Rheumatic Fever - Abridged version

“I can’t move my legs.” Dad and Dick me a looked at me like they thought I was joking.

“Let’s go.” Dad insisted.

“ It hurts.” I cried.

Dad realized I wasn’t joking. He helped me up, but I couldn’t stand. Dad and Dick carried me to the car.

When we got home, Dad helped me to my bedroom. I was in agony. Dad called the doctor and got me an immediate appointment. Using a cane, I hobbled into the doctor’s office.

Doctor Corley was all doctor. He looked serious as he told Dad the tests would be back tomorrow. It was either arthritis or rheumatic fever. “Give him aspirin and keep him in bed.”

I had never swallowed pills before. The aspirin got caught in my throat. So, I just chewed them and washed the foul taste down with milk. The aspirins to worked, I was feeling better.

A couple of weeks earlier, I had a sore throat. Turns out it was streptococcus – a precursor to rheumatic fever. Rheumatic fever could lead to permanent heart damage.

Dr. Corley called and confirmed rheumatic fever. My “sed rate” was over 100; the normal was 0 to 15. The numbers didn’t mean much to us, but it sounded bad.

Dr. Corley admitted me to the General Hospital. He wanted me in the Children’s Hospital but it had a waiting list, and Dr. Corley was not the waiting type.

I was thirteen, and confined to bed, in a hospital ward with nine old men, vomiting, hacking, spitting, moaning. I would rather be sitting in English class.

Three times daily, the nurse brought aspirin and liquid penicillin. The penicillin tasted good, but I chewed the aspirin and washed the foul taste down with water.

I lay in bed for three weeks – solid bed rest - I couldn’t even go to the toilet. I peed in the pot by my bed, but I couldn’t the bed pan remained empty. The nurse put the bedpan under me daily, but I found it disgusting to go in a pan.

After a week of listening to the dying old men, an orderly came in and pushed my bed out of the ward.

“What are you doing?”.

“Moving day, children’s ward.”

This was better. My roommate, Marvin, was thirteen and had rheumatic fever too. But the main reason he was here, was that his testicles had not lowered from his body and he had to have an operation to pull them out and hold them in place. He was in agony after the operation. I didn’t envy him, but he was allowed to go to the toilet.

“BM today?” The nurse asked.

What’s a BM, I thought.

She read my mind. “bowel movement?” No response.

“Number two?” Now I understood.

“No.” That became my daily response.

The nurse became concerned about my bowels. First came suppositories. She shoved a clear stick up my rear. “Hold as long as you can, then use the bedpan.” I sat on the bedpan and spit an ounce of liquid. The nurse wasn’t happy. Two days, still nothing.

Next enemas. “Roll on your side.” She shoved a tube up my rear. Then a tickling sensation in my bowels. “Hold it as long as you can.” I spit some liquid from my butt into the bedpan.

I never had a "BM" the entire time at the General.

I continued chewing aspirin. I didn’t even mind the taste anymore.

One big change was that the penicillin now came from a huge needle shoved into the cheek of my butt. I almost climbed the wall, it hurt so much. When the long needle appeared, I contracted the muscles from my waist to my toes which made the injection worse. If I would relax, the needle would enter with ease, but with contracted muscles the needle fought its way deep into my buttocks.

The nurse tried to get me to relax suggesting I wiggle my toes to relax. When I did, my toes crackled and the nurse laughed.

Every Tuesday the Play Lady came with a trolley of goodies - comic books, toys, crafts. I learned to weave baskets and produced several during my stay.

One day two parka clad attendants entered my room. They didn’t talk as they wheeled a stretcher next to my bed and rolled me on.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re going to the Children’s Hospital.” They wheeled me to the ambulance and we drove off.

The Children’s Hospital became my home for the next five weeks. This was a giant leap up from the General. They were equipped to deal with children of all ages. They even had school. Mrs. Pederson, a sweet, soft spoken girl in her early 20’s, was our teacher

My grade eight teacher, came to visit me. This was a nice gesture, though I didn’t think so at the time. He was concerned with my well being – physically and academically. He brought me work from school. This combined with Mrs. Peterson’s work, allowed me to stay current, and move ahead in my studies.

The best part the Children’s Hospital was that I was allowed to go to the toilet – for "BM"s only. I had three weeks of build up to expel.

The kids in the hospital had all sorts of ailments. Several of them had rheumatic fever. For one young fellow, the disease had progressed to a later stage – St Vitus’ Dance. This was like palsy that kept him from controlling his movements.

I no longer took penicillin shots, instead I got gigantic pills. If I couldn’t swallow an aspirin, then I how could I swallow these monsters. I chewed them. I had just gotten used to chewing the aspirins. Now I had to get used to the ultra bitter penicillin pills.

While eating supper in bed one day, a nurse 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 had the hospital tray across my bed, but I held the plate under my chin so if I did drop food, it would fall on the plate. This offended her. She was a young fat Jekyll and Hyde, who was alternately nice and sweet, and then mean and vicious. Sometimes she wanted to be your friend and next she was giving you heck. One day she was horsing around, and I poked her side to tickle her. She took offence, and put a pillowcase over my head and dragged me around the room. She tried to make like it was done in fun, but she was trying to punish me for getting out of line.

I had a crush on nurse Helen, an operating room nurse dressed in dark green. She was in her mid 30’s, short, slim, dark hair, dark complexion and a warm smile. When she wasn’t doing ‘OR’ stuff, she helped out in our ward. I could never get enough of her, and I always asked for her. She got angry with me asking for her and scolded me. That hurt.

Nurses encouraged us to get dressed every day, instead of sitting in our pajamas. To avoid class distinction, we were not allowed to use our clothes, instead, we selected from donated clothing. We fought for the “best” duds. The white jeans were a favorite.

There was always lots to do - arts, crafts, games, bingo, movies. Recreation was fit around the school schedule. Every weekday orderlies wheeled my bed to the classroom, where Mrs. Pederson gave me lessons.

One day we were told we would play bingo. The four boys in my room said, “Bingo – how lame.” We agreed we wouldn’t go. Most kids could walk or use wheelchairs. I was still confined to bed, other than bowel movements. So I would have to be wheeled down in my bed. But it didn’t matter, because we agreed not to go. When the orderlies came to take us we protested. The orderlies dragged everyone out of the room. All the others capitulated, but not me. When they wheeled me out into the hall, I grabbed the wall and pulled my bed back to my room. The orderlies tried to get me to go, but I refused. Finally they let me stay. I was stubborn. The others gave in, but not me. I stayed alone in my room sniveling 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.

Dr. Corley didn’t have hospital privileges here. 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 enough he would let me go home for the weekend. But tests showed it was still over 80, and he refused. I was devastated and couldn’t stop crying. To make matters worse, Dad told me that my bird, Dickie, had died. Another bout of sobbing.

But 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 the hallway on two wheels. The nurses didn’t think this was a great idea and tried to stop me.

After three weeks at the General Hospital and five weeks at the Children’s hospital, I was sent home. I was ecstatic. I barely remembered what my house looked like.

I no longer had to take aspirin, but the doctor made me take penicillin daily for five years. I finally learned how to swallow pills. Due to excellent medical care, I never had any recurrence or symptoms of the disease. No heart murmur or physical effects. I was able to participate in all school sports activities.

I gave up two months of my life in exchange for the rest of my life. A trade-off worth making.

(1676 words)