Mama and the Hospital
Mama had tried everything she knew of to stop poor little Dagmar’s earache, but nothing had helped.
When Dr. Johnson came, he told Mama that Dagmar must be taken to the hospital for an operation.
“Can wait?” she asked. “Until my husband comes home from work?”
“No time,” the doctor said. “An immediate operation is her best chance.”
“We go,” she said, and took down the Little Bank and emptied its contents onto the kitchen table. “Is enough?” she asked the doctor hopefully.
“I was thinking of the County Hospital,” the doctor explained.
“No,” Mama said. “No. We pay.”
“Well, then, take her to the Clinic Hospital.”
“Clinic?”
“Yes. There you pay what you can afford,” Dr. Johnson explained. “Your child will have the same care as the other patients.”
Mama looked worried. “I—I do not understand so well.”
“Just leave it to me, then. Dagmar will be well taken care of.”
When we got there, two nurses put Dagmar on a high table and started to wheel her down the hall. Mama tried to go along too, but was stopped.
“She is my little girl,” Mama explained.
“Hospital rules,” the nurse said firmly. “You must wait here.”
Mama obediently let go of Dagmar’s hand then, but her eyes kept looking down the hall.
Just then, some cleaning women took mops and buckets and long handled brooms out of the closet by the elevator.
“Dr. Johnson is fine doctor,” Mama said suddenly. “Surely Dagmar will be all right.”
When Dr. Johnson came hurrying down the hall, Mama stood up quickly.
“Dagmar came through it fine,” he told us. “She is sleeping now, from the anesthetic.”
Mama smiled tremulously and shook hands twice with the doctor.
“I go to her now,” she said happily.
Dr. Johnson coughed. “Sorry. Against clinic rules. See her tomorrow.”
“But she is so little,” Mama said. “When she wakes she will be frightened.”
“The nurses will take excellent care of her. Don’t worry. You see, for the first twenty-four hours, clinic patients are not allowed visitors.”
Mama looked bewildered. “Come,” she said to Nels and to me. “Come. We go find Dagmar.”
The nurse at the desk had quite a time explaining hospital rules to Mama.
“Your child is getting the best of care, madam,” the lady kept repeating.
“Is fine hospital,” Mama agreed. “I see her now?”
“No visitors for the first twenty-four hours, madam.”
“Am not visitor,” Mama explained patiently, “I am her Mama.”
“Against—the—rules!” The nurse spoke loudly and slowly and with great finality.
Mama stood looking down the hall for such a long time that I had to touch her arm to remind her that Nels and I were still there.
She had never said a word all the way home.
Christine had kept lunch hot for us, but Mama just drank two cups of coffee. She did not take off her hat.
“We must think of some way,” she worried, and we children sat very still.
“They’ll let you see Dagmar tomorrow,” Nels reminded her. “They said so.”
“But unless I see her today,” Mama asked, “how will I know that all is well with her? What can I tell Papa when he comes home from work?”
She shook her head. “No. Today I see Dagmar.”
She stood up suddenly and took paper and string out of the kitchen drawer. Carefully, she wrapped Dagmar’s little doll in one neat package and our big picture book in another. We watched uneasily.
“It will be like this,” Mama explained. “I will go past the hospital desk very quickly. If anyone asks where I go, I will just say, ‘Delivering packages to Dagmar.’”
When Mama came back—still carrying the packages—we knew she’d been unsuccessful and upset.
“Almost,” she said wearily, “almost did I get down the hall.”
Then she tied the big apron around her waist, filled the bucket with hot, soapy water, and started to scrub the kitchen floor.
“You scrubbed yesterday,” Christine reminded her.
“And the floor isn’t a speck dirty,” I said.
“It’s almost time to get dinner,” Nels protested.
Mama had scrubbed all but the part near the back door when she stood up suddenly and handed the scrub brush to Christine.
“You finish the floor. Katrin, you come with me.” And she sent me for my coat.
“Come where, Mama?”
“To the hospital.” Her face was serene. “I have thought of way to see Dagmar sure.”
We walked in so quietly that the nurse at the desk didn’t even look up. Mama motioned for me to sit in the big chair by the door. Mama swiftly took off her hat and coat and gave them to me to hold. Only then did I notice that she’d kept her apron on. She tiptoed over to the big closet by the elevator and took out a damp mop. She pushed the mop past the desk and as the nurse looked up, Mama nodded brightly.
She looked at Mama curiously. “Aren’t you working late?”
Mama just pushed more vigorously, each swipe of the mop taking her farther and farther down the hall.
After a long time, Mama came back. Her eyes were shining.
While the nurse stared with amazement, Mama placed the mop neatly back in the closet, put on her hat and coat, and took my hand. As we turned to go out the door, Mama bowed politely to the nurse and said, “Thank you.”
Outside, Mama told me: “Dagmar is fine. No fever. I felt her forehead.”
“You saw her, Mama?”
“Of course. I told her about clinic rules, she will not expect us until tomorrow.”
“You won’t try to see her again,” I asked, “before then?”
“Why,” Mama said, “that would be against the rules. Besides, I have seen for myself that all goes well with her. Papa will not worry, now.”
I swallowed hard.
“Is a fine hospital,” Mama said happily.