April 8, 2013

30 of 65

Healing – Part 1

Although healing may not be THE purpose of life, it is important. The word “healing” literally means to make whole. It applies in many different contexts – to take some condition or some thing that is broken or lacking and make it complete. Most commonly, it implies the restoration of complete health to a person who has suffered a disease or an injury.

I consider myself fortunate to have been healthy most of my life. When I was 9 years old, the United States – and the whole world – experienced an epidemic of what was called Asian Flu. Those most at risk were school aged children. In many parts of the country schools closed to try to prevent the transmission of the virus. Though my school, Fremont Elementary, remained open, some days there were more students home sick than were attending classes. Over a two or three week period, nearly everyone in my class caught the flu, except me. I thought I was too tough to get it, but I had simply been fortunate. Both of my brothers suffered mild cases of the flu, but I did not. I remained fortunate.

Finally, my luck ran out.
I began feeling weak, my head hurt, my breathing was labored and I had a fever. Over the next few days, when I should have been getting better, my condition actually worsened. My mother began to worry. Over 70,000 Americans had died from the flu and parents had good reason to worry for their children. Our family physician was in the process of moving his practice to Trinidad in Southern Colorado, so my mother called the new doctor who was seeing his patients. Apparently the new physician thought my mother just another hysterical parent when she described my symptoms, so he told her to watch me for a few days and I should get better. Instead, my condition deteriorated even more. Out of desperation, she telephoned the doctor who was leaving, but who knew our family. He said he would see me immediately, although it was past office hours. He performed a quick examination, and ordered that I be hospitalized.

I was taken to St. Anthony Hospital and admitted to a ward in which there were 20 or 25 other children with serious cases of Asian Flu. The treatment protocol was essentially to make certain we drank fluids, to give us aspirin to reduce the fever and to have us spend most of our time in an oxygen tent to keep our blood saturated with oxygen despite breathing problems.

The oxygen tent was like a vinyl box sitting on a pillow with an opening for the patient’s head. Pure oxygen was pumped into the tent and held there by the plastic walls. That device may have saved my life, but what I remember most – young and feverish as I was – is that it permitted lucid dreaming. I could think of any subject that interested me, stick my head into the super-oxygenated air, and within minutes I would be asleep and experiencing the most vividly realistic dreams about my chosen subject.

My second night there, I was awakened in the early morning hours by a commotion at the bed next to mine. I believe, in hindsight, that the boy in that bed had quit breathing, so doctors and nurses were performing an emergency tracheotomy. However, on that night as I pulled my oxygen saturated head out of the tent, the scene appeared surreal and nothing more. I could make no sense of what I was observing, so I stared for a few minutes and then fell back to my dream filled slumber.

When I awoke again, the neighboring bed was empty. I first thought that perhaps all I had seen had been a dream; but as I focused my thoughts, I knew it was real. I do not know if that child was moved to another unit for more intensive care or whether the medical personnel had been able to save him. I remained at the hospital for several days as new children were brought into the ward and others were taken out. I got better and returned home to complete my recovery.

Finally I was well enough to return to school. I had been away for two weeks or more, so before going back to the classroom I had to wait in the main office while the staff filled out reports about me. I was late for class. All my classmates were sitting at their desks as I quietly opened the door to sneak in. Then, when I entered the room, every one of them – and the teacher, too – began to applaud. The applause continued for what seemed a very long time. I was embarrassed and could only smile.

Apparently everyone at school had been told of the severity of my illness. With the television and newspaper coverage of the deaths of flu victims, many of my friends had expected never to see me again. I guess I fooled them.

I remain grateful to Dr. Pagnotta, the physician who admitted me to the hospital even as he was leaving town, and to the doctors and nurses who cared for me during my days in the oxygen tent. Their efforts permitted my body to heal.

I am even more grateful to my teacher and classmates whose simple act of clapping made me feel that I was whole and an integral part of a world made up of some great people. I certainly did not think I had done anything to deserve applause; though when it was finished, I was healed and ready to get on with the rest of my life.

[Continued]