Very early in my life, even in grade school, my teachers influenced me more than anyone else . They all told about their college experiences, and had us feeling that we should aspire to go. I guess I did not stop to realize what it would cost; I just talked incessantly about going to college. My cousin Helen told me one day to shut up about going to college. "Your daddy is not going to let you go. Don't you know that?"
As I have related in other posts, my health was great. I worked like a man, even before I was a teenager. My grades were getting me on the honor roll, but during my first year of high school I suddenly had trouble remembering things, and my grades took a drastic slide. I worried about it so much I could not go to sleep at night. My parents said I had a "wild" look in my eyes. My teachers noticed a change in my personality. I was "giddy", almost out of control. Recently there was a child in our neighborhood who was a "crack baby". Her mother had been a drug user. Watching her behavior reminded me of how I must have appeared during the brief period.
On Saturday of the week my parents asked, "What in the world is wrong with you?" I said I had not been to sleep in three nights, and they whisked me off to the doctor. The diagnosis was hook worms, and I was confined to bed. It was a common ailment in the south where children went barefoot on soil accessible to dogs infected with the disease.
With two weeks of bed rest, raw egg milkshakes and other blood building potions to fight the anemia I was ready to go back to school. On the first day back, it appeared school was not quite ready for me. Mrs. Munn, the principal's wife and English teacher for all grades asked me to leave the room while she talked to the class. She called me back in, and gave me a book all the class had signed. It was a mystery to me. Why did I need to be out of the room for them to sign the book? The mystery became very clear that afternoon when I was riding the school bus home. A little second grader stared at me, and close to my face, whispered, " Are you still crazy?"
So, that was why Mrs. Munn wanted me out, to explain to the class how I should be treated. I was devastated! At home I cried buckets, didn't want to ever go back to that school. If I could just go to another school, start all over, I knew I could be the best student there. Luckily I fell asleep, and the next morning realized it was impossible to go to another school. I would just go back, watch every word I said to anyone, study hard, and hope they would forget my short time out of control.
None of the students ever asked me about my illness. In a college English class assigned to write a brief story about a high school experience, I wrote about it, trying to describe how I felt when there was no consolation except my faithful cat whose purr, as she slept on my stomach, quieted my fears. I got an A on the paper. Actually, I made up that part. Everyone knew Miss Davenport had several cats, and I suspected it was her soft spot, so I took advantage of it! After my experience with dogs, I wanted nothing to do with any animals, and I never went barefoot again.
The rest of my high school experience could not have been better. I was president of the senior class. I kept talking college, and in September of 1947 it really happened. There was never any question where I was going. East Carolina was only an hour's drive, but it had never occurred to us to just drive up there and look around.
I had not bought any new clothes, but I had made a couple of dresses. Everything I owned, including my blanket, fit in a small footlocker. My Aunt Ruth helped me pack. She told me later that she went home and cried, thinking of how little I had, and how I would feel around girls in the dorm. Mama and Daddy drove me up to Cotten Hall, helped me find my room. Daddy gave me a last minute warning, "If I ever hear of your being in a car with boys, you will be coming home!"
What did he mean? Didn't he know I was too homely for any boys to want to take me for a ride? I went up to my room, sat on my foot locker in the hall way, and waited for my new world.
My next blog will be about riding in a car with boys.
In the meantime, tomorrow we leave on a great adventure. Tomorrow night we will be in a hotel in New York where we will meet our three daughters, their husbands and the last child in each family. All the other grandchildren are in university and feeling very left out. It seems too perfect to be true, a dream spring break, two weeks on the Mediterranean and a few days for us down in North Carolina where they have postponed Aunt Ruth's ninetieth birthday party until we can be there.
Ciao!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Second blog today!
Is there a magic potion that could make me computer literate??? This is just to explain why I have two blogs, almost exactly the same, following this note.
Last night I only had an hour or so to get down the one in the series about segregation in the south. Our friends came for us as I was finishing it, and I hit a wrong button throwing it into a place I didn't think I could retrieve. Thinking it would be better if I did it over this morning, I was typing away when Paige called. "Grandma" she asked, "are you having trouble with your blog?" She was able to see I had written it, but I had not saved it, so I thought it was gone. Now, several hours later, I see that it is published. If you can stand to read both, tell me if I improved it at all.
My husband read it and reminded me that he could remember the very incident which confirmed to him that I was no longer prejudiced. It was soon after we came to BYU, at a basketball game where we were playing Wyoming. They had a black player on their team, and two ignorant Cougar fan sitting several rows down from us kept yelling, "Get that n____ out of there." Now, that was the worst word you could say when we were growing up!
I took it as long as I could. Then, I stood up, parted the people in front of me who were sitting on the bleachers, and worked my way down several bleacher rows to where they sat. I put a hand on each of their shoulders, and amid the shouting, used my loudest, most affirmative voice to say, "You shut up! I grew up in the South, and we never called them that name. It is the rudest thing you can do!"
I went back to my seat and they didn't make another sound. I will consider that my repentance!
Last night I only had an hour or so to get down the one in the series about segregation in the south. Our friends came for us as I was finishing it, and I hit a wrong button throwing it into a place I didn't think I could retrieve. Thinking it would be better if I did it over this morning, I was typing away when Paige called. "Grandma" she asked, "are you having trouble with your blog?" She was able to see I had written it, but I had not saved it, so I thought it was gone. Now, several hours later, I see that it is published. If you can stand to read both, tell me if I improved it at all.
My husband read it and reminded me that he could remember the very incident which confirmed to him that I was no longer prejudiced. It was soon after we came to BYU, at a basketball game where we were playing Wyoming. They had a black player on their team, and two ignorant Cougar fan sitting several rows down from us kept yelling, "Get that n____ out of there." Now, that was the worst word you could say when we were growing up!
I took it as long as I could. Then, I stood up, parted the people in front of me who were sitting on the bleachers, and worked my way down several bleacher rows to where they sat. I put a hand on each of their shoulders, and amid the shouting, used my loudest, most affirmative voice to say, "You shut up! I grew up in the South, and we never called them that name. It is the rudest thing you can do!"
I went back to my seat and they didn't make another sound. I will consider that my repentance!
Being Stupid or Pride and Prejudice
Growing up in the the deep south before even Lyndon Johnson thought about civil rights was a very interesting social experience. Two actions of mine still haunt me to this day. There was very little opportunity for me to be exposed to black families on a social level, although they lived all around us. Paul Greene, a journalist for the Raleigh News and Observer, and creator of the Lost Colony Pageant at Roanoke Island wrote that no matter how down in the gutter a white man was, there was always somebody who had to call him Mister. My family existed clearly as Poor Whites, or as some have described as Proud Poor, a step above. We were never on welfare, but it was a stark existence in most respects.
In second grade we moved to a farm next door to a black family with a daughter about my age. Going to meet the bus, I always saw her in the yard. I stopped one day to talk to her. We didn't talk about school. It was just understood that blacks did not go to school. Her name was Charity. She invited me into the house to see her picture. It was not just a picture of Charity in the 8 by 10 frame, but a picture of three girls who looked exactly alike, same dressses, same poses, standing side by side. Her mother explained that Charity was born with identical sisters, Faith and Hope, who died in infancy. The mother cried and told me how each year they had a new picture taken to honor her lost sisters. The family's home was as clean as mine, and the parents' bed, and in addition to being nicer and fluffier than my parents had a satin spread. The beds in my house were only covered with homemade quilts.
I went home that day with a new reference point, and was excited to tell my parents of the experience. Not all blacks were dirty and smelled bad. Mama didn't chastise me for going in the house, but had me understand that I must come straight home after that. I still think about Charity, and wonder if she ever got a chance to learn to read.
By the time I was out of college and was on the other side of the desk, there were black schools. I had an occasion to visit one when I was teaching in Southern Pines. It was a new red brick school, and as I slowly passed the boy's locker room, I detected not just a stronger smell than the one in my school, but a different smell altogether. I got to know the black administrators and cooperated with them on occasion. They had to fight for everything they got. Truthfully, as I have taught many black students since that year, many of which became favorites of mine, I have never had any who did not appear clean.
The year that I taught in Southern Pines was 1954, the year the US Supreme Court favored Brown over The Board of Education. People immediately could see a new confidence on the faces of all the blacks in the community. There was much talk of desegregation, but in our last faculty meeting, where it was the hot topic for two hours, our superintendent assured us that we would never have to assimilate black students in our schools. He had the right to regulate districts, and if he had to put each house of black people in a different school districts, he could do it, even if his county had several hundred districts with one house in each. Later, they not only integrated, but had to spend a lot of money busing students all over to make sure the color was balanced in each school. It gave rise to more prejudice than ever, and the establishment of great numbers of small elite private schools without the financial backing to support programs like music, arts and others the larger public schools offerred.
We occasionally hired black women to help pick cotton, but during our hardest season we "swapped work" with four other families to harvest the tobacco, a very labor intensive work lasting six or seven weeks in July and August. One summer Uncle Jim hired a young black fellow to live with them, sleeping in a shed, and eating after all the white people had finished.
He was a jovial, very talented guy we discovered when he asked permission to play the piano in their living room. He played by ear, ragtime, and anything you could hum. One day we finished early, and Uncle Jim asked all the men if any would like to go into town to see a wild west movie. Only two men accepted, so Uncle Jim asked Joe if he wanted to go. He quickly accepted. The other men left to clean up, but Joe only washed his hands and was ready. When asked if he was going to take a bath, he answered that he had powdered.
I thought about Joe fifty years later when I was teaching at a university in China and one of my students asked me why westerners smell so bad. She had encountered an American athlete after a soccer game. I discovered that Chinese people not only have very litttle body hair, but no sweat glands at all, and that deodorant is not even sold in China. Should they choose not to bathe for a week or so, they may have the same odor of dead skin that all humans have, especially old people who think that since they sit around all the time and don't feel dirty there is no need to bathe.
The stigma of immorality was the worst image of blacks. We felt justified in sending them to "de backa de bus". One weekend during WW ll my cousin Helen and another friend and I took a bus trip. I was left behind them with an empty seat beside mine. A man entered with his wife and asked me if I would move to the seat behind mine, beside a black woman, so he and his wife
might sit beside each other. I simply said "No" and turned toward the window.
I had never heard anything like the scolding that man gave me, but I continued to sit there looking out the window, afraid he would try to remove me bodily.
My next act of defiance came many years later when I was a staff dietitian at Duke University Hospital. There I was in constant close contact with many black people, since most of the workers in the kitchen and the wards were from the black community and colleges. I had to watch those who operated dangerous machinery in case they came to work slightly inebriated and sliced off a finger. Charles came a little tipsy occasionally and juiced two crates of oranges for the private patients. Should he not show up at all, I had to juice them myself. The black nurses, maids, and all other workers ate in the basement together where their rest rooms were located. One day I saw a lovely black registered nurse in the upstairs bathroom and reminded her that she was to use the one downstairs. She met my stare, but remained aloof and calmly walked out.
I felt justified because each month all medical staff and food handlers had blood drawn to test for venereal diseases. We always had to fire a few blacks who had syphilis, but never a white person. I had a fear of a toilet seat that could be contaminated. The prejudices stayed with me a long time, I am ashamed to say, even after I came out west with my husband to go to school. That summer I found myself with a large group of students playing a game where we all held hands in a circle. There was a black boy in the group, and when it became necessary for me to hold hands with the black student, I dropped out of the game.
I feel so embarrassed to admit these things. I hope I have been forgiven. One of my dear friends, Ana Claudia, a beautiful Nigerian girl who worked with me in the Madrid Temple, has probably the darkest skin of anyone I have seen, but is the most beautiful. If she ever comes to this country, I sincerely hope she will find it a welcoming place every where she goes.
In second grade we moved to a farm next door to a black family with a daughter about my age. Going to meet the bus, I always saw her in the yard. I stopped one day to talk to her. We didn't talk about school. It was just understood that blacks did not go to school. Her name was Charity. She invited me into the house to see her picture. It was not just a picture of Charity in the 8 by 10 frame, but a picture of three girls who looked exactly alike, same dressses, same poses, standing side by side. Her mother explained that Charity was born with identical sisters, Faith and Hope, who died in infancy. The mother cried and told me how each year they had a new picture taken to honor her lost sisters. The family's home was as clean as mine, and the parents' bed, and in addition to being nicer and fluffier than my parents had a satin spread. The beds in my house were only covered with homemade quilts.
I went home that day with a new reference point, and was excited to tell my parents of the experience. Not all blacks were dirty and smelled bad. Mama didn't chastise me for going in the house, but had me understand that I must come straight home after that. I still think about Charity, and wonder if she ever got a chance to learn to read.
By the time I was out of college and was on the other side of the desk, there were black schools. I had an occasion to visit one when I was teaching in Southern Pines. It was a new red brick school, and as I slowly passed the boy's locker room, I detected not just a stronger smell than the one in my school, but a different smell altogether. I got to know the black administrators and cooperated with them on occasion. They had to fight for everything they got. Truthfully, as I have taught many black students since that year, many of which became favorites of mine, I have never had any who did not appear clean.
The year that I taught in Southern Pines was 1954, the year the US Supreme Court favored Brown over The Board of Education. People immediately could see a new confidence on the faces of all the blacks in the community. There was much talk of desegregation, but in our last faculty meeting, where it was the hot topic for two hours, our superintendent assured us that we would never have to assimilate black students in our schools. He had the right to regulate districts, and if he had to put each house of black people in a different school districts, he could do it, even if his county had several hundred districts with one house in each. Later, they not only integrated, but had to spend a lot of money busing students all over to make sure the color was balanced in each school. It gave rise to more prejudice than ever, and the establishment of great numbers of small elite private schools without the financial backing to support programs like music, arts and others the larger public schools offerred.
We occasionally hired black women to help pick cotton, but during our hardest season we "swapped work" with four other families to harvest the tobacco, a very labor intensive work lasting six or seven weeks in July and August. One summer Uncle Jim hired a young black fellow to live with them, sleeping in a shed, and eating after all the white people had finished.
He was a jovial, very talented guy we discovered when he asked permission to play the piano in their living room. He played by ear, ragtime, and anything you could hum. One day we finished early, and Uncle Jim asked all the men if any would like to go into town to see a wild west movie. Only two men accepted, so Uncle Jim asked Joe if he wanted to go. He quickly accepted. The other men left to clean up, but Joe only washed his hands and was ready. When asked if he was going to take a bath, he answered that he had powdered.
I thought about Joe fifty years later when I was teaching at a university in China and one of my students asked me why westerners smell so bad. She had encountered an American athlete after a soccer game. I discovered that Chinese people not only have very litttle body hair, but no sweat glands at all, and that deodorant is not even sold in China. Should they choose not to bathe for a week or so, they may have the same odor of dead skin that all humans have, especially old people who think that since they sit around all the time and don't feel dirty there is no need to bathe.
The stigma of immorality was the worst image of blacks. We felt justified in sending them to "de backa de bus". One weekend during WW ll my cousin Helen and another friend and I took a bus trip. I was left behind them with an empty seat beside mine. A man entered with his wife and asked me if I would move to the seat behind mine, beside a black woman, so he and his wife
might sit beside each other. I simply said "No" and turned toward the window.
I had never heard anything like the scolding that man gave me, but I continued to sit there looking out the window, afraid he would try to remove me bodily.
My next act of defiance came many years later when I was a staff dietitian at Duke University Hospital. There I was in constant close contact with many black people, since most of the workers in the kitchen and the wards were from the black community and colleges. I had to watch those who operated dangerous machinery in case they came to work slightly inebriated and sliced off a finger. Charles came a little tipsy occasionally and juiced two crates of oranges for the private patients. Should he not show up at all, I had to juice them myself. The black nurses, maids, and all other workers ate in the basement together where their rest rooms were located. One day I saw a lovely black registered nurse in the upstairs bathroom and reminded her that she was to use the one downstairs. She met my stare, but remained aloof and calmly walked out.
I felt justified because each month all medical staff and food handlers had blood drawn to test for venereal diseases. We always had to fire a few blacks who had syphilis, but never a white person. I had a fear of a toilet seat that could be contaminated. The prejudices stayed with me a long time, I am ashamed to say, even after I came out west with my husband to go to school. That summer I found myself with a large group of students playing a game where we all held hands in a circle. There was a black boy in the group, and when it became necessary for me to hold hands with the black student, I dropped out of the game.
I feel so embarrassed to admit these things. I hope I have been forgiven. One of my dear friends, Ana Claudia, a beautiful Nigerian girl who worked with me in the Madrid Temple, has probably the darkest skin of anyone I have seen, but is the most beautiful. If she ever comes to this country, I sincerely hope she will find it a welcoming place every where she goes.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Being Stupid
I can never remember anyone calling me stupid. Nevertheless, I have to freely admit that in my youth I did a couple of things of which I am now ashamed. To set the stage for these confessions, let me explain the social background I came from. My people were what I have heard referred to as "the proud poor". A famous North Carolina newspaper man, author of the "Lost Colony" pageant, Paul Greene wrote about the blacks during Martin Luther King's fight for civil rights, "No matter how low a white man sinks, there is always someone who has to call him 'Mister' "
There were many black families in Lenoir County and the whole state for that matter, and I had regular contact with them. It never occurred to me to ask where, or if they went to school. I knew where the Negro churches were, and maybe there were grammar school classes held in those buildings. If any of them were literate, I was unaware of it. I might have been one of the first children to ride a school bus to a modern school. The black children were totally ignored.
In second grade we moved into a tobacco farming neighborhood 15 miles from a town. I walked by a house where a nice black family lived to catch the bus. A girl about my age was always in the yard, so in the afternoon I would stop and talk with her. Charity was the only child in the family. She invited me into her house to meet her parents where I was fascinated to see a large picture in an ornate gold frame of Charity and two other girls looking exactly like her, same pose. same dress, same height. Her mother must have seen the look of wonder on my face, because she explained that when Charity was born, she had given birth to two other girls at the same time who looked exactly like her. She named the other girls Faith and Hope. It was evident that they all still suffered from the loss of the girls who died shortly after their birth. Each year on Charity's birthday they took her to a photographer who took a picture in triplicate to replace the one they had looked at all year. I thought it was the sweetest thing. I was also impressed at how clean the house was. The parents slept on a bed flufffier than any we had, and it was covered with a satin bedspread instead of a homemade quilt like all of our beds.
I could not wait to tell my parents of the experience, and I looked forward to visiting with my new friend often, but I was quickly aprised that it would not be appropriate, nor allowed. I was not told to be rude, just say nothing, but hurry home. It wasn't that I didn't know of the taboo. Comments heard around all the whites left an image of dirty conditions, "don't care" attitudes, and as I grew older, immorality in addition to the slovenliness. I still think about Charity a lot.
We sometimes went into town to hire day workers when the cotton was ready to pick, but for tobacco harvesting we swapped work with other farmers in the neighborhood, going to a different farm each day of the week, except the day our tobacco was being harvested. That six or seven week period in July and August was the most intense labor I have ever been exposed to.
Uncle Jim occasionally had a black boy about twenty stay with them, sleeping outside under some sort of shelter. After the day's work was done he was sometimes allowed to come inside the house and play their piano. He played by ear, and we had never heard anyone better. Of course he always ate after the family had finished. Only the men talked with him. It would have been very improper for me to have entered the conversation.
One evening we finished early, and Uncle Jim asked if any of the men would like to go into town to a wild west movie. The women were not invited, and only three men were going, so he invited the black boy, asking him how soon he could be ready. He answered that he was ready. "Aren't you going to take a bath?", my uncle asked.
"I powders", he replied. Maybe that was the reason black people had a strong odor different from whites, I thought..
Later, in my teaching career, I had an occasion to visit a new modern red brick high school in the city where I taught. Passing the boy's locker room, it definitely was much different from the one in my school. I am sure we ate about the same diet (soul food is still my favorite). many years later when was teaching in a prestigious Chinese university, I was amused when a student asked me why westerners smell so bad. Later I learned Chinese have almost no body hair and no sweat glands. Deodorant was not even sold there, as unless they neglected to bathe for days on end, they had no problem, even with physical exercise.
The black students I have taught, some of whom became favorites of mine, have always been immaculate. My attitude changed when I moved from the south, but the two events I mentioned earlier occurred in high school and in my first job.
My cousin and I went on a bus trip. There was another cousin with us who was closer her age, so I ended up in a seat alone. A couple got on the bus to find that only two seats were left, the one beside me, and one directly behind me beside a black woman. The man asked if I would move back beside the black woman so he could sit with his wife. I refused, without any explanation. He needed no explanation. Everyone knew blacks had to sit in the back of the bus. I simply said "No", and let it go at that. He sailed into me with a lecture I will never forget. Of course all the white people were on my side. They were proud of me!
There were no black students at my college, but when I graduated and started work at Duke University, I was thrown into the 50/50 ratio of employees. Nearly all of the cooks I supervised were black, and as they had a reputation for having a pretty wild life, I had to watch them carefully when they were using machinery that could cut off an arm. Charles, a very handsome man, came in very early to juice two crates of fresh oranges, usually smelling like alcohol. I was always relieved to see him come in. If he didn't make it, the job fell to me.
The blacks had their own dining room, their own bathroom, all in the basement, and a lower quality in every way. Occasionally I had to go in there to retrieve a worker. The conversation was always base, and I was convinced they had a very loose morality. I was glad all food handlers were required to have blood drawn each month or so for a Wasserman test which detects venereal disease. Each time we had to fire several. Many were students from the Negro college in Durham. I was glad they did not use our bathrooms. One day I saw a very pretty black registered nurse, so clean and neat, using our bathroom. I asked her if she were aware that she was supposed to use the one downstairs. I shall never forget the look she gave me, not exactly superior, but certainly not submissive. She did not change her facial expression, just stared me in the eyes , threw her shoulders back and walked out.
Two years later I was teaching in Southern Pines High School when, at the end of the year the US Supreme Court favored Brown versus the Board of Education. The final faculty meeting was devoted to all the rumors about the local attitudes of the blacks. Nobody was afraid, but the blacks on the street were euphoric. They fully expected to be able to enroll in our school the next year. Our superintendent just laughed as he assured us that he had full jurisdiction, and if he had to put each home with blacks in a different zone, he could still tell them where they had to go to school. I left the next month, and never knew how he handled it, but all schools eventually were mixed, black and white evenly. With a costly busing system and many private schools sprang up all over the south.
There were many black families in Lenoir County and the whole state for that matter, and I had regular contact with them. It never occurred to me to ask where, or if they went to school. I knew where the Negro churches were, and maybe there were grammar school classes held in those buildings. If any of them were literate, I was unaware of it. I might have been one of the first children to ride a school bus to a modern school. The black children were totally ignored.
In second grade we moved into a tobacco farming neighborhood 15 miles from a town. I walked by a house where a nice black family lived to catch the bus. A girl about my age was always in the yard, so in the afternoon I would stop and talk with her. Charity was the only child in the family. She invited me into her house to meet her parents where I was fascinated to see a large picture in an ornate gold frame of Charity and two other girls looking exactly like her, same pose. same dress, same height. Her mother must have seen the look of wonder on my face, because she explained that when Charity was born, she had given birth to two other girls at the same time who looked exactly like her. She named the other girls Faith and Hope. It was evident that they all still suffered from the loss of the girls who died shortly after their birth. Each year on Charity's birthday they took her to a photographer who took a picture in triplicate to replace the one they had looked at all year. I thought it was the sweetest thing. I was also impressed at how clean the house was. The parents slept on a bed flufffier than any we had, and it was covered with a satin bedspread instead of a homemade quilt like all of our beds.
I could not wait to tell my parents of the experience, and I looked forward to visiting with my new friend often, but I was quickly aprised that it would not be appropriate, nor allowed. I was not told to be rude, just say nothing, but hurry home. It wasn't that I didn't know of the taboo. Comments heard around all the whites left an image of dirty conditions, "don't care" attitudes, and as I grew older, immorality in addition to the slovenliness. I still think about Charity a lot.
We sometimes went into town to hire day workers when the cotton was ready to pick, but for tobacco harvesting we swapped work with other farmers in the neighborhood, going to a different farm each day of the week, except the day our tobacco was being harvested. That six or seven week period in July and August was the most intense labor I have ever been exposed to.
Uncle Jim occasionally had a black boy about twenty stay with them, sleeping outside under some sort of shelter. After the day's work was done he was sometimes allowed to come inside the house and play their piano. He played by ear, and we had never heard anyone better. Of course he always ate after the family had finished. Only the men talked with him. It would have been very improper for me to have entered the conversation.
One evening we finished early, and Uncle Jim asked if any of the men would like to go into town to a wild west movie. The women were not invited, and only three men were going, so he invited the black boy, asking him how soon he could be ready. He answered that he was ready. "Aren't you going to take a bath?", my uncle asked.
"I powders", he replied. Maybe that was the reason black people had a strong odor different from whites, I thought..
Later, in my teaching career, I had an occasion to visit a new modern red brick high school in the city where I taught. Passing the boy's locker room, it definitely was much different from the one in my school. I am sure we ate about the same diet (soul food is still my favorite). many years later when was teaching in a prestigious Chinese university, I was amused when a student asked me why westerners smell so bad. Later I learned Chinese have almost no body hair and no sweat glands. Deodorant was not even sold there, as unless they neglected to bathe for days on end, they had no problem, even with physical exercise.
The black students I have taught, some of whom became favorites of mine, have always been immaculate. My attitude changed when I moved from the south, but the two events I mentioned earlier occurred in high school and in my first job.
My cousin and I went on a bus trip. There was another cousin with us who was closer her age, so I ended up in a seat alone. A couple got on the bus to find that only two seats were left, the one beside me, and one directly behind me beside a black woman. The man asked if I would move back beside the black woman so he could sit with his wife. I refused, without any explanation. He needed no explanation. Everyone knew blacks had to sit in the back of the bus. I simply said "No", and let it go at that. He sailed into me with a lecture I will never forget. Of course all the white people were on my side. They were proud of me!
There were no black students at my college, but when I graduated and started work at Duke University, I was thrown into the 50/50 ratio of employees. Nearly all of the cooks I supervised were black, and as they had a reputation for having a pretty wild life, I had to watch them carefully when they were using machinery that could cut off an arm. Charles, a very handsome man, came in very early to juice two crates of fresh oranges, usually smelling like alcohol. I was always relieved to see him come in. If he didn't make it, the job fell to me.
The blacks had their own dining room, their own bathroom, all in the basement, and a lower quality in every way. Occasionally I had to go in there to retrieve a worker. The conversation was always base, and I was convinced they had a very loose morality. I was glad all food handlers were required to have blood drawn each month or so for a Wasserman test which detects venereal disease. Each time we had to fire several. Many were students from the Negro college in Durham. I was glad they did not use our bathrooms. One day I saw a very pretty black registered nurse, so clean and neat, using our bathroom. I asked her if she were aware that she was supposed to use the one downstairs. I shall never forget the look she gave me, not exactly superior, but certainly not submissive. She did not change her facial expression, just stared me in the eyes , threw her shoulders back and walked out.
Two years later I was teaching in Southern Pines High School when, at the end of the year the US Supreme Court favored Brown versus the Board of Education. The final faculty meeting was devoted to all the rumors about the local attitudes of the blacks. Nobody was afraid, but the blacks on the street were euphoric. They fully expected to be able to enroll in our school the next year. Our superintendent just laughed as he assured us that he had full jurisdiction, and if he had to put each home with blacks in a different zone, he could still tell them where they had to go to school. I left the next month, and never knew how he handled it, but all schools eventually were mixed, black and white evenly. With a costly busing system and many private schools sprang up all over the south.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Being Ugly
My husband is always telling me how beautiful I am. Love is blind, I know, and as I usually ignore his compliments, he asked me recently if I was unaware of my good looks. I had to answer honestly that he is the only person who has ever told me that. I have always looked at my photographs over the years and assumed that I take a good picture, because what I see in the mirror is not beauty.
My early memories of myself I will describe as skinny, with orangy red hair and dark (almost black) freckles all over my neck and arms. I inherited my dad's complexion, his full lips and nice teeth that were dazzling white and perfect. Smiling a lot showed off my only good feature. The entire family of seven uncles, three aunts and dozens of cousins were aware of how I hated the freckles, and occasionally someone suggested a cure or at least a remedy. I tried them all. Somehow my mother came up with a few dollars to send away for a jar of Stillman's freckle cream. She said if it even lightened them just a little, she would consider ordering more. Reluctantly, I had to admit they were darker, if anything. Looking back now. I realize some of the remedies were so ridiculous they were just having fun thinking them up, like getting up before daylight in summer and bathing my face in dew from the grapevine leaves. The most absurd one, my Uncle Marvin offered. He suggested I eat a chicken foot while sitting on the floor behind the door while everyone else ate the good pieces of chicken. Mama always threw away the feet, but she boiled one for me. I gnawed on the thing the whole dinner hour, and I can testify there was not one morsel of food to be found on it. At age six I decided I was just stuck with the freckles and gave up. In high school pancake makeup was all the rage, and , although they still showed through, I felt they were a little lighter. When I was a freshman in college, I looked in the mirror one day to find they had gone completely.
High school was a trying time, but socially it was better than grade school. I was friends with everyone in my class, close friends with some, and through 4-H club in the neighborhood I had very good times. The hard work of growing tobacco left little time for play, but during the school year I loved every day of school. All grades were in the same building. If a teacher didn't show up for a lower grade, I was sometime asked to substitute. The only criticism I ever got from the teachers was for talking too much. One of my teachers told me how fortunate I was to have red hair, because, she said a person with red hair already has a personality. People remember you!
Then, I felt a little better about the hair. My figure was OK, but again I failed to get my mother's looks. Instead of small hips and ample bust, I got just the opposite. The top was easy to fix, and since I weighed only a hundred pounds, the hips were not a great problem. About the time I went to college strapless gowns came in style. Only the girls who could support the strapless bras could wear a strapless gown. About the time the freckles disappeared I figured out a way around that. I worked in the health center, college infirmary, where they kept adhesive tape of all widths on hand. One roll was as wide as my hand, used to tape cracked ribs of the football players.
I borrowed a strapless bra from a friend. Before putting it on, I took a piece of tape about 8" long and taped each bust toward the center, crossing the tape in front. Such cleavage!. Then, to keep the whole bra from falling down, my friend taped it all the way around. With a couple of pairs of old nylons stuffed in the sides I looked like Marilyn Monroe, and I could do the jitterbug with not a care in the world! Getting the tape off after the dance was awful.
In high school I felt very secure, not pretty, but smart. In college, I had little time to socialize. I had enough dates to develop conversation skills. I do not recall any guys ever telling me I was attractive. The styles always seemed to be for girls with thin hips, so I began to wear a tight Playtex rubber girdle to make me look thinner. In summer it was miserable. One day in September I was helping in the infirmary with the athlete's physicals, getting their height,
weight, and temperature. Thinking there was a lull in my duties, I stepped behind a screen to pull the girdle loose a bit to let some air in when it slipped out of my fingers with a loud pop. When I emerged from behind the screen, there stood the last of the guys, laughing. "I can't believe you are wearing one of those horrible torture instruments", he said. "If you had on a red skirt, you'd look like a thermometer, anyway!"
With a life void of complements, I have always felt so lucky to have a soldier boy fall so completely in love with me when I was 23. I had not begun to feel like an old maid, yet, but I was seriously considering moving out west where the pickin's were better. Elder Alma Sonne, a church authority at one of the conferences was a good friend of Dr. Brockbank, state supt. of education. He was going to speak with his friend about a job for me in Salt Lake. He even said I would easily find the right husband with my good looks. Maybe I was better looking than I thought, and had only met shy boys in college. Still the memory of the remark made by one of the boys in my high school could bring me back to earth. He said, "If you were as pretty as your mother, I would take you out!"
My early memories of myself I will describe as skinny, with orangy red hair and dark (almost black) freckles all over my neck and arms. I inherited my dad's complexion, his full lips and nice teeth that were dazzling white and perfect. Smiling a lot showed off my only good feature. The entire family of seven uncles, three aunts and dozens of cousins were aware of how I hated the freckles, and occasionally someone suggested a cure or at least a remedy. I tried them all. Somehow my mother came up with a few dollars to send away for a jar of Stillman's freckle cream. She said if it even lightened them just a little, she would consider ordering more. Reluctantly, I had to admit they were darker, if anything. Looking back now. I realize some of the remedies were so ridiculous they were just having fun thinking them up, like getting up before daylight in summer and bathing my face in dew from the grapevine leaves. The most absurd one, my Uncle Marvin offered. He suggested I eat a chicken foot while sitting on the floor behind the door while everyone else ate the good pieces of chicken. Mama always threw away the feet, but she boiled one for me. I gnawed on the thing the whole dinner hour, and I can testify there was not one morsel of food to be found on it. At age six I decided I was just stuck with the freckles and gave up. In high school pancake makeup was all the rage, and , although they still showed through, I felt they were a little lighter. When I was a freshman in college, I looked in the mirror one day to find they had gone completely.
High school was a trying time, but socially it was better than grade school. I was friends with everyone in my class, close friends with some, and through 4-H club in the neighborhood I had very good times. The hard work of growing tobacco left little time for play, but during the school year I loved every day of school. All grades were in the same building. If a teacher didn't show up for a lower grade, I was sometime asked to substitute. The only criticism I ever got from the teachers was for talking too much. One of my teachers told me how fortunate I was to have red hair, because, she said a person with red hair already has a personality. People remember you!
Then, I felt a little better about the hair. My figure was OK, but again I failed to get my mother's looks. Instead of small hips and ample bust, I got just the opposite. The top was easy to fix, and since I weighed only a hundred pounds, the hips were not a great problem. About the time I went to college strapless gowns came in style. Only the girls who could support the strapless bras could wear a strapless gown. About the time the freckles disappeared I figured out a way around that. I worked in the health center, college infirmary, where they kept adhesive tape of all widths on hand. One roll was as wide as my hand, used to tape cracked ribs of the football players.
I borrowed a strapless bra from a friend. Before putting it on, I took a piece of tape about 8" long and taped each bust toward the center, crossing the tape in front. Such cleavage!. Then, to keep the whole bra from falling down, my friend taped it all the way around. With a couple of pairs of old nylons stuffed in the sides I looked like Marilyn Monroe, and I could do the jitterbug with not a care in the world! Getting the tape off after the dance was awful.
In high school I felt very secure, not pretty, but smart. In college, I had little time to socialize. I had enough dates to develop conversation skills. I do not recall any guys ever telling me I was attractive. The styles always seemed to be for girls with thin hips, so I began to wear a tight Playtex rubber girdle to make me look thinner. In summer it was miserable. One day in September I was helping in the infirmary with the athlete's physicals, getting their height,
weight, and temperature. Thinking there was a lull in my duties, I stepped behind a screen to pull the girdle loose a bit to let some air in when it slipped out of my fingers with a loud pop. When I emerged from behind the screen, there stood the last of the guys, laughing. "I can't believe you are wearing one of those horrible torture instruments", he said. "If you had on a red skirt, you'd look like a thermometer, anyway!"
With a life void of complements, I have always felt so lucky to have a soldier boy fall so completely in love with me when I was 23. I had not begun to feel like an old maid, yet, but I was seriously considering moving out west where the pickin's were better. Elder Alma Sonne, a church authority at one of the conferences was a good friend of Dr. Brockbank, state supt. of education. He was going to speak with his friend about a job for me in Salt Lake. He even said I would easily find the right husband with my good looks. Maybe I was better looking than I thought, and had only met shy boys in college. Still the memory of the remark made by one of the boys in my high school could bring me back to earth. He said, "If you were as pretty as your mother, I would take you out!"
Thursday, March 4, 2010
An Education
School has been a big part of my life. I have known many people who actually hated everything about school, the discipline, the work, maybe the sense of inadequacy they felt. Luckily none of these feelings were in my experience. In a previous entry I told about the large, two storied antebellum house in Craven County which we shared with the Hill woman and her two daughters while her husband was in prison. They were in school, but I was too young. I was so envious to see them walking together with their books. Daddy wasn't sure sending me the next year was a good idea.Grace and Margaret Hill walked quite a long way. They had taught me some ABCs and when they moved I pestered Daddy all summer until I had learned them all. School started, but I was not going. One day he announced that he had been to the school and talked with the principal about his reluctance to have me walk so far alone. The principal agreed to have have the school bus drive down to our road. I would be the first child to board the bus. The driver was a high school senior who lived about a mile away.
The first day I went all the way to the back of the bus and sat in the very last seat. The next stop picked up two boys who sat beside me and pestered me all the way to school. They made fun of my red hair, holding their hands up to it to see if it burned. My clothing amused them. My mother was not aware of the latest fashions for school children. My underwear was longer than my dress and could be pulled up by the elastic on the legs. The boys pulled the legs down and delighted in popping the elastic. I cried all the way to school.
One day the driver noticed them tormenting me and the next morning he told me to sit in the seat right behind him. That was my special seat. It told me that he liked me better than all the other kids. I was afraid if I told Daddy about the boys he would make me quit school. I had heard that teachers would spank you if you misbehaved. Daddy said that if I got a spanking at school, he would give me one when I got home. The first stupid thing I did was tell him about the whack I got on the bottom when I was day dreaming at the end of the line coming back to the class room after recess. The other children marched in while I stood there looking behind at the clouds. I remember the teacher with her arms crossed, standing alone in the door waiting for me to wake up. As I ran past her, she whacked my bottom and suggested I should try to be at the head of the line after that, which I did.
My teacher was Miss Florence Worthington, ancient, very experienced. She had introduced me to the class that first day and presented me with a brand new yellow box of crayons. I had never used crayons before. The other children had been in school a week or two and had already broken most of their crayons. Miss Florence said, "Now, Doris is going to keep all of her crayons just like they are, and not break a one." I was sure I could, and I did for quite a long time, but one day the blue one snapped because I was bearing down too hard. I carefully put it back in the box to look unbroken, and I never used it again.
Every day was a new adventure. I knew how to draw all the numbers, but what a thrill it was to learn that the number 8 could be made easier than drawing two zeros. I went home and swirled eights all over the house.
The most exciting thing happened one day. A new student moved into our class. His name was William, but when Miss Florence had finished introducing him and telling us that he was from Florida where oranges grow, he asked if she could call him Bill and have all of us do the same, since everyone had always called him that. I was so impressed! Seeing oranges grow, having a nick name! That was so neat! I waited until the class was quiet and working away, and I quietly crept up to Miss Florence's desk and asked her if she would have all the pupils call me Maybelle, since that was what everyone had always called me.
I shall never forget the smile on her face when she very wisely said, "We will see." I knew she didn't believe me and that I was not going to get the attention I was seeking.
Shyness was never a problem with me. I knew I was not as fashionable as the others. I wanted pretty clothes, and a lunch made of store bought bread and bologna instead of the hot sweet potatoes Mama had put in my pockets to keep my hands warm on the way to school. One day I saw a pretty embroidered handkerchief in the bushes. Every day I watched to see if anyone had claimed it. One day I found a stick to reach it, but it was too short. An older girl asked what I was doing, getting my arms all scratched. She helped me get the handkerchief, which I took home and washed and kept in my treasures for many years. The older girl was a senior, I think. She asked if I wanted to eat my lunch with her and her friends, so until summer I sat with three older girls and listened to them talk about the most interesting things, mostly boyfriends.
Not having friends at school must not have worried me. I decided early on that I was smarter than most of them, because I could finish my work first and it was always right. Who needed friends? None of them lived near me, so there was no chance to play after school or in summer.
During Christmas vacation when I was in Miss Sessions' second grade we moved back to Lenoir County. Our class had drawn names, the first time I had ever heard of a Christmas party. A boy got my name and gave me an automatic pencil with replaceable lead. I treasured it for many years. Once I thought had lost it. Everyone helped me look for it. It definitely was not in the house, and I had not taken it to school. I decided to pray really hard to know where else to look, and felt impressed to look under the house. There was dry sand under there, and the house was built up on stilts about 18 inches high, big round tree posts. It was easy to get under there, and sure enough, there was my pencil in the sand, and a hole just the size of the pencil in the floor above it. The pencil could not have fallen through. Someone had pushed it. Who didn't like me?
The first day I went all the way to the back of the bus and sat in the very last seat. The next stop picked up two boys who sat beside me and pestered me all the way to school. They made fun of my red hair, holding their hands up to it to see if it burned. My clothing amused them. My mother was not aware of the latest fashions for school children. My underwear was longer than my dress and could be pulled up by the elastic on the legs. The boys pulled the legs down and delighted in popping the elastic. I cried all the way to school.
One day the driver noticed them tormenting me and the next morning he told me to sit in the seat right behind him. That was my special seat. It told me that he liked me better than all the other kids. I was afraid if I told Daddy about the boys he would make me quit school. I had heard that teachers would spank you if you misbehaved. Daddy said that if I got a spanking at school, he would give me one when I got home. The first stupid thing I did was tell him about the whack I got on the bottom when I was day dreaming at the end of the line coming back to the class room after recess. The other children marched in while I stood there looking behind at the clouds. I remember the teacher with her arms crossed, standing alone in the door waiting for me to wake up. As I ran past her, she whacked my bottom and suggested I should try to be at the head of the line after that, which I did.
My teacher was Miss Florence Worthington, ancient, very experienced. She had introduced me to the class that first day and presented me with a brand new yellow box of crayons. I had never used crayons before. The other children had been in school a week or two and had already broken most of their crayons. Miss Florence said, "Now, Doris is going to keep all of her crayons just like they are, and not break a one." I was sure I could, and I did for quite a long time, but one day the blue one snapped because I was bearing down too hard. I carefully put it back in the box to look unbroken, and I never used it again.
Every day was a new adventure. I knew how to draw all the numbers, but what a thrill it was to learn that the number 8 could be made easier than drawing two zeros. I went home and swirled eights all over the house.
The most exciting thing happened one day. A new student moved into our class. His name was William, but when Miss Florence had finished introducing him and telling us that he was from Florida where oranges grow, he asked if she could call him Bill and have all of us do the same, since everyone had always called him that. I was so impressed! Seeing oranges grow, having a nick name! That was so neat! I waited until the class was quiet and working away, and I quietly crept up to Miss Florence's desk and asked her if she would have all the pupils call me Maybelle, since that was what everyone had always called me.
I shall never forget the smile on her face when she very wisely said, "We will see." I knew she didn't believe me and that I was not going to get the attention I was seeking.
Shyness was never a problem with me. I knew I was not as fashionable as the others. I wanted pretty clothes, and a lunch made of store bought bread and bologna instead of the hot sweet potatoes Mama had put in my pockets to keep my hands warm on the way to school. One day I saw a pretty embroidered handkerchief in the bushes. Every day I watched to see if anyone had claimed it. One day I found a stick to reach it, but it was too short. An older girl asked what I was doing, getting my arms all scratched. She helped me get the handkerchief, which I took home and washed and kept in my treasures for many years. The older girl was a senior, I think. She asked if I wanted to eat my lunch with her and her friends, so until summer I sat with three older girls and listened to them talk about the most interesting things, mostly boyfriends.
Not having friends at school must not have worried me. I decided early on that I was smarter than most of them, because I could finish my work first and it was always right. Who needed friends? None of them lived near me, so there was no chance to play after school or in summer.
During Christmas vacation when I was in Miss Sessions' second grade we moved back to Lenoir County. Our class had drawn names, the first time I had ever heard of a Christmas party. A boy got my name and gave me an automatic pencil with replaceable lead. I treasured it for many years. Once I thought had lost it. Everyone helped me look for it. It definitely was not in the house, and I had not taken it to school. I decided to pray really hard to know where else to look, and felt impressed to look under the house. There was dry sand under there, and the house was built up on stilts about 18 inches high, big round tree posts. It was easy to get under there, and sure enough, there was my pencil in the sand, and a hole just the size of the pencil in the floor above it. The pencil could not have fallen through. Someone had pushed it. Who didn't like me?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Vanity
This is the last installment of the history of traumas in my life, the last of my near death experiences. Near the end of the two week crisis I entered the hospital emergency room Sunday morning with a malfunctioning drain from my stomach. For a week I had argued with the surgeon substituting for my doctor who was out of town. For the fourth time, my bed had been soaked. There were two drains and the other was working perfectly. The place looked deserted. If you want good service at ER, wait until Sunday morning when all the addicts and indigents have gone. he nurse at the desk asked, "What brings you here?"
Without a moment's hesitation I said, "Vanity"! Ted was getting pretty tired of taking me there, three times in the two days. The doctor was very irritated, and showed me for the third time how to collapse the drain to get it to start doing the job. I started to cry and showed him that I evidently did the other one right, because it worked fine. He removed the whole apparatus and discovered a small hole in the tube, apologized, replaced it, and was on his way.
Why was I in the situation? Well, I was about to turn seventy in a few months. In three weeks we were going to China for a month as part of our missionary duties. I had been working very hard to get my weight down, so I could have some new clothes made by my fabulous Shanghai tailor who could do it all overnight. I had saved several beautiful pieces of fabric, cashmere, silk, etc. from my last years of teaching. I had saved my money. I looked at my pear shaped figure with the lifeless stomach fold that simply would not go away, and called a plastic surgeon I knew. He assured me he could get me in a few days later and have me carrying my heavy suitcase in a couple of weeks.
It went well. I was only down at the surgery center a few hours. At home I was walking around, sleeping well at night and the next day Ted whirled me around the living room and pronounced me ready to go dancing. A few hours later I had difficulty breathing and was in the hospital on life support. My lungs had suddenly filled with blood clots. If any part moved to the brain, I would be gone. All night I was kept awake with tests and with blood thinners going in each arm. When I dozed the bells went off, bringing an angry nurse to remind me to keep my arms straight or the IV would shut off. All the next day it was the same. Talk about sleep deprivation!
The day nurses in ICU were very nice. One of them warned me that the next night they would only have one nurse, and that If I needed anything I might have to be persistent. She placed the call button in my hand and assured me it would bring quick results. It brought the nurse who helped me with the bedpan. It brought her back to take it away. I immediately fell asleep. An hour or so later I woke because I was freezing, and realized I was completely uncovered, exposed to anyone walking past my door. I called to a girl going by and asked her to cover me. As soon as she came in, she called to the head nurse to say, "Your patient is dirty. I will help you wash her and cover her with a warm blanket." That taken care of I settled into a wonderful sleep for several hours, waking at five AM to the realization that all my strength was gone and I could not move.
The call button was still in my hand. I saw the nurse at her desk facing me with her head down on her arms asleep. I pressed the red button. She raised her head as called, "What do you want?" I asked her to come. She was very irritated, because I was not in pain. I tried to explain that something was terribly wrong, because I felt like there were worms or snakes moving all over my body. I asked her to call my husband. There was a phone near, but I could not move to reach it. She said it was too early and told me to go back to sleep.
As soon as she left the room a voice, a man's voice, spoke to me, "Scream, or you are going to die!". I screamed as loudly as I could. She whipped around and told me to be quiet and not wake up the other patients. As she walked out, I screamed again. I cannot ever remember having screamed before. It worked.
I saw her go to her desk, heard her say, "Dr. Clayton, your patient is freaking out on me!"
A few minutes later he was at my bedside. Luckily he was just going by the hospital on his way to the surgical center a few blocks away. I heard him say, "Would you look at that! Her stomach looks like a birthday balloon!" Then they were running with my bed down the hall to the elevator. My husband was called and told that I had a setback and he was told to call our daughters. They made the decision, that if I stopped breathing they were not going to try to bring me back to life. I was awake through all of this and able to tell them my blood type.
Soon I was aware that I was being given four units of blood all at once. They had cut a small hole in my neck and placed a double shunt where two bags could flow in at once. I told them it really hurt and asked if they didn't have novocain. The doctor said they didn't have time to get it.
I remember their talking about my blood pressure being so low and the hematacrit or red cells. Someone in the room said he had never seen a patient's that low. Strangely, I knew I was near death, but I felt no panic. I was in and out. Then I realized I was back in my room and there were doctors all around my bed. Katy was also there. The other girls were too far away. The heart surgeon was saying they intended to do an angioplasty the next day. Katy immediately left the room and called their neighbor in Salt Lake who is a very respected heart surgeon, a man all the doctors in the room knew, who advised against having that procedure so soon after such a trauma. There was evidence I had a stroke in the operating room. Dr. Frishnecht asked Katy, "Is your husband a doctor, too?"
"No", she replied, "He is an attorney." The room went silent, and the doctors all walked out.
Dr. Clayton took me back to surgery a few days later to clean out all the old blood in my stomach cavity. Thus, the drains I went home with. He asked me about the worms and snakes, a phenomenon he was not aware accompanied depleted arteries. The nurse had told him she thought I was an alcoholic with DTs. We all had a good laugh! A missionary? My word!
Needless to say, I was in no shape to go to China. Ted went alone. The stroke left me with so little energy I could not concentrate on TV or reading, even if I could have held the paper or book. Interestingly, the days passed quickly. While Ted was gone, I decided to go to the doctor in Salt Lake for a thorough heart check up. It was from him that I learned the nurse had shut down all my machines that night, because the alarms that sounded every time I fell asleep bothered her. Had they been on, the drop in blood pressure would have alerted every one. My fingernails actually died, and had turned black. Dr. Mackey said the bottom heart muscle had atrophied and would never work again.
I told everybody I could about my experience. The head administrator came to my house to talk to me. I convinced them the nurse had no business being in charge of desperately ill people, and got her transferred to rehab.
I gradually gained my energy back. The only time I have ever been aware of a lack of oxygen is when I walk up even a slight incline, especially if I have just eaten. Then my chest and arms hurt if I don't slow down. Recently, I decided that after 12 years I should have another check up. Dr. Frishnecht is still considered the best in town, so I went to him without reminding him that we had a former encounter. I had a feeling he remembered. He was very cautious, did not discuss the tests or anything, except to say, "You have a very strong heart."
Don't you think I have had my chances? The most depressing thing now is the probability of livingto be a hundred. Someone sent me a questionnaire on age prediction. I filled it out as honestly as I could, and it predicted I will live to be 102. I went back and decided maybe I don't get enough exercise, and maybe I don't eat as many veggies as I should and lowered it to 100.
Sorry, girls. I can't interest your dad into taking it. You will probably have to worry about both of us for twenty more years ! Let me know if I should send the questionnaire to anyone who may read this.
Without a moment's hesitation I said, "Vanity"! Ted was getting pretty tired of taking me there, three times in the two days. The doctor was very irritated, and showed me for the third time how to collapse the drain to get it to start doing the job. I started to cry and showed him that I evidently did the other one right, because it worked fine. He removed the whole apparatus and discovered a small hole in the tube, apologized, replaced it, and was on his way.
Why was I in the situation? Well, I was about to turn seventy in a few months. In three weeks we were going to China for a month as part of our missionary duties. I had been working very hard to get my weight down, so I could have some new clothes made by my fabulous Shanghai tailor who could do it all overnight. I had saved several beautiful pieces of fabric, cashmere, silk, etc. from my last years of teaching. I had saved my money. I looked at my pear shaped figure with the lifeless stomach fold that simply would not go away, and called a plastic surgeon I knew. He assured me he could get me in a few days later and have me carrying my heavy suitcase in a couple of weeks.
It went well. I was only down at the surgery center a few hours. At home I was walking around, sleeping well at night and the next day Ted whirled me around the living room and pronounced me ready to go dancing. A few hours later I had difficulty breathing and was in the hospital on life support. My lungs had suddenly filled with blood clots. If any part moved to the brain, I would be gone. All night I was kept awake with tests and with blood thinners going in each arm. When I dozed the bells went off, bringing an angry nurse to remind me to keep my arms straight or the IV would shut off. All the next day it was the same. Talk about sleep deprivation!
The day nurses in ICU were very nice. One of them warned me that the next night they would only have one nurse, and that If I needed anything I might have to be persistent. She placed the call button in my hand and assured me it would bring quick results. It brought the nurse who helped me with the bedpan. It brought her back to take it away. I immediately fell asleep. An hour or so later I woke because I was freezing, and realized I was completely uncovered, exposed to anyone walking past my door. I called to a girl going by and asked her to cover me. As soon as she came in, she called to the head nurse to say, "Your patient is dirty. I will help you wash her and cover her with a warm blanket." That taken care of I settled into a wonderful sleep for several hours, waking at five AM to the realization that all my strength was gone and I could not move.
The call button was still in my hand. I saw the nurse at her desk facing me with her head down on her arms asleep. I pressed the red button. She raised her head as called, "What do you want?" I asked her to come. She was very irritated, because I was not in pain. I tried to explain that something was terribly wrong, because I felt like there were worms or snakes moving all over my body. I asked her to call my husband. There was a phone near, but I could not move to reach it. She said it was too early and told me to go back to sleep.
As soon as she left the room a voice, a man's voice, spoke to me, "Scream, or you are going to die!". I screamed as loudly as I could. She whipped around and told me to be quiet and not wake up the other patients. As she walked out, I screamed again. I cannot ever remember having screamed before. It worked.
I saw her go to her desk, heard her say, "Dr. Clayton, your patient is freaking out on me!"
A few minutes later he was at my bedside. Luckily he was just going by the hospital on his way to the surgical center a few blocks away. I heard him say, "Would you look at that! Her stomach looks like a birthday balloon!" Then they were running with my bed down the hall to the elevator. My husband was called and told that I had a setback and he was told to call our daughters. They made the decision, that if I stopped breathing they were not going to try to bring me back to life. I was awake through all of this and able to tell them my blood type.
Soon I was aware that I was being given four units of blood all at once. They had cut a small hole in my neck and placed a double shunt where two bags could flow in at once. I told them it really hurt and asked if they didn't have novocain. The doctor said they didn't have time to get it.
I remember their talking about my blood pressure being so low and the hematacrit or red cells. Someone in the room said he had never seen a patient's that low. Strangely, I knew I was near death, but I felt no panic. I was in and out. Then I realized I was back in my room and there were doctors all around my bed. Katy was also there. The other girls were too far away. The heart surgeon was saying they intended to do an angioplasty the next day. Katy immediately left the room and called their neighbor in Salt Lake who is a very respected heart surgeon, a man all the doctors in the room knew, who advised against having that procedure so soon after such a trauma. There was evidence I had a stroke in the operating room. Dr. Frishnecht asked Katy, "Is your husband a doctor, too?"
"No", she replied, "He is an attorney." The room went silent, and the doctors all walked out.
Dr. Clayton took me back to surgery a few days later to clean out all the old blood in my stomach cavity. Thus, the drains I went home with. He asked me about the worms and snakes, a phenomenon he was not aware accompanied depleted arteries. The nurse had told him she thought I was an alcoholic with DTs. We all had a good laugh! A missionary? My word!
Needless to say, I was in no shape to go to China. Ted went alone. The stroke left me with so little energy I could not concentrate on TV or reading, even if I could have held the paper or book. Interestingly, the days passed quickly. While Ted was gone, I decided to go to the doctor in Salt Lake for a thorough heart check up. It was from him that I learned the nurse had shut down all my machines that night, because the alarms that sounded every time I fell asleep bothered her. Had they been on, the drop in blood pressure would have alerted every one. My fingernails actually died, and had turned black. Dr. Mackey said the bottom heart muscle had atrophied and would never work again.
I told everybody I could about my experience. The head administrator came to my house to talk to me. I convinced them the nurse had no business being in charge of desperately ill people, and got her transferred to rehab.
I gradually gained my energy back. The only time I have ever been aware of a lack of oxygen is when I walk up even a slight incline, especially if I have just eaten. Then my chest and arms hurt if I don't slow down. Recently, I decided that after 12 years I should have another check up. Dr. Frishnecht is still considered the best in town, so I went to him without reminding him that we had a former encounter. I had a feeling he remembered. He was very cautious, did not discuss the tests or anything, except to say, "You have a very strong heart."
Don't you think I have had my chances? The most depressing thing now is the probability of livingto be a hundred. Someone sent me a questionnaire on age prediction. I filled it out as honestly as I could, and it predicted I will live to be 102. I went back and decided maybe I don't get enough exercise, and maybe I don't eat as many veggies as I should and lowered it to 100.
Sorry, girls. I can't interest your dad into taking it. You will probably have to worry about both of us for twenty more years ! Let me know if I should send the questionnaire to anyone who may read this.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
