My father brought me to the hospital bright and early. Rather, I should say he "dropped me off" as parents were not encouraged to hang around like they are today. The room was large, about half the size of a basketball court minus the bleachers (or at least that's what it seemed like). Beds filled the entire perimeter of the ward. I remember being told to lie on my stomach. "Must be doing something hospital thing" I thought. Before I knew what was happening, a thermometer was stuck up my butt. Hey - pull the freaking curtain at least. Oh wait, there were no curtains.
A few minutes later someone came by and gave me a shot in the calf which did absolutely nothing to relax me - Stiffy's son got some good pre-surgical drugs that had him seeing double. I was carried down to the operating room. No explanations of anything that was happening. It was like a factory line. Get 'em in, rip 'em out, get 'em back to the ward.
I woke up in a bed on the opposite side of the room from where the thermometer incident had occurred. Every kid in that ward was crying. So I decided I should cry too. I don't remember being in pain but I'm pretty sure I remember getting a Hoodsie Cup. Nothing like ice cream to stir up lots of mucus when you've just had something surgically ripped out of your throat.
Stiffy's poor son was in a lot of pain. He got morphine. I don't even think I got a baby aspirin.
To top it all off, I was in a facility named Mercy Hospital. Mercy my bum.