When I was 12, I spent four or five days on the children’s ward at Huntington Hospital in Pasadena. I was recovering from surgery to repair a hernia. I don’t remember how many other kids there were on the ward — maybe 8 to 12. All the kids were in different states of discomfort making for long nights punctuated with moans and cries and the fluttering of nurse uniforms as we were attended to when we needed attending.
The days were boring. I’m not sure the ward had a TV. And if it did, all a kid could watch during the day back then were soap operas and cooking shows.
To pass the time, my dad bought me a model to build. I called it a “Go Daddy,” but apparently its real name is “Daddy, The Way Out Suburbanite.” I liked building models. Cars and airplanes were my favorites, though I couldn’t name a single product I produced. I knew I built red cars and silver jets. I almost finished an aircraft carrier. Too many pieces, I guess.
Our ‘55 Ford and ‘59 Hillman Minx and my brother’s three wheeler, before Big Wheels.
My dad could have gotten me a ‘55 Ford, my mother’s red car. He drove a Hillman Minx, but I’m pretty sure there were no models of it at Henry’s, the local toy store. I thought the Minx was going to be my car someday. I loved the smell of the straw in its seats and the radio that seemed to only play Angels baseball games.
Today, I wonder if “Go Daddy” reminded my dad of himself and his daily commute to downtown Los Angeles along the winding Pasadena Freeway. Before cars had power steering, you’d get a real upper-body workout on that route. And at 55, you felt like you were flying.
There was an older kid across the aisle from me who was there because of a sledding accident. As I recall, he was sliding down a slope with some buddies when he let his leg dangle out of the sled. It got caught on a tree. The weight of his buddies behind him and the speed of the sled almost ripped him in half (his words). He looked okay to me. He was a tough guy and well-liked by the nurses.
The one nurse I remember was young and pretty. She always pronounced “wash” “wursh” like in Worcestershire Sauce. I think she was even from Worceshington State. And, she liked that guy.
One night, she rolled a TV into the ward while most everyone was asleep and put it next to Rip’s bed. Because I was still awake and once again ambulatory, she brought me over to a chair next to his bed and together we watched Johnny Carson. I was 12, remember. The event was more important to me than Carson’s monologue or guests. It felt like a clandestine operation, one in which I got to stay up late with Rip and Miss Worceshington and listen to a man who was not my dad tell grown-up jokes.
During the day I’d work on my “Go Daddy” model. My mom would visit with my brother and my dad would stop by on his way home from work. I finished the model before being sent home.
I waved good-bye to Rip and left with my mother and my model. Rip and I didn’t actually talk much, ‘cause I was just a kid. But, I was glad he had Miss Worceshington as a friend. I don’t recall that anyone came to visit him. I think she knew that, too.
———
This memory came to mind for a number of reasons. First, it’s never been too far out of mind, but most obviously because of the Covid-19 epidemic and the photos of patients crammed into hospital corridors in New York City, New Orleans, Italy, and China. And, because of the nature of the virus, no one is allowed to visit and comfort those who need comforting. Hospitals are staffed with lots of nurse Worceshingtons. They are the only friends some patients will get to see.
