I grew very familiar with Children's Hospital. It was like my second home. The old, gray stone building looked like a cold English castle from the outside- or a gruesome mausoleum- depending on your outlook.
The room I dreaded the most was the infamous Cast Room. It was a small room on the first floor, painted alln white. The scent of plaster hung in the air. This was the place where they applied and removed all the casts. The room of broken bones. Different sizes of electric saws hung on the walls. A modern day torture chamber.
I'll always remember the whirling sound of those saws and the heat when they buzzed too close to the skin. After Dr. Nicholson split the cast in two he would pry apart the plaster with what looked like a giant pair of tongs.
There was the frail leg, wrapped around cotton ad gauze, as weak and fragile as a newborn chick just hatched from an egg. I would glance at the sight and not even think it was my leg, like it was detached from my body. The leg would rehab and get a bit stronger as I moved the stiff muscles, until the next break.
Casts were uncomfortable at all times, but especially in the summer. I got pretty good at scratching an itch with a pencil or a ruler, even though Dr. Nicholson always warned me against this tactic.
More importantly than the building or a specific room, I grew familiar with the people within- the nurses, doctors, technicians, orderlies and other patients. They knew me too since I was there so often. "Back again?" was the usual greeting.
There were so many people over the years, so many names and faces. Sometimes I met people who went nameless yet always remained in my memory.
Like the cute nurse from the Philippines who cheered me up one time during a hospital stay by singing "You Are My Sunshine" with me. I remember the cheerful orderly who cracked jokes and made me smile, briefly taking my mind off the surgery about to happen in a few moments. Mom wasn't there yet. I was scared and alone and crying. He somehow made me laugh on the elevator. I'll never forget the volunteers who would regularly stop by to say hello, say a prayer or drop off a little get well card.
One special friend I remember from my hospital stays was a young girl named Michelle. She seemed to be in the hospital as much as I was. She was pretty, a teenager a few years older, with long brown hair and a nice smile. She loved Davy Jones and The Monkees, who were popular at the time. We often talked and we became friends and consoled each other during these tough times, complaining to each other about the food and the needles.
I never fully understood why Michelle was in the hospital What was Leukemia anyway? I'm sure Michelle and my folks didn't want to explain.
One time when I went back to the hospital, either for a check-up or for treatment, we bumped into Michelle's mom at the elevator. Was Michelle back in the hospital? We planned to stop by and see her if she was.
No, her mom was there to pick up Michelle's personal belongings. Michelle had died earlier that morning. She reached into her bag and wanted me to have something special. It was a picture of lovely Michelle, a school photo. It simply said on the back, "With love, Michelle."
I still have that picture and think of her fondly.
Did I ever get depressed, being around pain and death and suffering all the time? Sure, who wouldn't feel sad? But again, I really thought my life was"normal", the kind of life every young kid my age was leading.
If it wasn't for the tremendous support of family and friends I never would've survived those early years. Especially my parents. Let me tell you a little about them.
Dad was a great guy. My hero. He grew up in an orphanage. He was a World War II veteran, a survivor from the Battle of the Bulge in Europe. He was wounded and was awarded the Purple Heart. He worked as a machinist at the B.F. Goodrich tire plant for over 30 years, often working overtime and weekends just to make ends meet. My parents lived from paycheck to paycheck. I'm sure my medical expenses didn't help matters.
Dad was an avid bowler, and every Sunday evening I would go with him to the local bowling alley to watch his league games, even keeping score now and then. Those were fun nights, watching Dad, the Captain of Sacred Heart White, his team in the weekly Catholic League. By coincidence, at one time, the entire five-man squad of Sacred Heart White were made up of family members, the team consisting of Dad, his youngest brother (Uncle Frannie), and three of my older brothers.
Dad was an average bowler, scoring around 150 (he won the coveted "Outhouse Award' one year by bowling more 111 games than any other guy that season). Uncle Frannie averaged around 180, a lefty like Dad. They never won the championship, always the fighting underdog, but their games were something to look forward to every week, and it was a nice bonding time with my father.
Dad loved Baseball too, as I did, and we went to as many games as my health would allow. The Philadelphia Phillies were our passion, win or lose, as we survived their horrible collapse in 1964, living and dying with each game. We would always look forward to baseball season and picking out our games to attend when the schedule was finally released. It was a thrill getting the tickets in the mail or venturing down to old Connie Mack Stadium in late winter to buy tickets for the far-away summer.
The Phillies didn't win much, especially while I was growing up, but they were scrappy underdogs, never giving up, a team I could identify with.
I watched all the games on TV and listened to games on the radio. Like every kid, I had a transistor radio tucked under my pillow at night so I could listen to the late West Coast night games. Listening to the Phils battle icons like Koufax and Mays kept me riveted. If I fell asleep before the game ended, Dad would always leave a note by my bed in the morning before he went to work. "Phils won, 3-2" it would simply read.
Like most kids in the early 1960s I collected Baseball cards. There was nothing like the smell of bubble gum upon opening a brand new pack of cards. Always a hit-or-miss thrill to open a pack and find out what players you got to complete your check-list. Then, of course, you would either trade your doubles with other kids in the neighborhood or "flip" cards ( a way of winning cards by tossing them on top of each other). I was a pretty good flipper in my time, and won extra cards for my collection.
My favorite player then was Phillies shortstop Bobby Wine. He couldn't hit a lick but he was probably the best defensive shortstop of his time. He had a rocket arm, great range and his glove gobbled up ground balls like a vacuum cleaner. I loved his style and ease while playing the field. Maybe because he barely hit his weight he was an underdog like me, so he because my Baseball idol.
Dad knew someone from work that was a neighbor of Bobby Wine ( Wine lived in the Philly suburbs as we did, twenty or so minutes from our hometown of Phoenixville, Pa.). As a surprise, Dad arranged for Bobby to call me on my birthday one year. What a thrill, to get a call from your sports hero! "Hurry up and get better,: he said,"I want to see you at a game next season."
That alone gave me tons of motivation to keep hanging in there.
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