We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
Even the doctor didn't suspect. He told us everything was all right. It just turned out to be one of those nightmares you hear about and never think can happen to you. Nobody expected it.
My brother, Joey, was six and I was nine when we had our tonsils removed in St. Joseph's Hospital in Burbank, California. It was during the Christmas holiday because my mom and dad didn't want us to miss any school. My tonsils had bothered me from the day we moved to California from Utica, New York, i^^f where' I was born.
The doctor agreed it was a good idea to perform a double operation. Joey and I could keep each other company in the hospital — and at home — while we got well.
Two days after the operation we were released by Dr. King, the kind, softvoiced surgeon who patted me on the arm and said, "Now, keep up the good spirits. You're going to be all right."
Dr. King walked down the long hospital corridor with us to the front entrance. Both Joey and I carried our overnight plaid suitcases with our pajamas.
At the door, Dr. King said, "Don't they look fine?" as he patted us on the back. My mom and dad smiled. Mom was pregnant with Mike then, and she was wearing maternity clothes. When we got home that December afternoon, we celebrated with vanilla ice cream and fresh orange juice, and I was allowed to play with my Christmas doll in bed until I fell asleep . . .
Mom and Dad were having coffee in the kitchen when Mom decided to take a look into the bedroom to make sure I hadn't kicked off my blankets. After an operation like that, you fall into deep sleeps where you feel so warm you're uncomfortable. So you toss and turn and push the blankets away.
All I can remember is my mother yelling and the hallway light shining into the bedroom. She was standing above me, and I heard her cry out, "Joe . . . Joe . . . Joe!" "What's the matter?" my father called back from the kitchen. "Joe," my mother sobbed, the shiver of distress in her voice. "It's Annette! She's bleeding!"
My father rushed into the room. He snapped on the overhead light, I tried to speak. I wanted to sleep. Why were they bothering me? But I couldn't talk. My mouth tasted of blood. My pillow was moist and clammy. I looked at it in the light and I saw it was red, dark red, soaked with blood. I was hemorrhaging.
"Oh, my baby." my mother cried as she took me in her {Continued on page 78)
3S