Tag: illness

Doctors Make House Calls

brendast

Or, at least they did in the 1950s.

I woke up one morning with a fever. Mom made me stay in bed and said I couldn’t go to school. She brought me some of my Little Golden Books and my favorite doll to entertain me. She called the doctor and made arrangements for him to make a house call later that afternoon.

I was fine with the books and my doll for a while, but I got bored. I had seen the books so many times. I don’t remember if I could read the words yet or just look at the pictures.

Before long, though, Mom brought me a new stack of books. Pearl Mohnen, the mother of the twin boys I played with across the street, had sent over some of theirs. I hadn’t seen them before, and I enjoyed them—but I noticed some had gum stuck to the covers. Boys! None of my books looked like that.

My bedroom was a stair-landing room. There was only enough space for my bed, with room to walk around it on one side. The other side was against the north outside wall. Around the staircase was a railing so no one could accidentally step off the ledge into the open stairway.

That afternoon, the doctor came. He stood on the right side of my bed, and Mom stood at the foot. He took his stethoscope out of his black doctor’s bag and placed it on my chest. I jumped—it was cold! I remember the quiet and the soft daylight in the room.

After talking with Mom, he pulled a pad of paper from his bag and wrote a prescription. Soon, he was gone again.

Mom knew she had to get to the drugstore before it closed, but we were home alone. It was cold and rainy outside, so she didn’t want to take me out—but there was no one to leave me with.

So she wrapped me in a blanket and sat me on a kitchen chair with my Little Golden Books and something with bright colored pieces—maybe her plastic clothespins, though after all these years I can’t quite be sure.

She told me she had to go get my medicine and that she would be right back. I knew where the drugstore was—it was only a couple of blocks away.

She told me not to get off the chair while she was gone.

I didn’t.

Mom knew she could trust me to do what she said—and I knew I could trust her when she said she would be right back. I wasn’t scared, but it did feel a little odd to be in the house alone.

She came right back, just as she said she would.

Where’s Brenda?

brendast

Every family has that one child who tends to do a disappearing act sometimes. In our family, that was me. It wasn’t intentional, but that’s how it turned out, anyway.

I was playing outside by myself one summer day. When Mom went to check on me, I was nowhere to be found — or so she thought.

I was dragging a small doll blanket around with me. I had been playing with my doll — and probably the cats and dog, too.

The bridal wreath bushes around our front porch were in bloom. As a little girl, I loved flowers, and I had been admiring the bridal wreath. I loved them so much. 

I laid down on the porch with my doll and doll blanket. I was looking up through the branches — and fell asleep. Mom had apparently been calling me, but I didn’t hear her. Because of the bushes, she couldn’t see me until she came outside and stood in front of the porch — and there I was. 

The Asian flu pandemic of 1957 swept through our little town that winter. Mom and I were both sick at the same time, which is why she was in bed the day I disappeared the second time.

We were taking a nap together in her big bed. I woke up before she did. I wasn’t used to her being in bed in the daytime, and I wandered around the house a little. Then I got sleepy, and decided to go back to bed, but I didn’t want to wake her. 

The bed was high off the floor, and the pretty pink nubbly carpet under it felt soft and safe, so I crawled under it and went to sleep. 

When I woke up, Mom was leaning over looking under the bed at me. She said I scared her. I never meant to. I just liked quiet places.