The Candy Striper

I hadn’t thought about her in over 50 years (dating self); however, sitting in a Waffle House the other morning, I overheard a conversation from a very excited young man. His story was that his son had been in the hospital, and recovered largely because of a Candy Striper. His consternation was that he never learned the name of the young woman who spent so many late night hours with his son. By the way, this is an old story, repeated many times over the years.

The man’s story gave me a flashback. It was 1965, and I thought I was God’s gift to high school football. At six foot and 200 pounds, I was a formidable inside linebacker for the team. I didn’t remember the hit, or anything after—that is, until I woke up in a hospital with a concussion, damaged disc, and other maladies. My crushing tackle crushed me.

In the 1960s, knowledge of neck and head injuries were largely based on car accidents. Medical knowledge emphasis was disease-centered, and it barely engaged in motor-skill type injuries. And, that appeared to be true as far as the type of head and neck injury I had suffered. I was bedridden in the hospital, neck traction, no movement of upper body allowed. The fear was that I would be paralyzed; medical efforts nearly guaranteed that, at least in my opinion.

In those days, private rooms were unheard of except for the very wealthy. However, the other bed in my room was vacant. My mother sat with me for endless hours, but finally would go home when I dropped off to sleep late at night. I had a younger sister staying at neighbor's while my mother was absent. Dad was in the military, and gone to wherever.

What I remember about the room was the lack of light; even in daytime, the shades were pulled. There were tan walls, and two curtains to divide the beds. On a far wall was a restroom that I wasn’t allowed to use for the first twelve days of my incarceration.

The second night that I was tied to my bed, a Candy Striper came in my room just after my mother departed. She was dressed in a red striped jumper, with a pressed white blouse underneath. She pulled a chair up to my bedside, and spoke softly. “I’m Dora. If its okay, I’ll keep you company for awhile.”

I remember not being able to turn my head, but I simply said, “Okay.”

Schoolwork didn’t stop just because I was bedridden. My mother tried to teach me trig and Spanish, but usually gave up in frustration. Late during the third night, Dora came in and picked up my Spanish book. “You know, immersion is best way to learn,” she giggled. From then on, she only spoke Spanish, except to read A Tale of Two Cities—a chapter or two per night. She even explained trigonometry by climbing on the bed, and holding up a notebook with drawings and mathematical concepts and formulas.

If a nurse came in, Dora just walked back to a side chair, and then began teaching again when the nurse departed. If I was tired, she closed whatever book we were working in, and just held my hand. For two weeks, she was there all night, every night. Every morning as the sun peeked through the pulled curtains, she kissed me on the cheek and waved before she walked out the door.

I was in the hospital for two weeks until the doctors decided I could be wheeled out, to do more of the convalescing at home. It would be another week before I would be allowed in school, wearing a neck and body brace.

My teachers were all amazed, as I passed all of my first semester exams only days after returning to school. My mother modestly took praise for helping me study while I was in the hospital, but she had no explanation for how I learned Spanish so easily, or solved trig problems, or, for that matter, knew Dickens’s novel A Tale of Two Cities.

At my insistence, my mother went to the hospital to try to find Dora, the Candy Striper. She was told by the personnel department that no such Candy Striper existed, and that all the young ladies in the program only worked days and evenings.