Scandal at Children's Hospital

Frank and Amy Urano were patriotic U.S. citizens of Japanese descent, working hard to make an honest living in post-war Fort Lupton, Colorado.

The Uranos were friends of my parents in the days when I was a frequent patient at Children’s Hospital in Denver. In line with their generous natures and soft hearts, the Uranos came to visit me in the hospital.

For all their good qualities, the two of them would set aside the rules if the rules were impediments to their goals.

One late evening, long after the strictly enforced hospital “visiting hours” were over, they found me in Ward Six, Second South, with about 10 or 11 other boys.

Frank and Amy walked brazenly past the “guard” whom we called “big nurse.” (This is ironic considering the character with that nickname who came much later in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”)

From an innocuous brown paper bag, the Uranos produced a brand-new cellophane-wrapped box of Brach’s Cherry Chocolates – just for me!

Candy was forbidden at Children’s. This was reasonable, since the various nutritional needs of the young patients might be sabotaged by unauthorized treats.

Nevertheless, I had a special affinity for cherry chocolates. Straightaway, I found a place to hide my new prize.

What nice people, the Uranos. How thoughtful. They took the trouble to make a trip to Denver, to find their way to me, and to bring me a precious gift. Obviously, I have never forgotten it.

Contraband

The other boys in the ward had watched with sharp eyes when the red box of candy had arrived. As in prison, contraband was to be shared – or else.

But how? All of us in that room were bedridden. It wasn’t like anybody could just jump out of bed, walk around the room, and share the booty.

Finally, in the wee hours, we hit upon a plan. Tossing single chocolates bed-to-bed would have been foolhardy, as we’d be busted if there was even one bon-bon that went awry. The janitor would find it, and the Nazified Nurse Corps would search until they found the main stash. We knew this.

So we decided to toss the whole box bed-to-bed. I took one and ate it. Then I tossed the box to the kid on my left. He caught it. He took one. He ate it. He tossed it back – and true to my lifelong absolute lack of natural athletic ability, I missed.

The whole box, minus only two candies, went sliding along the shiny waxed floor beneath the bed of the boy to my right.

I was in traction. Both my feet were in plaster casts. My feet were in the air, ballasted with iron sash-weights, cotton-roped over pulleys. The kid at my right was in a sort of bondage, too, with a Pyrex tube inserted into his urethra to drain his bladder.

Since he was unwilling to move (I wasn’t surprised) I knew I had a Hobson’s choice. Young Mr. Tommy had to get off that bed, under the bed next to him, and back on the bed – or he and the Uranos would be in trouble.

Perhaps it was 3 a.m. Without hesitation, I dove off the side of the bed. The weights slammed to their highest-possible position at the pulleys.

Hospital beds are tall, but they’re on wheels. Lucky for me. I pulled my bed sideways behind me until I could reach the box of chocolates.

I hid the contraband in my nightstand. Because of the fear of discovery, I was possessed of inhuman upper body strength. I pulled myself back onto the bed. I was unable to completely tidy up the scene when a night nurse suddenly appeared; she suspected something but didn’t figure it out.

We got away with it! No reprimand. No embarrassment for the Uranos. We beat the system. And more candy for another night!

The whipping

I was only abused once in Children’s Hospital. It took place much earlier than the cherry chocolate incident, in a different area of the institution.

There was only one other kid in this room with me. He was a Catholic boy and he kept telling me I was going to hell because I wasn’t “confirmed.”

I took all of this with a grain of salt. My mother had carefully explained to me that because I had been baptized, my soul was not at hazard.

One of my treatments was thanks to Australia’s heroic Sister Kenny, medical inventor. Attendants and nurses would come and wrap my lower body in wet, hot, odoriferous, steamy olive-green wool “army blankets.”

The treatment was to combat the shriveling effect of infantile paralysis on the muscles. It effected precious little long-term healing – but it gave a great deal of immediate relief. Sister Kenny, by the way, was some other sort of Christian, not Catholic. We looked it up.

In addition, sandbags were placed over the steamy blankets, holding my skinny little legs in the desired positions.

By and by, as I lay there immobilized by disease, sandbags and wet blankets, this nurse comes in.

She was a rather portly individual, dressed all in white, with a crucifix on a chain around her neck, fastened at the sternum in the fashion of bishops, cardinals, and the Pope.

My sandbags had slipped. This infuriated Sister Subcutaneous, and she stood there red-faced, huffing and puffing, while I tried to concentrate on the bright red cross embroidered at the upper front of her nurse’s hat.

She pulled back the hot wet blankets. She barked an order for resupply. Turning back to me, she took off a long white leather belt from her girth, folded the strap in half, and whacked me repeatedly across the tops of my naked thighs.

Despite Mother’s reassurances, I thought maybe I had gone to hell after all. My roommate was quick to point out that this was what it would be like if I didn’t get confirmed. I never saw that nurse again. Whew.

Confirmation

Here I am sixty-four years later, and I have the great and good benefit of full participation and membership in the Roman Catholic Church.

The marriage of Mr. Tommy and Mrs. Laura has been blessed by the Church. We both benefit directly from the holy sacraments.

How could all this Catholicity happen, in view of the beating a nun gave me? Why would I even consider becoming Catholic after that?

A very similar question was asked of me when we were coming into the church, vis a vis, “How can you join a church that has child-molesters . . . “ etc. ad infinitum.

How? Why? My faith isn’t about people who make mistakes. My faith is about the Trinity, the Bible, and yes, the Mother Church.

On balance, I feel sorry for that poor nurse. She was so overwrought with the horrific scene around her that she lost it. Seeing that many sick children every day can have a deep emotional impact.

Oh the baby. I remember the hurt she did. She remembers doing the hurt.

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Word of the Week: Histrionic. It’s from the Latin histrionicus, acting, or histrio, actor. Classically, it means having the nature of acting or actors. These days, we think of it more as behavior that is theatrical, melodramatic, artificial or affected. When you hear Pastor Ted Haggard speak, it is histrionics. Bet on it.