I
took a trip down Memory Lane the other day, only to discover this particular
“lane” had turned into a super-highway.
All
of my doctors are affiliated with Concord Hospital, so it’s rare that I set
foot in any other hospital. But a couple weeks ago, my surrogate uncle was a
patient at Catholic Medical Center (CMC) in Manchester, so I decided to go
visit him.
I
hadn’t been anywhere near that hospital in years, so I had no idea what to
expect. As I headed over to Manchester’s West Side, my mind drifted back to the
early 1970s, when I’d had surgery at CMC – back when it still was called Notre
Dame Hospital and the majority of the nurses were nuns.
The
hospital wasn’t very large back then – only one brick building – and there was
no parking area to speak of. Visiting
hours ended strictly at 8 p.m., preceded by warnings over an intercom telling
visitors they had only five minutes to leave. Fortunately, when I had my
surgery, my room was on the ground floor, so my visitors would leave at 8 p.m.
and then go stand outside on the grass and continue talking to me through the
open window.
And
back then, all of the nurses – those who weren’t nuns, that is – wore caps. The
different styles of the caps, I was told, indicated which nursing school the
nurses had attended. I guess each
school had its own distinct cap, kind of like a sports uniform. For some reason, most of my nurses wore
strange little caps that looked like upside-down cupcake papers with a ruffle
around the edge. I’m not certain which
nursing school they hailed from, but they definitely stood out.
I
hadn’t known it beforehand, but on Sunday mornings, the hospital played
religious music over the intercom system. When I woke up that first Sunday
morning after my surgery and heard what sounded like a choir of angels right
above my head, it took me a few minutes to realize I hadn’t died and gone to
heaven.
And
later that same day, I’d awakened from my nap to see a nun sitting by my bed
and praying.
“How
are you feeling?” she asked, looking concerned.
“Pretty
good,” I said, wondering if she knew something I didn’t.
“My
sister recently had exactly the same thing you have,” she said.
“Really?
Is she okay?”
“No,
she died.”
Let’s
just say the nun’s bedside manner didn’t exactly inspire a great deal of cheer
or optimism. And if that weren’t bad enough, she asked me about my marital
status.
“I’m
engaged to be married,” I told her.
“Oh?
Are you both Catholic?” she asked.
“No.
I’m Russian Orthodox and he’s Irish Protestant.”
“Dear
me,” she said, shaking her head, “that will never work. A Russian and an
Irishman? And two different religions? You’re doomed to fail. You should break
off the engagement now, before it’s too late.”
From
that point on, I referred to her as Sister Pessimistic.
The
most embarrassing moment after my surgery occurred when another nurse came into
my room and announced, “I’m here to give you a suppository.”
I
looked up to see a girl named Bette I’d gone to high school with. I didn’t know
which was worse – having a girl I’d sat beside in English class give me a
suppository, or requesting a different nurse and ending up with Sister
Pessimistic, who’d probably tell me her brother had suffered a slow and painful
death after getting a suppository.
I
opted for Bette.
Anyway,
two weeks ago, when I finally approached CMC to visit my uncle, my mouth fell
open. The place had become a miniature city. There were new traffic lanes,
traffic lights, parking areas, buildings. I felt overwhelmed just looking at
it.
By
the time I parked the car, hiked up the hill to the street and waited to cross
it, then found the main building and the information desk, I felt as if I’d run
a marathon. The fact it was about 110 degrees in the shade that day didn’t
help.
“I’m
here to see my uncle,” I gasped at the woman at the desk. “This place sure has
changed! I haven’t been here since it was Notre Dame Hospital and filled with
nuns.”
She
chuckled, “That’s definitely a long time ago.”
She looked up my uncle’s room number and told me how to get there. I
found him without any problem.
While
I was there, I noticed that none of the nurses were wearing anything on their
heads. I was kind of disappointed because I’d been hoping to see one of those
cupcake-wrapper caps again. I also didn’t see any nuns.
Still,
all through the visit, I couldn’t help thinking that Sister Pessimistic, who’d
probably be about 110 years old now, still was lurking somewhere in the
hospital…and she’d leap out from behind a curtain and say to me, “You look hot
and out of breath! My cousin looked exactly the same way you do just before he
dropped dead!”
I’m
pleased to say that my uncle received excellent care at the hospital and now is
home and doing well.
And
the last time I checked, I also still was breathing.
Knock
on wood.
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