A Brush with Death

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A Brush With Death
by Doris B. Del Buono, MT(ASCP) #1033
Did it ever occur to you that most everyone in the
medical w o r l d has been led there by an illness of
himself or a relative?
At the tender age of 13,1 had a ruptured appendix.
The doctor w h o muffed the diagnosis ordered a hot
water bottle and citrate of magnesia. I was almost
blasted off the face of this earth.
Six Weeks in the Hospital
W i t h no hope for my life for 10 days, somehow the
good doctors and nurses managed to patch me u p ,
but I spent six weeks in the hospital. In a bed on the
first floor across from the accident w a r d , I saw the
Friday and Saturday night drunks brought in for treatment t h r o w i n g up all over the place. Sirens and
police were busy all night long and ambulances were
never done bringing in victims of accidents, heart
attacks, and d r o w n i n g s — a steady stream of activity. I
also saw the undertakers leave w i t h o u t me.
Family Illness
After the birth of my sister Betty, our mother
developed seizures. At first, she w o u l d no sooner
have one seizure than another one w o u l d start. This
family crisis took us through about 50 quacks. Finally
we were sent to a good diagnostician w h o sent us to
many specialists—that was a medical education in
itself.
Later, mother had cancer of the thyroid which went
to her brain and lungs. In between, she had gallbladder disease and phlebitis. She was not allowed to
drive or to be left alone. With good care she reached
the age of 72, but I w o u l d n ' t call it living. There is
still a lot of work to be done for those with the diseases that my mother endured.
I had two tubes in my side which the surgical nurse
syringed out every morning with Dakin's solution.
She was a remarkable nurse, since she had only one
hand with which to w o r k . (Since there was no
penicillin or sulfa in those days, Dakin's was used
to irrigate wounds.)
To keep me busy while recuperating, the nurses
had me making cotton balls and rolling bandages and
cotton swabs. The interns brought me all the books
by Zane Grey. W h e n I finished t h e m , they brought
me their chemistry books. There was no radio or
television in hospitals in those days.
My brother Bill developed diphtheria one night.
With the windows open in May, I could hear shrieks
in the night as Dr. Blake went around giving shots to
all the children in the neighborhood with w h o m Bill
had played. A sheet rinsed in Creolin was hung up
at his bedroom door and we were all quarantined
for the duration. Every time Dr. Blake saw Bill, he
put money in Bill's bank. When Bill was cured, he had
50 dollars. They don't make them like that any more.
How much diphtheria do we have today?
W i t h a wheel chair to ride in after I finally got up, I
visited other patients, arranged their flowers and
traded books with t h e m . There were no "Thrift
Shops" or " B o o k m o b i l e s " then.
My sister Betty, at the age of five, cried one night
that she had a pain in her back, "But d o n ' t tell
(continued on page 53)
I never did know the amount of my b i l l ; there was
no Blue Cross or Blue Shield then. Later my father
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had an exchange student in this same hospital w h o
had a double mastoid operation. He was billed one
thousand dollars for that operation. Alfonso Montes
de Oca couldn't smile after his operation — his facial
muscles were paralyzed. He spent his time recuperating by drawing everyone w h o entered his r o o m . He
w o u l d then give that person, from the chief surgeon
to the cleaning w o m a n , their portrait to keep. After
much therapy and time, Alfonso finally could give a
half smile. W h o hears of double mastoid operations
today? For that matter, w h o has a ruptured appendix?