and that in a tropical climate with temperatures often of 40 C in the shade.
Our doctor advised my mum that it would be a good idea if he had his tonsils removed. The latter was popular for little children then but is now frowned upon as it has been discovered that those organs have some purpose.
As my eldest brother had had his done as a tiny baby(!!!) and she found it too sad for my little brother (the favourite, remember) to have to undergo this procedure on his own, it was decided that I should have mine taken out as well to have it all over and done with. I never had a cold in my life, and my tonsils were just fine, but for some reason, the surgeon approved of this plan, so we were duly delivered to the children’s room in the St.Elisabeth Hospital of Curacao.
In those days, people believed that when a child was in the hospital, the mother should not visit as it would only upset the little one and cause too much trouble.
So we did not see our mum for the whole week we were there, and my dad visited once, probably to check if we were still in one piece.
If you thought my first stay at the hospital was traumatic, listen to this.
On the morning of the operation, they gave us breakfast with a strong sedative hidden away in a pudding. Little did they know I hated pudding, so my little brother, who loved them, had two…You can guess what happened. When they came to collect us, he was comatose while I was wide awake but too scared to give a peep. To prevent having to bring a trolley to the theatre twice, this was the Caribbean; they put my brother on top and me at the bottom of the trolley, where they usually put the paperwork and other stuff.
After arriving in the vestibule of the theatre, they, thinking that I was sedated as well, left me there alone and took my brother in to have his tonsils ripped out.
I was six years old, and I saw all these frightening instruments around me. I did not know how to escape that scary place.
Luckily, it took not very long before they wheeled my brother back to me to sleep off his drugs, and they took me inside. I am over 60 years older, but I still remember the sheer horror of it all. I even remember them putting this smelly black cap on my face, telling me to count backwards from 10. I tried to hold my breath as long as I could.
The only good thing about it all was that afterwards, we were given as much ice cream as we could eat to reduce the swelling.
It took my parents a whole week to pick us up after what nowadays is a one-day procedure. They wanted the worst—all that crying—to be over before they took over. The only excuse I can remember is that they were very young parents.
I did not speak a word to my Mum for six whole weeks. I was that angry. But even after all that, I chose a career to do with hospitals. There will be some profound psychological reason for that, I bet.
In my life afterwards, I have had more operations, but none were as traumatic as this one.