February 16, 2023 - I had been to Dr. Harris several times with infected tonsils during 1965. We were living in Houston, Texas at the time when he finally looked me straight in the eye and said, “They have to come out, and soon.”
Those are not the words one wants to hear from your doctor. Those words are right up there with the word “oops” when your surgeon is operating on you. So, at around 29 years of age, I was planning on my very first surgery, you know, the kind where they put you to sleep and cut on your body. Dr. Harris reassured me that a tonsillectomy was a very safe, common surgery, though not as common on someone my age.
The surgery was scheduled at Herman Hospital in Houston the following week. I was somewhat apprehensive about “going under the knife” as well as the recovery time involved. Anything that interferes with the ability to eat is pretty serious.
The morning of the surgery came too soon and I was getting cold feet. But, a nurse pranced into my room early and gave me a shot. “What’s that for?,” I inquired. She smiled sweetly and responded, “Oh, this medicine will make you feel great. It takes away the apprehension so you won’t worry.” She sure knew what she was talking about. In a few minutes I did not have a care in the world. In fact, while being rolled down the long hall to the surgery rooms, I busied myself with trying to count the number of tiles on the ceiling. They pushed my bed on wheels up against an outside wall of an operating room and left me alone.
I could hear a lot of loud talking and some laughter. I guess the doctors and nurses have a great time cutting up, I thought to myself. It came to me suddenly that I had made a joke about surgeons being cut-ups, but there was no one to tell it to. I’ll just file that one away in my memory bank for future use, I decided in my stupor.
Suddenly a surgical nurse walked up to my bed, looked me over, then asked a question that really affected me. “What’s this one in here for?,” she yelled across to the others. A slight panic hit me as I realized that I was waiting for surgery and no one seemed to know which part of my body to cut on. Then she yelled out the same question again and I knew that I had to muster up enough strength to let them know the answer to her question. “A tonsillectomy, you’re taking out my tonsils”, I blurted out in my happy stupor. I had read about people who had the wrong leg amputated and other horror stories. I had wondered how such a mistake could occur… now I felt I knew the answer.
I remember being rolled into the operating room and crawling on to the surgery table still mumbling “A tonsillectomy - Dr. Harris - take out my tonsils…” Then I remember a feeling of ‘Oh, who cares.’ Who needs two legs anyhow came over me. I awoke with terrible pain in my throat and unable to swallow. I knew then that they had taken out the right part of my body.
I went home late on a Friday evening to recoup. Chipped ice was my first nourishment, followed by chicken soup without the noodles. On Saturday the lady that we had hired to clean the house and cook, Iona, added insult to injury. She cooked up a great meal of meatloaf, fried potatoes, corn bread, and other vegetables. The aroma of these wonderful dishes wafted into my bedroom making my mouth water. But, I could not yet eat any of them. How could she be so cruel? Well, I suppose the rest of the family has to eat.
My recovery was uneventful and the surgery cured me of the many tonsil infections I had suffered over the years. But, there were some anxious moments right before they were going to cut off one of my legs. I just knew I had saved the day.
