Childhood illnesses I Have Survived

The Hawaiian people have an ancient tradition. They do not celebrate the birth of a child. Because of the high incidence of death among infants, the possibility of the newborn living long was not very good. They waited until the first birthday of each child to celebrate with a huge luau when the whole village welcomed the child with joy. If the child made it to the age of one, they felt, he would probably live to adulthood.

If I had lived in earlier generations, I probably would not have celebrated my first birthday. As a baby

I was in the hospital in Brigham City, very ill with pneumonia and was not expected to live. However, it was World War II, and the doctor got some penicillin for me and I recovered. Later as a toddler I had scarlet fever and was extremely ill; again penicillin saved my life.

I was quite healthy after that, but my two younger sisters (later even my third sister) had rheumatic fever; my one sister had it twice and had a heart murmur. She spent three months in beds, and had to be

carried to the bathroom. For years we treated her with cotton gloves, and she didn’t have to do family chores for fear it would be too much for her, and she’d hurt her heart.

But the Asian flu pandemic of 1956 hit everyone hard and I was no exception. I got sicker than a dog. I remember being so sick in bed, and just laying there. My bed was against the wall, and I’d rub my finger in a half-circle on the wall listlessly as I lay there feeling awful. Eventually the friction of my finger wore through the wallpaper to an undercoat of wallpaper, then an even lower level of wallpaper. I’d pick at the edges of the wallpaper and tear them away as I lay there. The lowest level of wallpaper had an unusual pattern—it looked like Nazi swastikas! 

I was beginning to feel better, so now I lay there in bed, I’d make up stories of how our house had been owned by American Nazis who had papered my room with the swastika wallpaper as they fought for Hitler. Each day I’d create a new adventure for them, but always they would be caught by the Americans and sent to prison, so eventually their house would be sold, my room papered over, and later we’d purchase it of course. 

Then I developed bronchitis, and coughed and coughed and coughed.  I had to have antibiotics—PILLS!!!! Unfortunately, I couldn’t swallow them. My mother tried everything to help me swallow them, but I’d choke on them, and couldn’t get them down. Finally my mother found a way I could get them down. She’d hide the pill inside a bite-size piece of canned peach, and I’d swallow it, and not even taste the pill inside. That was the way I swallowed the whole bottle of pills and started to get better. 

I can remember one day I was able to lie in my parents’ bedroom and I was finally hungry. Their room was the original room where the home had been started—100 years earlier. It was solid stone and cool in the summer; I felt so protected laying there. My mother was thrilled that I was getting back my appetite and bought me what I desired the most—a Milky Way Candy Bar. I ate it, savoring every bite. Then I got sick and threw up and threw up. I have never been able to eat a Milky Way Candy Bar since. Looking at them makes me want to throw up. 

I survived the Asian flu and when the Hong Kong flu came along in 1968, I had immunity and didn’t even get it.