In December of 1950 we moved from Jersey City to Fort Lee, New Jersey, a community that was moving from bankruptcy into a building boom. Our home was a red brick modest home with a two-bedroom dormer, one of which was mine. I attended a parochial school two miles away and entered third grade with anxiety and fear that caused me to start many mornings vomiting before boarding the bus. Within the first month the vomiting ceased, but waves of nausea remained until the school year ended
Fourth grade started somewhat comfortably and escalated with joy in November after an unexpected medical emergency. It was mid-October when the trees surprised my with their reds, yellows, oranges, and browns. I had moved from a treeless city street into this suburban bliss. The huge tree in my front yard reached beyond our roof, protecting us in yellow leaves. As I look back I regret not having carved my initials in that large oak.
One morning I woke up with severe nausea and a fever. My working mom kept me home from school in grandma’s charge. She’d been living with us for five years by then. The day moved slowly as I lay on the sofa watching black and white cowboy movies and cartoons. Bob Steel made me feel ticklish all over with his penetrating light eyes. They must have been blue on our Dumont thirteen-inch screen. By the time my parents returned from work, I was bend over and couldn’t stand straight from the pain in my stomach.
My mom’s concern motivated her to contact a neighbor and ask for the name of a local doctor; it was the first time we had need of one since we’d moved in. A middle-aged man with a slim mustache and a mild lisp arrived at our home around eight o’clock. I can still remember his grey tweed winter coat. House calls were still common at that time and they always frightened me, especially when a doctor would ask my mom or grandma to boil some water; an injection was close at hand.
Dr. Seiler examined me then left the room to speak with my parents, without asking anyone to boil water. Whew, no injection, but I felt uneasy all the same. Within twenty minutes the doctor wrapped me in a blanket and placed me on my mother’s lap in the the back seat of his car. My dad followed in our car to Hasbrouck Heights hospital where I was taken into the operating room quickly. My heart beat quickly, keeping me alert and curious. My preparations for surgery happened so quickly that my one clear memory was screaming as the put a mask over my face.
It was later that I learned about the conversation my parents had had with the doctor. “Your daughter has appendicitis and needs surgery. I know that you’ve never seen me before, but I can only tell you that if she was my daughter, I wouldn’t let her go the night.” After the surgery, he shared with my parents, “Her appendix was on the brink of eruption, she was lucky.” This whirlwind emergency kept me in the hospital for a week. My grandma came to visit with a container of her homemade chicken noodle soup which I ate with a fury, since I didn’t like anything they offered me.
On my return home I was greeted with many gifts and well wishes from my classmates, teachers, and neighbors. Never again did I experience morning nausea, but more importantly this new environment felt like a well-worn coat. My fear and anxiety had peaked in that operating room and no longer stirred my mornings. Don’t we all want to feel we belong?