That December, in 1962, it was dark, and I was lost. The hospital for crippled children, where I’d been since before Halloween, was looking more and more like what my daddy said was a Communist plot. According to Daddy, the Russians were trying to take over the world and make us all be pinko commies. As I sat on my bed in the Big Girls’ ward, it was clear that the hospital was in on the plot to rob decent folks of their freedom.
First off, a nurse came around every single day with a little black notebook. You had to tell if you pooped that day and she’d mark it down. I had no idea what a Communist would do with this information, but whether I’d done my duty or not, I answered, “Yes.” In that place, if you skipped a day, you got prune juice. Second day, suppository. Third day, well you could see where this was going.
Bathroom history was only the beginning. The ward bosses (doctors, nurses and aides in yellow dresses) controlled when you ate, when you slept, and most importantly, when you had your surgery. Even worse, they kept it a secret until the day before. The Commie whitecoats had fun with that one. The day I arrived back in September, a doctor yanked my bent over left wrist until it was almost straight and then slapped a plaster cast on it.
Weeks later, I still didn’t know when I’d have an operation. Since I didn’t really need fixing, maybe they were skipping me ahead to the last step before discharge. But other girls weren’t so lucky. Nearly every day one of them landed in what we called the Dead Bed—the spot closest to the nurses’ desk outside the ward. If they moved your bed to the Dead spot, you were definitely on your way to the OR.
While it was still dark, an eight-foot-tall guy named Otto appeared, put the unlucky girl on his stretcher, tightened the seat belt and then rolled her out. Later that afternoon, the girl would reappear on the ward, but this time she’d be covered in plaster cast and barfing every few minutes. Some girls moaned but you’d moan too if you woke up in a cast from your chin to your feet.
I was terrified.
Would I come back from the OR with a head-to-toe cast too? Other kids said their surgeries hurt a lot. What if I accidentally cried? The meaner nurses would shove your bed right out of the ward and make you stay in the cast room until you calmed down. What if I couldn’t calm down?
Every day, in spite of hospital school and Grey Ladies and Girl Scouts, I was a lost puppy. Salt Lake City was a million miles from home. Even if I escaped, I could never walk all the way to Yuma, Arizona.
I wished and prayed and hoped I’d get home for Christmas. But here I was. And I hadn’t even had surgery yet.
Lost. In the dark. With a bunch of reds. Daddy said he’d rather be dead than red. I didn’t want to be red or dead. Did God forget me?
I should have known. Next thing you know, Dead Bed, here I come. No dinner. A nurse shaving my arm with stinky green soap. I tried to sleep but my heart wouldn’t let me. And on the darkest morning of the year, Otto.
Otto strapped me to his gurney, and we rode the elevator. It opened and we crashed right through double doors to the OR--bright as heaven and as cold as the North Pole.
God wasn’t coming to save me, and this wasn’t the light I was looking for. Maybe there really was a war against Communism.
My teeth chattered. Everyone, dressed in white with hats and masks, leaned over me. One said to slide over onto the table. He laughed. “You wrinkled the sheet.” My mouth was dry, and my heart banged around. If this was what Communists did, no wonder Daddy was so mad. I prayed really hard for a rescue, but a man put a mask over my nose and said, “I’ll bet you can’t count to ten in German.”
“Eins, zwei,” I mumbled, but before I got to drei I fell into a deep dark hole, cold, bottomless, hopeless. Later, they’d tell me it was truth serum, and I probably confessed all my sins. But as I sank, something held my hand and fell alongside me.
That something or Someone hummed with love, scooping me out of the Dead Bed of hopelessness, flinging my so not-perfect body into what tasted like joy. Somehow, love found me and carried me through it all.
I awoke moaning and trying not to barf. My arm was on fire and my fingers swelled up like giant hot dogs, but the Dead Bed didn’t scare me now. If I cried it was the best kind of tears, the ones that make everything new again.
My heart seemed to light up eternity, and my whole self along with it. In that moment, I glimpsed a mystery way beyond a fifth grader like me. To withstand our enemies—communists, nurses or even ourselves— we must find the path to freedom. On Christmas, and every other day, may we let Love light our way.