Читать книгу Stories I'd Tell My Children (But Maybe Not Until They're Adults) - Michael N Marcus - Страница 15

Although my parents were commoners (in the British sense) and I’m not a prince, I was born in the Royal Hospital in 1946. The hospital was on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, back when the Bronx was grand.

I was scheduled for a return visit to have my tonsils removed in 1952. Royal Hospital was overbooked, and I was instead sent farther west to Mother Cabrini Hospital.

Not only was it not Royal, but it provided my first exposure to nuns. I had never seen nuns before, and these were not like Singing Nun Debbie Reynolds or Flying Nun Sally Field. They had scary black clothing—like witches—and stern demeanors, and they poked needles in my ass.

I endured the horror and pain however, by focusing on my future sweet reward.

I was less than happy about the prospect of being cut open to have part of my body removed. But Dr. Casson, our family physician, had assured me that the surgery wouldn’t hurt, and that when it was over, I could have any flavor of ice cream that I wanted.

That was a deal I could live with, and Dr. Casson wrote in his notebook that I was to get fudge ripple, my favorite.

Had I known when I was led to my hospital bed that his promised prescription applied to Royal but not to Cabrini, I probably would have tied bed sheets together, and gone out a window and hitchhiked home.

In blissful ignorance, I kept my eyes on the prize.

I endured the anesthesia and surgery, and awoke in the recovery room happily anticipating a pint of fudge ripple.

Then scary Sister Evil appeared, carrying a bowl. She reminded me of the wicked witch who stirred the boiling cauldron in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. That scene had scared the shit out of me a few months earlier and I made my grandmother take me out of the movie theater.

The nun-witch put a bowl of reddish glop in front of me.

I thought she was showing me the bloody tonsils that the surgeon had cut out of me. Timidly, I asked what the stuff was. She said that it was my strawberry ice cream.

With a very hoarse voice, but as forcefully as a frightened six-year-old who had just endured surgery could be, I tried to explain that there must be a mistake. “Please lady. Dr. Casson said I could have fudge ripple,” I pleaded.

With much more force, Sister Evil then replied, “You get what you get or you don’t get any!”

I’ve remembered her exact words for nearly 60 years, and in all those years I have never eaten strawberry ice cream.

I don’t care much for nuns, either.