Scarlet Fever

They thought I was going to die, or at least it sure seemed like it. I remember watching TV while on that couch, sick with Scarlet Fever and having only what I can imagine were some sort of hallucinations.  

I remember lying in my grandmother’s bed at some point where they moved the old Philco radio and covered the tuner panel with a cloth to lessen the light that was thought to be bad for my eyes while I lay in bed in the state I was in. Did children die of Scarlet Fever in 1957 or 1958? Was I really that ill? I had Chicken Pox and Measles, too, but not sure when. I also remember starting the 4th grade some weeks late in 1963 but don’t know why. I just know I was sick a lot in the late 50s and early 60s, or at least I remember it that way. The Doctor came to see me at home as I was too sick to go to his office or maybe it was too dangerous for other children to be around me. He looked in my eyes and ears a lot, but mostly he looked at my throat and listened to my heart. My grandmother talked to him out on the porch, I could never hear what they said.

I lived though. I didn’t die. But I do think they thought there was real risk of my doing so. I remember a lot of chicken noodle soup, chicken and rice sometime, too. Jello. Lemonade. Being really dizzy. Getting little toys. Gladiator movies on Sunday mornings. Golf on Saturday afternoon. Lawrence Welk Saturday evening. Amos and Andy. I Love Lucy. Red Skelton. Honeymooners. All these blur together in a gentle kaleidoscope. 

I don’t remember pain or worry of my own. I drifted in and out of sleep, catching black and white images floating by on the TV. I remember feeling safe and warm. I remember being only in my grandmother’s bed or on the couch in the front room.

I remember the stoic manner of my grandmother and the worried look on my mother’s face but I don’t remember being scared of anything, only cared for as I drifted from place to place. I remember it feeling as though my feet were floating up while my head pivoted back in a big circle. 

I remember a small dog curled up at my feet. He was a husky chihuahua with no tail, bob-tailed my grandmother called it. He looked more like a bear than a dog, so I called him Yogi.

Now the fog of anesthesia is slowly clearing as I struggle for consciousness. I begin to see the room and slowly I remember that someone told me to count backwards from one hundred. My head aches. I can’t think clearly yet. The room is slowly coming into focus. Where am I?

Then I remember. Pain in my chest. Lying on the couch. The hospital. Counting backwards.

There is a TV in the room, the sound is off. It looks like a bear wearing a hat is talking to a little bear.