When I was a kid

My mom was never one to go running to a doctor, for herself or for me.  For instance, although I went barefoot constantly and was always stepping on nails and glass, I never had stitches for an injury until I was middle-aged.  
The summer I turned seven years old, though, I became sick enough that Mother took me to see Dr. Croxdale, our family doctor in Iowa.  I don't recall whether I was vomiting at the time; I do remember feeling weak and listless, and I remember Mother giving me a sponge bath as I lay on my bed, to get me ready to see the doctor.  
The good doctor had me admitted to a hospital, and I do recall vomiting frequently during my stay there.  I was put on intravenous feeding.  I was in a room with several others, one of whom was a middle-aged lady in the final stages of cancer.  
Uncles came to visit me, bringing Grandma along.  Everybody looked so solemn, and I really didn't have the energy to wonder why.  
I received cards in the mail, many of them with little girls' handkerchiefs enclosed; I still have a couple of those hankies.  
Tests were run; mother told someone I had been vomiting blood and I heard a nurse, snickering, say, "She didn't vomit blood."  
After four or five days, for no reason at all, I began to get better; I was brought tea in a cute little brown teapot and broth in a cup, and it all tasted so good!  
After eight days in the hospital, I went home.  We never knew what ailed me.  
We made our usual autumn campout trip to the Iowa State fair not long after I went home; my parents kept reminding me to take it easy and not run or jump.  
My illness may not even have been anything that major; perhaps I would have done as well at home as I did in the hospital, who knows.  The only special thing that was done for me, as far as I can remember, was the intravenous feeding.  
Since that time in 1951, I've only entered hospitals for my two pregnancies and some elective surgeries.