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HOAG
TRACKER
The third time I stayed at Hoag Memorial was early the next fall. School was just starting. Everett E. Rae Junior High School now loomed in my sights. I believe it was the first or second morning when I pedaled my bike too quickly round a curb, and snapped my upper left arm almost at the shoulder. I don't remember any pain being associated with the broken wrist a year before (probably for reasons I've already made clear), but this break really really hurt.
Keep in mind that because of my condition - a recovering survivor of Post-Umbilical Shock Reflex Syndrome - I was then much the same person that I am today, only now I am markedly less of a sociopath, at least according to me. In other words, I was a goofball, a cut-up, a free-spirited idiot, always ready to entertain and amuse, and take up very minor leadership roles. I smiled easily - much more then than now, because I haven't taken care of my teeth. Nowadays, too, while I may simply react in a quasi state of shock, I am more apt than in the past to engage whoever it is that's putting the Kibosh on my spirit. I try to avoid braggarts and big shots, drunkards and stereotypes.
In some ways I am the archetypical fool, rather like the one picture here, only with far less elegance and purpose:
My screams were ripe with true agony and dread. Mom came running. Mrs. Sprigs and Alma Gleason came running. It was at the corner where the Spriggs' house was that I hit the drying mud that hugged the gutter-side curb. I don't know how it was that mom had the station wagon home, being that it was a work day and, as far as I can remember, we didn't have a second car until 1960 at least. How did dad get to work? Maybe he carpooled. That makes sense. Oh sure, it is that question that distracts me now, never having thought of it over the many times I have relived the Third Visit To Hoag.
The neighbors laid me down face up on a good piece of plywood and everyone lumbered me into the back of our bare bones green 1955 Chevy wagon (oh - but it did have a radio) and hustled me over to Hoag.
Unlike when I broke my wrist the previous summer, I remember getting the broken bone set this second time. The break occurred almost exactly where the word "Humerus" appears in the illustration below.
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The Breaks In Chronological Order
1955 - Lower Left Ulna - compound fracture - I can still visualize the bone sticking out of my skin.
1956 - Upper Left Humerus - clean linear break, through and through - ouch.
1984 - Left Carpus - three bones shattered.
The Case of the Humorless Humerus
Let's digress a bit; why not. Writing my story is the most fun I've had by myself probably since my one and only train set. No, that's not quite true. I have tons of fun without forcing others to suffer my company. Oh crap - that's a lie as well. I like nothing more than entertaining, but not in the come-over-and-groupify with me. I mean I like nothing more than being the entertainer. Bibbidy bobbidy boo. I have tremendously enjoyed remembering moments great and small that have special meaning for me. I only hope that without it seeming as though I am only wishing I was more than a legend in my own mind (which I am) but that some of this is entertaining to total strangers and beloved friends as well.
The Terrified Typist Types:
;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-) ;-)
I just this minute accidentally titled this section The Case of the Humorless Humerus so now is my opportunity to recall one small way that our family spent what we know of today as quality time.
It also gives me the chance to peck out a few words of praise for the Perry Mason television series that brought to life Erle Stanley Gardner's legendary defense attorney who lost only one case.
Our family glued itself to the TV to watch Perry Mason starring Raymond Burr [1], who in real life was an eventually not-so-closted homosexual, well known for his generosity and compassion and who, with Robert Benevides, his partner of many years, divided his time between Naitauba, an island of Fiji that he bought in 1965, and a vineyard in Dry Creek Valley, California, where he tended grapes and cultivated orchids with renowned expertise. Burr was also one of the earliest breeders of Portuguese Water Dogs. Oh -- and he was a Democrat. Who knows, maybe the Obama's Bo is a relative of Raymond Burr's early hatchlings.
As portrayed by Raymond Burr, Perry Mason was so popular for so many years [2] that it would be impossible for anyone else to earn believability in the part. Erle Stanley Gardner's first Perry Mason book was published in 1933, the last in 1972 (posthumously) and two more under license to another writer. [3]
Della Street, Mason's secretary, was played by Barbara Hale; she is the mother of the actor William Katt who debuted as Tommy Ross, Carrie White's prom date in Carrie and later had a pretty awful TV series called The Great American Hero. [4]
Paul Drake, Perry Mason's private detective, was played William Hopper, who was the son of Hedda Hopper, a Hollywood Gossip Columnist who was constantly bickering with Luella Parsons, sometimes joined by Dorothy Killgallen.
William Tallman (as the DA Hamilton Burger, who appeared in the first Anti-Smoking public service announcement in 1967 for the American Caneer Society. He died of lung cancer in 1968, aged 53)
Arthur Tragg, the he homicide detective was played by Ray Collins (a Mercury Radio actor whose movie debut was as Jim Gettys in Citizen Kane).
This was my favorite cast, and as I followed the series through years, I was always able to accept replacement players, because Burr, Hale and Hopper made a compelling ensemble no matter who else was involved - but I missed Ray Collins' Tragg. Ray Collins died in 1965. William Hopper died in 1970. As of October 17, 2009, William Katt is 58 and his mother, Barbara Hale is 87.
Aside from having a first name that very often crops up in crossword puzzles, Erle Stanley Gardner has stayed close by for many years beyond the Perry Mason TV days. He donated his office - lock, stock and barrel, - to The University of Texas at Austin. Last time I visited, with sister Connie in the late 1990s, the place was fairly dusty. A recorded spiel by Mr. Garner himself, was out of order during that visit, though I'd heard it on previous tours. The display is on the fourth floor of the UT Undergraduate Library Building just beyond the Student Union.
Several years ago my mother sent me an interesting document. A 4x6" overdue notice from the Costa Mesa Library. Seems I'd failed to return a copy of The Case of Terrified Typist by Erle Stanley Gardner. The Case of the Terrified Typist was published in 1956. The plot summary, from Wikipedia reads, "After a temporary typist who enjoys trick photography has left Mason's office in a tearing hurry, he and Della find some diamonds stuck in chewing gum on the bottom of her desk. Her murder trial features an ending unique in the Mason series." I don't know if I read the book that I was overdue in returning, so I guess I'll have to find a copy somewhere in order to learn what that unique ending is about.
I have spent the greater part of my working life employed as a temporary typist, from typing up formulas for producing batches of adhesives at Union Bay State, to playing receptionist at the Edward A. Best Felt Company, to substituting for the Assistant Traveling Secretary of the American Institute of Chemical Engineers; setting type in the Art Department of Wells Fargo Bank; typing mathematical formulae that were at ranged from the intricate to the elegant, at The University of Texas Department of Aerospace Engineering and Engineering Mechanics; acting as secretary for Dr. Wilma P. Griffin under a United States Department of Education grant to develop National Standards for Home Economics Education. Many others. I'll dig 'em up during another digression I'm sure. I once took a pre-employment typing test at an agency in New York City, passing with 93/0 - that's 93 words per minute with 0 errors - on a manual typewriter. I have two witnesses: Ronnie Friedman and Larry Perkins. Ronnie is still with us - only now she is Ronnie Friedman-Barone - but still willing to testify on my behalf.
Okay, the digression was kinda lame. I will happily rescind, err, refund, your admission.
I didn't just splinter-break my upper left Humerus. I snapped it in two. But it didn't break the skin. The x-ray looked as though somebody ran a band saw though it.
If the patient is conscious, why aren't they given pain medication when the doctor sets most fractures? Because they rely on the tension expressed by the patient, which provides natural reaction to the positions and aspects of the repair. That's more or less how it was explained to me in 1984 when I shattered three bones in my left Carpus.
The only memorable thing about the setting process at Hoag in 1955 was when the doctor pulling on my arm and bracing himself against skidding on the floor, while at least one nurse pulled my whole body in the opposite direction. I was laying sideways, and watched the doctor wince and grimace as he tried to complete the procedure. And I remember getting the cast put on. Jeez. It was a freakin' big and heavy cast. Thick, old fashioned plaster of Paris; I think nowadays they mostly use fiberglass.
After the setting and casting I remember the countdown to unconsciousness - vaguely. But I starkly remember coming to.
. . . and Surviving the Recovery Room
I woke up in a dimly lit room, shared by myself and another young patient - a girl - whose body was shrouded by a sheet-covered, Quonset Hut shaped tent.
She was moaning and crying and screaming; the volume increasing as a doctor came by to check up on her.
The little girl was about my age. I learned soon enough that she had been severely burned when her bedclothes ignited as she sat by a fireplace. I imagine that most of her body was in bandages and needing..
By "soon enough" I mean later that day, when the girl's mom came to visit. She, too, was bandaged, with both hands wrapped up in gauze. Her daughter continued to cry and moan and scream out in pain.
Those screams turned to shrieks when, amazingly, the following scene unfolded before my very eyes.
As the woman brought a cigarette to her lips. She struck a match. The cigarette was now lit. And the flame from the match instangly ignited her own bandaged hands.
Yes, my dear friend, those were the days. America was free. It was permissible to smoke in hospitals.
After the extinguishing the flames by tamping her wrists on her clothing, I could hear mommy swear, above the her daughter's wailing and and terror, "I'll never smoke again, honey, I promise!"
The rest of my time in that room draws a blank, but I remember being wheeled out of Hoag Memorial Hospital.
My return home was the opposite of what it had been the year before. Possibly because it wasn't my goofing around that resulted in breaking my arm this time around. I was also in pain and extremely uncomfortable. So, there was some sympathy and care afforded me now.
The cast was so freakin' heavy. It itched. It was ill-fitting and seemed loose. It was an L shaped thing. There was as much if not more weight at the base of the L than the stem, resulting in the lower part dragging downwards the whole upper affair, such that supposedly knitting Humerus had hardly a chance of solid repair. And sure enough, over time, this was the case. The point of the break still becomes aggravating, and mercy on one who would dare strike me there. (Unfortunately, boys, and men, are fond of striking a buddy's arm right where the Humerus rests - happens to me all the time, and I usually respond by saying, "Cut it out! My brother used to hit me there!")
Up til the day when that monstrous contraption came off, it would itch like hell, and I'd use pencils or other such things, to respond to that itch. More than one pencil came out of that cast when it finally came off of my arm.
I might as well now get my third broken bone(s) out of the way. Broken bone stories really aren't that interesting.
In 1984 I shattered three bones in my left Carpus. I was in my fourth year of being the Administrative Staff at Austin's gritty and memorable Capitol City Playhouse.[5] The office floor had just been painted red. It looked great. Myself, Michel Jaroschy (Managing Artistic Director & Founder) and Jimy Gunn (Sound Designer) were closing up the place. Michel locked the office door, then noticed that we left the office light on. There was some banter about whether or not it mattered. I guess it did, because I made my way through the box office window - not a window, really, just a cut-out with a little ledge outside and a little table inside. The room was about 4 feet deep at best. Straddling the ledge and the table, while gripping on the window frame with one hand, I was able to reach around with my free hand and flip the switch that was on the wall by the locked office door. I snapped the light off and, while swinging myself around to exit the way I got in, I lost my grip and my footing and down I went, breaking my fall with my left hand-on-the-floor. Ouch.
Jimy found a foot long piece of wood and held it fairly still while I rested my arm on it. Michel drove us over to Brakenridge Hospital. That's where I learned that it is preferable for the patient to remain conscious during the bone setting process. Yikes.
It was midnight or more, but Brackenridge wasn't too busy. It was and is the main trauma center for miles around. A doctor examined my x-rays as he worked on the Carpus. He bent my hand back, perpendicular to the rest of my arm. Then he twisted it round one way some 180 degrees, then 180 degrees in the opposite direction. He pushed and pushed and rotated and twisted, while Michel looked on and squeezed my other hand tight. It was incredibly painful. But the casting was a breeze and the painkillers made me the envy of many friends.
The worst thing about it was that it put me out of work for a week, maybe more, until I could manage to get some stuff done with one hand. Also, I didn't do any speed until after the cast was removed. A sure sign that I was once again normal.
>103109<
PASSAGE OF TIME
Typewriter Song You Tube
CHAPTERS
YOU ARE HERE
HOAG
I HAVE GIVEN UP LINKING THE PAGES, ONE TO THE NEXT
AND UNTIL I CAN FIGURE OUT A LOGICAL WAY TO GET US AROUND
WE'LL HAVE GO BACK TO
[2] CBS aired 271 episodes of Perry Mason, from September 21, 1957 thru May 22, 1966. I would guess that final episode of the fifth season, which aired May 26, 1962, was the last Perry Mason episode that I watched at home. In round numbers, this would indicate that we watched upwards of 153 Perry Mason episodes whilst being a family of six.
[3] List of Perry Mason Novels - if you make a count, I'll publish it here.
[4] Barbara Hale's son, William Katt, attended Orange Coast Junior college which was located across the street from Costa Mesa High School. It's where I would have gone to college if only I had - how do you say - made the right choices. I think Alaine might have gone to OCC, and if so, she'd be the only sibling to get that far in school.
[5] See chapter (pending) Capitol City Playhouse and Beyond
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