KIDNEYTALE

Another “growing up” story written years ago for my kids.

Not all childhood memories are of fun and games. Some, if we lived through them, are like being drafted for two years into the army. We wouldn’t take a million dollars to do it again, but we wouldn’t take a million dollars for the experience either.

Before the miracle of vaccines, all of us remember the times during our youth we had mumps and measles and chicken pox. Oh, and tonsils. Some will even remember the scourge and scares of polio.

Some of us remember serious injuries.

I was twelve and in the seventh grade at St.  Joseph’s at Sinsinawa. I was still several years away – and on the upside slope – from that apex of worldly knowledge that we all attain and spend several miserable years sitting on before realizing how much we don’t know. In other words, I was still malleable, and still respected authority – although I was starting to think more and more for myself.

St. Joseph’s school was like many country, Catholic schools of the fifties. Between the church and school stood the convent – the home of four Franciscan nuns during the 9-month school year – 3 teachers and a cook/gardener/housekeeper. The small complex of buildings was completed with the rectory, the home of the parish priest and his housekeeper – and a parking lot.

The small lot to the south between the school and the convent had playground equipment for the younger kids. To the north was an area for playing kick ball and tag. Between it and the cemetery was a larger field used for football, softball and baseball.

The school had three rooms on the first floor – which were up seven steps from the entrance – and a gym that also served as the parish hall on the second. The hall was accessed by stairs on both sides of the foyer.  Bathrooms were in the unfinished basement. Boys to the left, girls to the right as one entered through the eight-foot, wooden doors that featured several long, narrow, glass panes. The elementary grades were divided into three groups. 1st and 2nd had a room, 3rd, 4th and 5th were together in another, with 6th, 7th and 8th in the third.

Hopefully my children won’t read this because they still believe the myth that we walked the five miles to school, uphill both ways, through rain and snow drifts. Except for a few kids who lived on adjacent farms, everyone was driven to, and picked up from school. Carpools were the order for most, with parents rotating the driving responsibilities so as not to drive every day. Hollywood’s Oscar awards had nothing on the chauffeur-driven traffic which occurred twice a day at St. Joseph’s.

This was a bright, sunshiny Monday in early May. I had finished my morning chores and changed into my school clothes – a shirt and blue jeans which were simply newer and cleaner than my regular clothes. It was the Bush’s turn to drive today. They and our other abutting land neighbors each had ten kids. We only had seven. Two younger sisters and I walked to the end of the farm’s lane to wait for the ‘bus.’ We each carried the books we had needed for weekend homework, and our lunch pails.

Lunch was either sandwiches of cold cuts or peanut butter and sliced, homemade sweet pickles – the latter being one of my mother’s specialties – and the general fare for meatless Fridays. The metal boxes also included either cookies or cake, some kind of fruit, and a beverage – usually milk – in our little thermos bottles. I was toting my baseball glove as well. I loved to play the game – and it was the season.

There was a mid-morning fifteen-minute recess – time enough to go to the bathroom and run around a little. The noon recess lasted an hour – time for a baseball game for the boys in the three upper classes. The captains for the day chose the sides – alternately picking the best players in descending order. I was always chosen somewhere in the middle.

The determination of which team would bat first was settled by one captain tossing the bat – handle up – to the other. The catching captain caught it with one hand, which then the tossing captain placed a hand tightly above – fingers out in the opposite direction. They then alternately climbed the bat to the end of the handle – with the last one getting at least three fingers on the bat the winner. Batting first was important in a time regulated game, and sometimes there was a small argument about whether the last hand indeed had three fingers on the bat.

The playing positions for a few players were a given – their talents accepted. Others, like me, played a remaining position that we wanted and got to first. It was always a mad scramble once the bat climb was completed. Today I was in center field, having lost the race to first base. One of my six, fellow male seventh graders was playing left field.

We normally ate our lunches between innings – while our team was at bat – and we were not batting or on base. It was the second inning, and my team was in the field.

After the usual urgings of “No Batter” and “Put ‘er in there” to our pitcher, and “Swing batter!” to the batter, the ball was lofted high to left center field. I called for it. Apparently the left fielder did too. Neither of us heard the other. We collided.

My teammate went down first, then me on top of him. On the way down my right side – just below my rib cage to the rear – took the brunt of his upward bended knee. I rolled off in pain. My teammate scrambled up and retrieved the mutually missed ball – holding the hitter to a triple.

I couldn’t get up for few minutes. My school mates started to gather round as I writhed on the earth with pain. I had had the wind knocked out of me several times before in my young life – once by my older brother with a blow to the solar plexus – but this was worse. Much worse.

After a bit the pain subsided some. I rose with help of several teammates, but walked on my own, though whoosily, to the bench area to the side and behind the batter’s box. Twenty minutes later the bell rang indicating that classes would resume in five minutes. I rose again with barely tolerable pain and headed for the schoolhouse, lagging behind my friends.

First of all, I was a ‘man,’ and pain was to be borne in silence without a lot of to-do. Second, I was no stranger to pain – from hitting myself with a hammer to having a 1,000 pound plus Holstein step on my foot. This too would pass.

Sister Eugene stood at the school doors, making sure everyone was accounted for in a timely fashion. She had arrived for my 4th and 5th grade years – and we all figured she was no more than weeks away from some remote sanitarium. I couldn’t see her without being reminded of her temper that once resulted in her banging the head of an older neighbor boy on a knobbed hanger in the coat room.

Upon reaching the entrance, I felt the need to go to the bathroom – and dutifully asked for permission from the demented one. “No!” she said in a way that had she not been a nun would have been accompanied by some forbidden expletive. “You had all recess to take care of that.” “Get to class! Right now!”.

I considered the denial for a split second, felt a sense of 12-year-old defiance, and a stronger primal instinct, and proceeded to the left down the stairs. I knew I’d be late for class, but expected my teacher, Sister Kenneth, to be merciful – if not understanding.

I was shocked. My urine wasn’t urine. It was chunky blood. I squelched a scream of horror, then wished I hadn’t. Should I lie down and have someone come for me? No, I’m still standing – and can walk. I finished my business and went upstairs. I took one step inside my classroom and stopped, motioning to my teacher to come. Once in the hall, I told her that I had just urinated blood.

She reacted calmly and said she would call my parents. Maybe it was the  matter-of-fact way I had told her. My mind questioned her choice, thinking that perhaps an ambulance was more in order – but did not verbally dispute the alternative chosen by my superior. She had to inform her students she would be away for a few minutes. She then directed me to wait on the inside entrance steps. There was no phone in the school and she had to go to the convent to make the call. I hoped the party line we had wasn’t busy.

I had a pocket watch that I carried while working on the farm – so I’d know the time for meals and other important appointments – but never took it to school. The minutes seemed like hours. Finally, Sister re-entered the school, her belt of large beads with a cross on the end which hung from her waist to mid-calf jangling as she moved. She had reached my mother who would be here shortly, then returned to her classroom.

It was at least a half hour before I saw the ‘55 Buick through the panes of the doors. I had been afraid to move four inches since taking my perch on the steps. I rose slowly. The acute pain had turned to a dull but intense ache on the lower right side of my torso. I was pleased I could walk. I pushed one of the double doors open and walked to the car, opening the front passenger door. It was a relief to know I was heading for a hospital, and I settled down into the soft, cushioned seat, pulling the door behind me.

“What happened? Are you all right?”, queried my mother with distinct concern. “I fell on Donny Dressan’s knee playing baseball, and I passed blood.” “I’ve got a hell of an ache right here” was my summarized response, pointing to the affected area, and wishing I hadn’t said ‘hell’ to my mother.

We pulled out of the parking lot onto County Z, heading for Highway 11 a quarter mile north. On reaching the intersection, we turned left. “Mother, the hospital is the other way!”

“I know” she said. “But your Dad’s planting corn, I couldn’t get his attention,  and I left the twins taking their nap – and we’ve got to go home first.”

Even with the first revelation at the urinal, death hadn’t even occurred to me. I had had injuries before – cuts – and the bleeding had always stopped. “It’s the same in this case, except I couldn’t see it,” I quickly rationalized. “Hell, now I’ve just probably got a bad bruise,” silently explaining the ache in my side. It was OK to say ‘hell’ to my Dad, my friends and to myself. The ‘F’ word was taboo everywhere – I didn’t know why or what it meant. I chastised myself for making such a big deal out of this injury.

Upon arriving home 7-8 minutes later, I got out of the car at the same time as my mother and walked up to the house. I felt the need to lie down as we entered. Four-year-old Alice and Adele were just waking from their snooze on the dining room floor. Mother went to them. I went to the relatively new downstairs bathroom – a welcome replacement to the outhouse, especially last winter. “Damn my side hurts,” I thought.

More blood! “Mother, Mother come here!”, I called with demanded alarm and without concern for my customary adolescent privacy. She was there before the flow stopped. She maternally freaked as she looked at me and into the new, porcelain stool.

“Get to the car,” she ordered, trying to mask the gasp in her voice.

As I was exiting the house Dad was driving the Allis Chalmers tractor into the farmyard, the two-row planter – with its knobbed trip wire so corn hills could be cultivated both ways – in tow.  He had seen the car leave and return and came in to see what was happening.  Mom had planned on taking the twins with us, but with her husband’s arrival ran to him, and had a short, incoherent conversation over the din of the idle of the tractor motor. She jumped in the car and we were on our way to medical help. “At last,” I thought.

As we sped past the Hwy 11 – County Z intersection, I could see again the arena where my insides started to bleed.  She said we were going to the hospital in the closer Hazel Green, rather than the one in the five-mile farther Cuba City. Dr. King was our family doctor in Cuba City and had built and ran a 20 bed hospital there. I said I’d rather go to Cuba City. Heck, it had been over an hour since the accident, and I figured another five minutes was not going to matter. Despite my request we pulled up to the one in Hazel Green. Once inside we found out there was no doctor on the premises at the moment. So, back to the car and on to Cuba City.

As we got to the hospital door, we were met by a nurse and a wheelchair. Hazel Green had called. I was wheeled to an examination room, debriefed as to what had happened, X-rayed and appropriately poked. A needle – attached to a tube attached to a bottle hanging from a shepherd’s staff attached to a wheeled base – was inserted in my right arm.

As Dr. King was explaining that I had a ruptured kidney, he showed me a tube he said he was going to put down my penis into my bladder. It had a bag on one end. On the other it had a hinged piece that lined up with the tube for insertion, and dropped to a perpendicular position when released – to anchor it in. I learned later it’s called a catheter. I was serious when I said to him that I could see how he was going to put it in, but couldn’t see how he was going to get it out. His laugh did not make me smile, as I had visions of spending the rest of my life with this unwelcome foreigner. Maybe it dissolved after a certain period of time.

He went on to tell me that I was going to go into shock, and that I’d be out for awhile. “I’m not going anywhere,”  I defiantly thought. I’m awake, I’m aware and it’s Monday – with the now added discomfort of an eternal tube in my penis, and a needle in my arm. Then he showed me another tube. After a brief explanation, he ran this one up my nose and down my esophagus. He told me not to swallow any more than necessary, as it would eventually make my throat sore if I did. Artificially ventilated – there was only one orifice left – I was lifted from the rock-hard table to a softer gurney and rolled off to a hospital room, with the tethered, hanging bags rolling above and beside me. A clock on the wall read three-thirty as I passed by on my back.

Once there, I was lifted again to a bed. The catheter bag was hung on the side. As that was being done I saw that it held a rather large quantity of red liquid – my blood! I tried to remember the amount a human carried around. It was either six or twelve pints. Then the tube up my nose was attached to a stomach pump – an ominous-looking machine standing against the wall. My mom came in and held the hand of her once untubed son. That felt nice. But as I looked at and envisioned myself in these surroundings, I repressed a sense of panic.

In a few minutes the doctor came in. He was talking to Mother and me, but mostly Mother. He said he thought he could save the kidney, but that the next 24 hours would tell the tale. He said it was imperative that I not move.  He looked assuredly at me when he said that if surgery was necessary, I could function just fine with one kidney – lots of people did. It didn’t help.

Buy for one event, that was the last thing I remember until Thursday night. My little window of memory was when I awoke with three nurses and my Dad on top of me. I remember saying “What are you doing?” They had been holding me down while I was no-doubt having a nightmare about that penis tube. I later learned that on Tuesday my condition was deteriorating. As Mother was raising hell and the operating room was being prepared, it was discovered that the stomach pump had malfunctioned – and was replaced. Crisis averted.

When I awoke, I had two kidneys, but the sorest throat in history. I had obviously tried to continuously swallow the tube while in my coma. My hands were tied to the side of the bed – obviously to keep me from doing what I had tried to do during my window of no memory. “Hi Mother,” I said through a raspy voice. Her tired face lit up. She hadn’t left the hospital yet, I thought. “What time is it?”

In fact, she had not left the hospital. She had a bedside chair, had slept on a cot, and had been beside me for four days and three nights. It was something I didn’t fully understand and appreciate until years later and had children of my own. After awakening, my parents visited me twice a day – with one or more of my siblings – until I went home.

I was awake, but I felt as if I’d been run over by an earth mover. However, over the next several days I started to feel better, especially when the tubes were removed. I never did see how he got the catheter out – as there was a sheet in the way – but was relieved and grateful, nonetheless. I was not allowed to roll over – except on one side at a time for a bath, and not allowed up for the next week. In the meantime, I fell in love with my first shift nurse.

She never knew it of course, or so I thought. But this new, strange, uncomfortable, and first-time emotion was a major factor in my motivation to get moving. She was sandy blonde, beautiful, a little older but not too old, I hoped. The day the doctor said I was to get up and start to get my strength back, I was elated that I would not have to use that disgusting bed pan anymore.

My throat was getting better, although still sore. School books and homework had been delivered several days earlier. I was shocked to realize my legs would only shakily support the rest of my body – and then for only a few minutes. For several days I needed to use a walker to slowly get around. The walker was an embarrassment to me as I didn’t want my first love to see me with barely the strength to motor. She obviously would be more interested in someone with some independent vitality, I reasoned. When she went on third shift a few days before my release, I was devastated. I think I only saw her once in the last two days spent at the small, country hospital. It took weeks to recover from the loss.

My walking graduated to a cane. And I walked and walked, up and down the single hall – from the nurses’ station on one end to the lounge on the other – passing the same sick people’s rooms over and over. I realized for the first time how animals in the zoo must feel. I wanted my still weak body and broken heart out of there.

Finally, after three weeks, Dad and Mother took me home. I was to lay low for another thirty days. No physical exertion of any kind other than walking. I finished the school year and learned to cook – an activity I still enjoy.

I was really lucky.

SPIDER Bytes

This week’s trivia question is: What was the first satellite to enter space called? The answer to last week’s question as to where the Wizard of Oz lives: Emerald City. As an aside – in the movie there are two Wicked Witches – West and East, four in the original book published in 1900 – two good – North and South. Correction on the answer last week. I apparently had a Biden moment when indicating there was a tie for the largest land predator – the Polar and Zodiac bear. Dah. An outdoorsman reader caught it – it’s ‘Kodiak’ bear. Sorry.

The U. of Tennessee is the NCAA baseball champ this year. Kudos to the Volunteers.

You gotta love this one. While she did not win with a ticket to the Miss USA pageant, a 71-year-old woman competed last w/e for The Miss Texas USA. Good for Marissa Tiejo! The Miss Universe organization recently removed the age limit and now allows women who are married, divorced or even pregnant. Kathleen could successfully compete in Florida if she had the interest
Some of the 140 countries from where immigrants appeared in the last few years, seem to be emptying their jails for emigration to the U.S. Two recent Venezuelan immigrants were charged with the horrific rape and murder of a 12-year-old girl in Texas. Unvetted illegals are apparently the routine – as it comes out now, both guys arrested in Texas were convicted criminals in their home country.

The 13-cent national decrease in gasoline prices is over as oil prices are back up to over $80/barrel.

USPS will be selling an Alex Trebek, forever stamp starting late next month. Jeopardy fans will enjoy using them.

Three years ago this administration was firing employees and soldiers for not taking the COVID vaccine, and we had to carry around our proof of vaccination when we went out to the few government-approved places open, like the liquor store or the airport. Remember? The period saw elderly loved ones die alone in nursing facilities, depression and mental illness cases soar while educational achievement dived in many states. What did we learn?

The Biden/Trump debate was a clear loser for the president. His word stumbling and loss of train of thought was too obvious. The CNN poll flash showed 67% gave the nod to the challenger. Now what?