Tonsils. Yank 'em out!

Children in the 1950s had their tonsils removed with the same conviction and frequency that Adderall is prescribed to kids today. The prevailing belief was that yanking a child's tonsils out was a cure-all for upper respiratory tract problems and eventually a panacea for everything from chronic sinusitis to ear infections. The surgery was basically reserved for children and was performed routinely on tens of thousands of them. In England during the decades between 1950 and 1970, at least 80,000 children a year underwent a tonsillectomy. Because I was a rather scrawny kid who always seemed to have a cold, I was an excellent candidate for the procedure. Even though I was barely five years old, I still recall being in a bed enclosed by bars around its sides (like a cage) and the doctor asking me if I was ready to go to a party just before they wheeled me into surgery. My parents were not allowed into my room until I was discharged from the hospital. At that time, medical professionals believed parental involvement created undue anxiety for a child. The regulation, however, more likely made dealing with the child easier for the nurses and doctors by preventing parental interference and allowing them more control over their domain. They ruled the roost, so to speak, and as a result, I sat up in my caged bed weeping for my parents while they peered through a tiny window in the ward's door and waved at me.

The nurses wore white starched hats, neatly pressed white dresses, white opaque stockings, and white spongy-looking shoes. Even the nurses were white - literally. Black people did not work in white hospitals. I believe I was nearly in middle school before I was aware that black people lived in St. Louis. My education about race consisted of owning a Little Golden Book called Little Black Sambo written and illustrated by Scottish author Helen Bannerman. Who was white. In addition, I was taken to see the Disney movie, Song of the South. The Uncle Remus stories were written by Joel Chandler Harris, also white. My parents never discussed either of these experiences with me to help me understand how unauthentic they were so my first impression of black people was that they talked to tigers and made pancakes and happily sang zip-a-dee-doo-dah. This is not as innocuous as it may seem. Hardly a healthy foundation for introducing a child to another culture or ethnicity, it took years of experience and education to surmount those early racial stereotypes. I had to fight the inclination that whatever came from the black community was okay as long as it was introduced and sanctioned by white people. Ingraining this sort of mindset into a child is unconscionable because it takes a deliberate and concerted effort to burn this sort of abstruse racist ideology from our psyches.

So, the somber, efficient, and methodical white nurses terrified me. They did not smile. They did not sing me a song. They did not assure me I would ever see my parents again. They seemed to have such power! Surely, they were bad people capable of stealing the soul I prayed to keep every night. I feared I had recited my prayers incorrectly and now had to pay the price by having my soul surgically removed. My tears and pleas for my parents were ignored while I was carted off to the surgeon's promised party. Some party! After I surfaced from the anesthesia, I found myself back in my cage. My throat burned as badly as my thumb the time I scorched it on Mom's hot iron. No one had bothered to explain that I should expect this. Propped up on my pillows, I opened my mouth to call out for my parents but discovered I was unable to speak. Of course! The doctor had removed my soul and it must have resided in my voice box. I was doomed to enter kindergarten without being able to speak. In addition, I had weak ankles that turned inward and I had to wear ugly brown, laced-up corrective shoes. I could hear the cat-calls: Hey, everybody, who's the mute kid with the ugly shoes? At five, I was already a mess and my life was over. I would never make it to the first grade. The day after my surgery the nurses brought me ice cream or Jell-O in a small white cup served on a sickly, green plastic tray. In those days, ice cream was a rare treat, but I hardly appreciated it while I spooned it into my soundless mouth and allowed it to slide down my seared throat. I hated them: the doctors, the nurses, and the hospital. After all these years, I hesitate before picking up the phone to make a doctor's appointment and to this day, walking through the doors of a hospital can knot my stomach. So, although vaccines don't cause me concern, I avoid going to the hospital . . . like the plague. No pun intended.