Angel with a Piss Bag
A story about the kindness of a stranger. Pretty typical shit.
Story written and narrated by: Glenn Vanderkloet
No tunes in this episode except for some background sound.
Photo Credit: “Rorschachesque #1”, in paint - Ashley Spicer
Angel with a Piss Bag
It always astounds me when people tell me they can remember taking their first steps or uttering their first word. It strikes me as a boast. Like it's some sort of a competition to have the earliest memory. I've even had someone tell me that they can remember being in the womb. C'mon, really? To remember when you started walking is one thing but I don't know if I can be convinced of memories from before birth. To be fair, the person who recounted this to me was an ex-colleague of the bullshitting, con artist variety. Lets just say, not the kind of guy you'd lend money to. Salvador Dali also claimed to remember his prenatal experiences so take from that what you will. But whatever, who the hell am I to question someone's memories or experiences. I'm just a blowhard with a fake radio show. In any case, it's fascinating to me which memories stick and which slide off the pan.
My memory is a black hole until about the age of four, and even then it's pretty blurry. My childhood recollections don't start to come into focus until about eight or nine. One vivid outlier, however, is standing beside my mother at the bathroom sink, proclaiming to her how shocked I was to be turning six years old. “I can't believe I'm turning six,” I exclaimed!
“Yeah, pretty incredible,” she replied, probably rolling her eyes. I have no idea why I remember this, but I do, and clearly at that. Why would this random moment in time be such a standout memory? Incredulous about turning six? Jesus, I'm boring. I guess I can understand why someone might embellish or outright fabricate their memories from childhood.
Besides my uninspired awakening at the bathroom sink, the only other cohesive, early childhood memory I have is of a two week hospital stay when I was four. This memory is much more nebulous than my sixth birthday, however, it's far more meaningful. To prove how hazy my memory of it is, I can't even recall the exact procedure I was in there for. I know that it was bladder surgery, but to this day, I don't know precisely what was wrong. I think it may have had something to do with a defective valve. Truth is, it doesn't really matter. It seems to be fixed so I've put it behind me.
Although I don't remember the reason for the operation, I do remember parading down the hospital corridor with my catheter bag full of urine, proud as a goddamn lion, and relishing all the attention I was receiving like only a four year old could. I don't think that a person in their 50's or 60's, post bladder surgery, would be quite as ecstatic about having a piss bag attached to them but there I was at four, grinning from ear to ear and swinging my sack of golden liquid around.
While I did love the attention from some of the urology ward staff, there were other aspects of hospital life that bummed me out. For example, the doctor assigned to my care had appalling bedside manner. I don't remember any specific incidents, just that he had the patience of a hungry infant and that he seemed to be dealing with some unresolved anger issues. I have vague memories of feeling like I was a burden to him just for being ill. Years later, in a cruel twist of fate, my father received care, or lack thereof, from the same doctor. Unsurprisingly, he was still behaving like Durvasas, the sage of rage.
Another unpleasant memory I have of that time was the hospital at night. When visiting hours ended and my mom left for the evening, my mood predictably became a bit less jovial. It didn't help that I was dealing with some minor, post-operative infection which came with a fair bit of pain. After mom would leave, the nurse would come by my room and with a hint of schadenfreude, kill the lights and leave me to my own devices. Now, I say schadenfreude because if I remember correctly, I would spend more evenings and overnights than I cared to in the pitch dark, writhing in considerable pain and calling out to a nursing staff that didn't seem interested in making me comfortable. In their defence, they were likely very busy and annoyed with my crying, and they also probably thought that I was exaggerating the pain or that the crying was caused by my mom's absence. Nevertheless, it still made for a fairly traumatic experience. For the record, I don't think I was exaggerating the pain. My memory of this time is definitely cloudy, but I do remember the pain with some accuracy. It's also not lost on me that there seemed to be a significant gulf between the level of compassion of the nurses on day shift versus those on nights. I was received as the literal golden child in daylight hours, and by nightfall, I was treated like a pariah. I think I was closer to something in the middle.
Before I move on, I want to stress that I am in no way trying to disparage the nursing profession. I have many healthcare workers, including Registered Nurses, in my immediate and extended family and have intimate knowledge of the hard work, mental acuity, and dedication required. It's just that in this particular circumstance, there seemed to be some neglect involved.
Where was I. Oh yeah, four year old me, crying for my salvation in a darkened hospital room. As the nurses were doing their damnedest to block out my guttural wails, there was a stranger in the next room over, listening in with concern and empathy. Or so I'd like to think. One evening after mom had left, and a few nights into my stay, a man in his 60's or perhaps even 70's rolled into my room with his wheelchair and flicked on my bedside lamp. He also had a piss bag so we forged an instant bond. I believe his name was Walter, but I could be mistaken. He had heard me crying, and either because he felt sorry for me or because he wanted some peace and quiet, decided that reading me a book might produce some silence. If memory serves, it worked. Turned out all I needed was some companionship and a kindhearted, older gentleman to blunt the pain. A few painkillers probably helped as well. I don't remember what he read to me, and to be honest, I don't remember much about Walter at all except that he was a comforting presence in a terrifying place. He certainly didn't have to, but he continued to visit my room and read to me for the remainder of my hospital stay. In addition to reading me stories, he would also tell jokes and pass along words of encouragement. I remember introducing him to my mom and she was grateful that I had someone watching out for me in her absence. Walter or Wesley or Wayne, again, not certain of the name, if you're listening to this, thank you for making my first post-op experience a little less crummy.
I kind of wish I was the type of person that remembered being in the womb or walking for the first time, because with faculties like that, I'd probably remember more about the stranger in the next room over. Who was Walter? Did he have kids of his own? Did he ever make it out of hospital? Was he just a medicinal hallucination? I'll likely never know.
I read somewhere once to not stress about the things you think you've forgotten because your mind will always come back around to the important stuff. If that's true, then I guess nothing all that impactful happened to me before four years of age. Conversely, those two weeks in hospital must have been very salient because I think about that time a lot. Sure, it was traumatic and a bit frightening, but it also seemed to instill in me a deep sense of empathy and goodwill toward others. I felt an unbelievable sense of relief when Walter would wheel himself into my room, carrying a book and smiling warmly, and I've never forgotten what that feels like. Now, as the adult, when I see an opportunity to reproduce that sense of relief in a child or anyone else who is suffering, I jump at it, knowing the impact it had on me. As to why I'd remember something as relatively inconsequential as turning six, I guess that one will remain as mysterious as Walter, my angel with a piss bag.