Now I'm going to write in my own style, which my regular readers are probably used to, since that's how I write on this blog. This is not an assignment to turn in for grading; it's just an exercise; and since I'm trying to blog more often, this will kill two birds with one stone.
A STAY IN THE HOSPITAL
I was seven or eight years old when I became feverish and nauseous, complaining of a pain in my stomach. Mama put a sheet and blanket on the couch (or davenport, as she called it) so she wouldn't have to climb the stairs of our old two-story house to check on me. She worried, hovering over me, quizzing me about the stomach pain: Had I fallen against the armrest of the sofa? She remembered seeing me standing on the sofa the day before. I didn't remember doing anything that would have caused that pain and wished she'd just leave me alone.
I went upstairs to bed that evening; next morning Mama came up to see if I was any better. I wasn't. She went downstairs and brought back a red-rimmed white enamel wash basin full of warm water, a wash cloth, and a bar of soap. We had never had indoor plumbing, but then very few of our friends did, either: water from our well was brought into the house in a bucket, and if you wanted hot water, you heated it up in the teakettle. My mom gave me a sponge bath, and I swear I can still feel the comforting feel of the warm, soapy cloth. When I was clean and dressed in a starched cotton dress, Mother took me to Dr. Croxdale's office in Villisca, Iowa. Daddy stayed home to tend the switchboard in the living room. It provided our family income. Somebody always had to be there, because without the switchboard, people in our area couldn't call anyone on the phone except for people on their own party line.
I don't remember much about what took place at the doctor's office; my next memory is me, laying in a hospital bed in a room with about six other patients, all adults, one of whom was dying.
I was still vomiting. Nurses came and put an IV needle in a vein in my leg, and there it stayed for a few days. My mom said I was vomiting blood, but I remember one of the nurses saying in a rather catty way that it wasn't blood. I began receiving pretty get-well cards; sick as I was, I looked at all of them, many of which had a brand new child's handkerchief folded inside. I recall at meal times someone would bring me a tray holding tea in a little brown pot that held two cups of liquid, or sometimes broth to drink, but I believe that was after I finally stopped vomiting. I must have been getting better, because I remember the sweet, hot tea and the warm beef broth tasted wonderful. Uncle Leo brought Grandma Stevens to see me once, which was a treat. It was strange to see my non-driving grandma in such totally different surroundings. People from church sent me Little Golden Books. One favorite were Cookie, about a dog who loved cookies; I especially liked it because my own dog was named Cookie. Another book I enjoyed was about kids going to the county fair; I don't recall the title on the cover, but I still remember the first line in the book: "I went to the fair, oh, the grand county fair... with so much to do and such fun everywhere..."
On one of my last days hospitalized, Mother brought Daddy and left him with me for a few hours. He went out to smoke; while he was gone, the IV needle somehow came out of my leg. I didn't know what to do, but I didn't call for anyone; I just laid there hoping Daddy would hurry up and come back. A nurse came by and took the IV, stand, and needle away, which didn't hurt my feelings a bit.
I believe it was the next day I went home. A week after my homecoming, we went to the Iowa State Fair in Des Moines. My parents acted like I was fragile and wouldn't let me run, jump, or skip; but what a grand fair it was, and was I ever primed for it after reading about the "Grand County Fair" so many times for several days.
We never knew what ailed me, even after eight days in the hospital.
