I took a trip down Memory Lane last month, 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 of weeks ago, I decided to visit a
friend who was a patient at Catholic Medical Center (CMC) in Manchester.
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 many of the nurses were nuns.
The hospital wasn’t very large back then – only one brick building – and
there was very limited parking, like for about 10 cars. 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 to talk 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 white caps that looked like upside-down
cupcake papers with a ruffle around the edge and a black band around the
middle. I wasn't certain which nursing school they hailed from, but I
suspected it might also have been affiliated with a baking school.
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, I panicked, thinking I'd 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 surgery you had,” 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 smiled. “I’m engaged to be married.”
“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 right 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 that caused an intestinal blockage.
I opted for Bette.
Anyway, last month, when I finally approached CMC to visit my friend,
my mouth fell open. The place had become a miniature city. There were new
traffic lanes, traffic lights, parking areas and 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…and looked it. The fact it was about 110 degrees in the shade that day didn’t help.
Even so, all through the visit, I couldn’t help but think Sister
Pessimistic, who’s probably about 115 years old by now, still was lurking
somewhere in the hospital and would 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 my friend received excellent care at the hospital and
now is home and doing well.
And the last time I checked, I also still was breathing, despite Sister
Pessimistic’s predictions years ago.
Knock on wood.
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
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