Rheumatic Fever

August entry to:

1092898

Show Off Your Best at the Sandbox  [ASR] A monthly contest that focuses on Genre writing. JAN/FEB 2012 Prompt up! by StephB

approx 3950 words

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"I can't move - I can't move my legs." Dad tilted his head and scowled, he thought I was joking. But I wasn't joking; I was dead serious. I felt like my legs were bolted to the sofa – and it hurt like hell to try to unbolt them. Tears formed in my eyes as I realized I was almost paralyzed, and terror overtook me.

"We've got to go now, come on, and quit fooling around." Dad replied.

"Really, I can't move. It hurts." I started to cry out loud. The pain in my knees and ankles was nothing I had ever experienced in my thirteen years. I had spent the weekend with my sister, Kay, her husband, Dick, and their two young boys. I romped with the kids and helped Kay around the house, but as the weekend came to a close, I started to feel like my engine was starting to seize up. I was lying on the sofa, resting, when dad came to take me home.

Dad saw my tears were real, and realized I wasn't joking. Dick scrunched his face like he was eating lemons, indicating his disbelief in my complaints. Dad, now showing real concern on his frowning face, helped me up, but I couldn't stand. I screamed in agony, when I tried to straighten my legs. Dad and Dick had to carry me to the car. Now they both had frightening scowls on their faces as they whispered to one another, to avoid my overhearing. In addition to my pain, I was feeling terror – what was happening to me?

When we got home, Dad helped me into the house and to my bedroom. I was in such pain that I couldn't even comprehend the possible causes or consequences of my predicament. I just wanted the pain to go away.

The next morning Dad was able to get me an immediate appointment with the doctor. That meant I had to miss school – I never missed school. I had even won attendance awards, which partly compensated for my poor academics.

With the aid of a cane, that Dad had rushed out to buy. I was able to hobble into the doctor's office, embarrassed at having to shuffle in like an old man, in front of the other patients. I couldn't remember ever visiting a doctor before. The sterile odour in the waiting room was something new to me – I didn't like it.

Doctor Corley was all doctor, and no personality. He had a grave look on his face as he told Dad that the tests would be back in the next day or two. It was either arthritis, or rheumatic fever he guessed. "Give him lots of aspirin and keep him in bed." Dr. Corley told Dad. Dad was never a jovial man, but still, I only knew him happy. But the look on his face now, was not a happy look, and it caused me to tremble, with strange thoughts in my head – was I dying? I didn't recognize the foreign ailments of which he doctor spoke.

Dad gave me some aspirin when we got home, but I had never swallowed a pill before. I tried to take the aspirin with water, but the tablets got caught in my throat; I gagged and choked. The bitter taste stuck in my throat for hours. Eventually, I just started chewing the aspirin and washing the foul taste down with milk. The aspirins seemed to do the trick. I was beginning to feel better. I could move and walk without excessive pain.

A couple of weeks earlier, I had suffered from an intense sore throat. Turns out the sore throat was actually strept throat – a precursor to rheumatic fever. Rheumatic fever could lead to serious and permanent heart damage or worse.

Dr. Corley called the next day and confirmed that I had rheumatic fever - whatever that was. Rheumatic sounded so smooth to say – almost like "romantic" – so it couldn't be that bad. My "sed rate" was over 100 when the normal was 0 to 15. The number didn't mean anything to me or to Dad, but it sounded bad, especially the way the doctor conveyed it to my dad. I had now missed two days of school; I didn't know then that I would be missing more school days than I had ever missed in my entire life.

Dr. Corley admitted me to the General Hospital the next day. He wanted me in the Children's Hospital, or even the children's ward of the General, but there was a long waiting list and Dr. Corley was not the waiting type. So I ended up in the only bed then available – in the geriatric ward.

I was thirteen years old, and confined to bed, in a hospital ward, with nine old, sick and dying men. One old fellow complained to his son "I don't know what they're giving me. I have stuff coming out of every opening in my body." The odour in the hospital included the sterile smell from the doctor's office, plus dozens of other unidentifiable and offensive smells. Even to this day, the odour of a hospital plays tricks with my mind.

Vomiting, hacking, spitting, moaning – this was my surroundings. I would rather be sitting in Mr. Murakami's English class. The only thing that kept me from going completely crazy was my dad's thrice daily visits. I never knew how much I needed him. Visiting hours ended at eight o'clock each evening, and dad had to leave when the bell rang. I cried myself to sleep every night, while I was held prisoner in this ward.

Three times each day, the nurse brought me a handfull of aspirin and a liquid cup of penicillin. The penicillin actually tasted good, it was sweet and syrupy; but I still hadn't mastered the art of swallowing pills, so I continued to chew the aspirin and wash the foul taste down with water or juice. The nurse cringed every time I did this. I can't say I ever grew to enjoy the taste of aspirin, but I grew so used to it, that I never gave the bitter taste a second thought any more.

The nurses wouldn't even let me out of bed to go to the toilet. I mastered the pot hanging by my bed for peeing, but I refused to use the bed pan. They put the bedpan under my rear every day, but took it back empty. How disgusting to go number two into a tin pan. I shuddered more at this thought than chewing aspirin.

Hospital life for me changed - for the better - after a week of listening to the dying old men in the ward. An orderly came in and started pushing my bed out of the ward. "What are you doing?" I asked. I had grown so used to this toxic environment that I was actually scared to be taken out.

"Moving day, you're going to the children's ward."

This was much better. My roommate, Marvin, was also thirteen and had rheumatic fever. But that wasn't the main reason he was a hospital patient. Apparently, his testicles had not lowered from his body properly, as he reached puberty, and he had to have an operation to pull them out of his body, and hold them in his sack. He was in agony after the operation, with a hook in each testicle, attached to an elastic strap, which was fastened to his leg. I didn't envy the predicament with his privates, but at least he was allowed to go to the toilet, although standing up straight was a chore, as the elastics pulled on his testicles every time he stood.

I was still provided with the bed pan each day. I dreaded each time the pan was shoved under my butt, and it always went back empty. I became good at holding it with little discomfort.

"Did you have a BM today?" The nurse asked.

I didn't know what to say. What's a BM?

She must have read my mind. "BM – bowel movement?" No response.

"Did you go number two?" Finally some language I could understand.

"No, not today." That became my standard answer for my three weeks at the General Hospital.

After a week the nurse started to get concerned about my bowels. At first she brought suppositories. The nurse put on a rubber glove and shoved a stick of something up my rear end. This was a humiliating experience which embarrassed me to no end. "Hold it for as long as you can, then use the bedpan." About an hour later, I sat on the bedpan and spit out an ounce of liquid, but that was all – I held the rest to keep from "messing" the pan. The nurse didn't look happy with the results. Two days of this treatment and still nothing.

Next came enemas. "Roll on your side." She said, as she shoved a tube up my rear. This was beyond embarrassing. Then a strange tickling sensation in my bowels. "Hold it as long as you can." An hour later, I expelled some liquid from my butt into the bedpan, but again I was able to hold back the rest.

I never had a "BM" the entire time at the General, in spite of the nurse's heroic efforts.

Another point of embarrassment was bathing. The nurses' aides took Marvin daily to the tub for a bath. But I had to lie in my bed, while a female orderly sponged me down, from head to toe. At least she let me keep my privates covered, and even allowed me to wash myself down there, so I could maintain some degree of self respect.

I continued my daily chewing of aspirin. The nurses couldn't understand why I didn't try swallowing.

One big change, for me, in the children's ward was the penicillin; it no longer came in a cup of sweet syrup. My eyes almost popped from my head when I saw it – a giant needle.

"Roll on your side." I was getting tired of hearing this order. The nurse shoved the long "pin" into the cheek of my bare butt so far, that I thought it would come out through my abdomen. I just about climbed through the roof, it hurt so much. When the nurse showed up each day with the mile long needle, I tensed up and contracted all the muscles from my waist to my toes. That just made the injection worse. If I would have relaxed the needle would slip in easy, but with tight muscles the needle had to fight its way through my dense buttocks.

The nurse tried everything to get me to relax. She suggested that I wiggle my toes, and my butt would relax. When I did this, my toes crackled and the nurse broke into laughter.

The children's ward was a big step up from the geriatric center. I had Marvin, and there were other kids to visit with. But they had to come to see me because I was still confined to bed rest.

Tuesday became my favourite day of the week - the Play Lady came, with a trolley full of goodies. Comic books, toys and crafts. I learned how to weave baskets, and was able to produce several of them during my stay. These became my gifts to family members, on special occasions, for months to come. But this tranquility was soon to end.

Nothing ever remains the same. Marvin was discharged and I was alone in the room – alone and lonely. Then one day, a man and a woman dressed in light parka's came into my room. They didn't say anything – not even "hello". They wheeled a stretcher next to my bed and rolled me onto it.

"What's happening?" I was in a minor panic. Why did things have to change?

"We're taking you to the Children's Hospital." They wheeled me to the ambulance and we drove off.

"Want to hear a siren from inside the car?" The man asked.

"No thanks." I suppose other kids would have jumped at that suggestion, but I was too distraught with all the changes to appreciate the experience. I just wanted some stability; and I wanted to not be sick.

The Children's Hospital became my home for the next five weeks. This was a giant leap from the Children's ward at the General Hospital. It even smelled better. The halls and rooms had some colour and design to them, rather than the drab off white tones of the General. They were equipped to deal with children of all ages. They even had school classes for me to attend. Mrs. Peterson was our teacher. She was a sweet, soft spoken young woman in her early 20's. It was obvious that she had been teaching the other students for a while, because she announced, "I just got married, so my new name is Mrs. Peterson. But if you prefer to still call me Miss Procilo, that's OK." I was a newcomer, but the others were "experienced" patients. Is that the fate that awaited me?

The kids in the hospital had all sorts of ailments. Several of them had rheumatic fever, like me. For one young fellow, the disease had progressed to a later stage – St Vitus' Dance. This was like a palsy, that kept him from controlling his movements. I certainly hoped that my disease wouldn't go that way.

Some of the kids – those even younger that I – were lying on their backs in bed, with straps and weights attached to their legs. I could at least move in my bed, these lads were stuck in one position.

"What do you have?" I inquired of one of them.

"Birthies." Came the reply from the boy, about eight years old.

I tried to get him to explain "birthies", but I couldn't make sense of what he was saying. I just hoped that my ailment wouldn't go in that direction. Much later I found out that "birthies" was a euphemism for polio, which still existed in the mid 1960s.

Mr. Murakami, my grade eight teacher, came to visit me. I had mixed feelings about his visit. I liked the attention from any visitor. Usually I only saw my dad and occasionally my sister. One time a classmate, who had suffered from the same disease the previous year, came to see me, and play some games. Robert had spent over two months confined to "bed" last year, but he was able to stay at home and lay on his sofa. When he finally returned to school, he was under doctor's orders to avoid any strenuous activity. Would that be me, too?

But Mr. Murakami was a teacher – my teacher – why would he visit? This was actually a nice gesture, even though I didn't think so at the time. He was concerned for my well being – both physically and academically. He brought me some work from school, to help me stay current with the other students in my class. This, combined with the work Mrs. Peterson provided, allowed me to not only stay current, but move ahead in school. Mr. Murakami was never one of my favourite teachers, but his visits actually propelled me from the bottom of the class, to near the top, and had a long term, positive impact on my academics. I will forever be grateful for his efforts.

The best part of being at the Children's Hospital was that I was allowed to get out of my bed to go to the toilet – for "BM"s only. I had three weeks of build up to expel - and I did – boy did it feel good. I actually enjoyed going to the toilet – something I never could have imagined possible. Amazing what effect prohibition has, on desire and joy.

At the new hospital, I no longer took the penicillin shots. Instead, the nurses brought me gigantic pills. If I couldn't swallow a tiny aspirin, then I surely couldn't swallow these monsters. I chewed them also, to the disgust of the nurses. I had just gotten used to chewing the bitter aspirins. Now I had to become accustomed to the ultra bitter penicillin pills, and I did. I chewed aspirin and penicillin every day. The nurses shuddered every time I took my medication.

While eating supper in my bed one day a nurse came in and reamed me out. "We don't eat like pigs here. Where are your manners?" I didn't know what the proper manners, for eating in your hospital bed, were. I was shocked with this reprimand. I had the hospital tray across my bed, but I held the plate under my chin, so if I did drop any food, it would fall on the plate. This efficient manoeuvre seemed to offend the chubby young nurse. She was a chunky Jekyll and Hyde, who was alternately sweet, and then vicious. Sometimes she wanted to be your friend; the next time she was giving you hell. One day she was horsing around with us, and I poked her under the arm, to tickle her. For some reason, she took offence, put a pillowcase over my head, and jostled me around the room, with the case on my head. She tried to make it like it was done in fun, but she was really trying to punish me for getting out of line, by her changing definitions. I felt punished.

I had a huge crush on Nurse Helen. Helen was an operating room nurse, dressed in dark green garb. She was probably in her mid to late 30's, short, slim, short dark hair, dark complexion and a warm smile. When she wasn't doing OR stuff, she would help out in our ward. I could never get enough of her, and I always asked for her. She obviously got fed up with me always asking for her, and scolded me for summoning her. I was devastated at this admonition, from the woman of my dreams.

We were encouraged to get fully dressed every day, instead of sitting in our pyjamas. To avoid class distinctions among the kids, we were not allowed to bring our own clothes. Instead, we got to choose from a bin of donated clothes. The kids always fought for the "best" duds. The white jeans were a favourite. One day the young fellow with St. Vitus Dance, whose condition was improving, "stole" the white jeans out from under me. We almost came to blows before the nurses came in and separated us. He got the jeans, and I got tears.

There was always a lot to do - arts, crafts, games, bingo, movies. This all had to be fit around the school schedule. Every weekday I was wheeled, in my bed, to the classroom where Mrs. Peterson took me through the lessons, that Mr. Murakami brought me.

One day we were all told there would be a bingo game. The four boys in our room all said, "Bingo – how lame." We all agreed we wouldn't go. Most of the others could either walk or use wheelchairs, but I was still confined to bed, other than to sit on the toilet for bowel movements. So I would have to be wheeled down in my bed. But it didn't matter, because we all agreed not to go. When the orderlies came to take us, we all protested. The orderlies dragged everyone out of the room by force. All the others finally capitulated, but not me. When they wheeled me into the hall, I grabbed onto the wall and pulled my bed back to my room. The nurses and orderlies tried to get me to go, but I refused. Finally they let me stay; I was stubborn. We had all agreed not to go and the others gave in, but I didn't – I stood my ground. I stayed alone in my room snivelling, while everyone else was at bingo. They came back and said what a great time they had. I tried not to care, but deep down I wish I hadn't been so stubborn. Next time, I went to bingo without a fuss, and had a great time winning prizes.

Dr. Corley didn't have hospital privileges at the Children's Hospital, so he turned my case over to Dr. McGeachie. Some of the long stay patients were allowed weekend passes. Dr. McGeachie said that if my "sed rate" dropped low enough, he would let me go home for the weekend. But my test showed it was still over 80, and he said no. I was so devastated, I couldn't stop crying. To make matters worse, Dad told me that my bird, Dickie, had died. Another bout of sobbing. It was beginning to feel like the hospital would be home for the rest of my life.

But all in all, there were more fun times than bad times, if two months in hospital can be called fun. I was allowed off full bed rest after a few weeks and learned how to do tricks in a wheelchair. I loved to ride down the hall on the back two wheels. The nurses didn't think this was such a great idea and always tried to stop me – with little success. To this day, I can still manipulate a wheel chair on two wheels.

With little fanfare, this chapter of my life was coming to a close. Dr. McGeachie, with his usual stoic demeanour, announced my last blood test indicated my "sed" rate had dropped to normal levels. I was cured and could go home. I just lay on my bed with a stunned look on my face.

This was my first experience with mixed emotions. After three weeks at the General Hospital, and five weeks at the Alberta Children's Hospital, I was allowed to return home – for good. I was ecstatic, but at the same time, sad to say goodbye to my friends, with whom I had become emotionally tied.

I barely remembered what my house looked like, but it looked like a castle, as my dad drove down our street. It was the same size and shape as all the other houses, but it looked gigantic to me.

I no longer had to take aspirin, but the doctor made me take a daily dose of penicillin for five more years, to avoid any recurrence of the disease. I felt that was a small price to pay for my freedom. With some practice, I finally learned how to swallow the pills.

Due to excellent medical care, I never had any further recurrence, or symptoms of the disease. No heart murmur or physical effects. I was able to participate in all school sports activities.

Two months of my life had passed. To a thirteen year old, this felt like an eternity. For no apparent reason, I felt that I became a stronger person, physically and psychologically, as a result of this life changing experience. I would never wish this disease on anyone, but it seemed to change me for the better. Before my sickness, I was a clumsy, underperforming, self-centered child. After my sickness, my academics soared, I made school teams in football and gymnastics, and I developed a genuine empathy for other people.

For someone who appeared to be destined for mediocrity, I went on to become a professional accountant, an MBA with a string of academic awards to my credit, and an accomplished triathlete. Forty-five years later, I look back at this time as one of the most significant events of my life.

(3935 words)