Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 2021-07-17 10:01:37 –
Polar Sophia Shonauer, LCSW, continues to make continuous memoirs. If you haven’t read the first half of this series yet, take a look at the bottom of this page.
“If a physical complaint was deliberately created by a child, it can be difficult to assess to what extent. A more important consideration is what purpose such assessment serves.”
— Stanley Levenstein, psychosomatic disorder and childhood symptoms.
My room at Akron Children’s Hospital is on the 8th floor, the highest ever, and I enjoyed sitting in the windows looking out from the perch, such as trees and buildings such as cars that were miniaturized by height and distance.
It was like being on top of the world, far enough to feel safe and far enough to enjoy the details. I saw the North Hill Viaduct, a high-level spandrel arch bridge over the Little Yahoga River, just north of downtown. Near the bridge is a dwarfed house with a huge arch over 100 feet high, under the bridge there are green fields, riverbanks and trees, enough to reach within a few feet from the top of the arch. Some were tall.
The world from this point of view seemed idyllic, fascinating, and not a threat. It was fascinating to imagine eternal people who lived an ideal life under the arch, protected by those stone sentries, and were strong and immobile.
A nurse knocked on a large wooden door bordered by a mold. She entered the room freely, but welcomed her. I liked her uniform, hard white dress, white tights, white sneakers, and a little white hat on her head. She wore a blue sweater over her dress and a stethoscope around her neck.
“It’s time to check your temperature,” she said.
She placed a thermometer under my tongue, causing a small discomfort. While waiting for my temperature, she placed a stethoscope on my chest, gently checked my heart rate, and listened to my breathing. The metal at the tip of the stethoscope was a little cold and I was writhing. She also examined my ears and nose with an otoscope.
“It looks good,” she said. “Are you sick?”
I put my hand on the right side of my abdomen. “It still hurts.”
She lifted my shirt and gently touched my abdomen. At this point, there was a faint fist-sized bruise on the right side of the navel.
The nurse smiled at me and moved my shoulders little by little as a gesture of conviction.
“What is breakfast?”
“You have nothing,” she said. “I have a test today.”
Late that morning I sat in the old part of the hospital. The floor was white and gray and looked like a small boomeran throughout the gray area. The walls were green and shiny, fluorescent, shadowless and sterile, with a slight hum in the background. It wasn’t very comfortable here, it wasn’t personal, and it was somehow colder than my room. A man in white, who claims to be not a doctor, gave me a glass of pink. It looked like a strawberry milkshake, but it was too warm to make ice cream. It tasted like chalk. Still, I drank it as I was told. I stopped just before I wanted to suffocate, one bite at a time. When it was over, the liquid sat heavy in my stomach and rumbling.
The X-ray examination itself was unpleasant. I remember having to lie in different positions while they were examining my intestines. I looked at the monitor and looked inside myself on a black and white screen. After that, I was sitting in the bathroom for a long time.
For the next few days, I tolerated other tests, nothing as unpleasant as the first test, but I was hungry for liquid diets such as beef broth, vegetable broth, skim milk, water, and green jero. .. Not my favorite. Still, the attention I received from nurses and doctors, their friendliness, and their energy were very positive.
During the day, my mom came to see me sadly and anxiously, putting the back of my hand on my forehead to check my temperature. I wasn’t feverish, but her worries and physical contact were encouraging.
A few days later, a bruise on my abdomen was noticeable, but I hid it from my mother.
It became the point of discussion between my nurse and doctor, and they sent a woman in professional clothing, a skirt and a blazer, older than her mother. She was cute and lovely and asked me about bruises. I told her I was beaten a lot.
“Does it hurt?”
It was embarrassing to put my hand on the bruise, and I cried in my eyes.
She left the room.
I leaned forward with my stomach and cried. I really cried. I squeezed it like a twisted cloth, loosened it, and fell on the bed.
Despite the noise and constant light, I slept well despite regular awakenings to check vitals. I felt safe for the first time in a long time. There were no shadows outside the doors, no echoes inside the house, and no carpet stapler to cut my legs. No one ignored me. No one hit me. Nobody made fun of me. People listened to me. I didn’t want to go home.
The next morning, I stared at the bruise, pressed it hard with my finger, and wanted to hurt or cry.
They were not fake tears, not painful tears, but sad tears, despair. My time seemed to be nearing the end.
A nurse came into my room and looked worried. She checked my forehead for fever, wiped my eyes with tissue and hugged me. During her visit, I brought a tray of food in order and when she uncovered, I had a plate of pancakes, another plate of square-shaped scrambled eggs, and two slices of bacon, milk and juice. , And I saw a small box of my favorite cereal, Apple Jack. I ate every bite.
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Last updated: July 17, 2021 9:01 am Brett Dickerson – Editor
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