Way Back When (in this case, my early childhood), medicine as we know it was in its infancy.

First, they didn’t have the our arsenal of diagnostics. Thus they often had no idea what caused many conditions. And if they had an idea, there was seldom a way to prove it.

Second, even if they knew what caused the problems, the technology and drugs to cure or alleviate them hadn’t been invented.

As a result, people were laid low, left right and center, by diseases we now routinely cure or prevent. In fact, people died of diseases many people today haven’t even heard of. Two examples are diphtheria and tetanus. Smallpox, a monster killer and crippler, has even been eradicated worldwide.

Broken bones? Today, with surgery, plates and pins, patients are out and about in no time. But back then? Let’s say you took a tumble on Pisgah in your wooden skis with suicide bindings and your huge, clunky boots. And unsurprisingly, you broke your leg. Just a simple fracture — no shattering or compound fracture. Well, guess how you’re gonna spend the next two months? If you guessed in bed, flat on your back, with your leg in a huge plaster cast and up in traction, you’re 100% correct.

And on it went, with all other facets of the medical arts. Anesthesia was also in its infancy. Everyone my age knew someone who got operated for some routine procedure and died on the table. Childhood diabetes and leukemia were death sentences. Trusses, those great objects of juvenile hilarity, as goofed on in Mad magazine, owed their widespread use only because of the risks of hernia operations — now pretty much a one-day in-and-out.

And let’s not forget everyone’s favorite — dentistry.

First, there was no real preventive dentistry — no bonding, no fluoride treatments, no education about the value of flossing. So cavities were ubiquitous, if not universal. And while cavities could be treated, it was done with belt-driven drills and too little Novocain. This was a wonderful combo — if you were a masochist and the dentist a sadist. If not, not.

An operation common then, but rare today, was the tonsillectomy. I imagine today we have drugs that cure tonsil infections, which we didn’t have then. Besides that, we no longer regard tonsillectomies in the same light. Today it seems the only time tonsils are removed are after serious chronic infections. Not so in my Gilded Youth. Back in them days, Bunkie, tonsils weren’t only removed after a bunch of mild infections, but at the drop of a hat as well. And perhaps as an encore, the adenoids (whatever they are) were snipped out as well.

Underlying all this was the medical consensus at the time — that tonsils served very little purpose, if any at all.

So after my brother and I had had our fair share of sore throats and earaches, and my mother had had her fair share of consultations with the medicos, it was decided (though not by my bro and me, of course) that we’d go under the knife. And it was the sawbones equivalent of BOGO — we’d both have it done the same day.

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Sweet dreams

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In truth, I didn’t find the prospect frightening. For one thing, I was 9 and totally unaware of my mortality. For another, in my eyes doctors were gods. In the hierarchy of adults — teachers, cops, ministers, soldiers, lawyers, etc. — docs were at the very top. And how could they not be? Our family doctor was Dr. Bellaire, who was wonderful by any measure. So it was a simple projection from that to assume they all were.

One additional factor — an inducement, as it were — not only removed the tonsillectomy’s fear factor but actually made me look forward to it. This was the only thing I’d ever heard about tonsillectomies (or at least the only thing that registered on me): After the operation, you could have as much ice cream as you wanted.

Now let me clarify something. To me, now, ice cream is not merely a dessert. Instead, it’s my only dessert. That’s it. From time to time I may nosh on a cookie or cake, or perhaps even a pie. But they’re nothing I seek out or even care about, so much as something I’ll have only because I happen to be in the rare mood. But ice cream is my n’est plus ultra of the dessert kingdom.

Moreover, in my childhood we had Altamont ice cream, made right in the Tri-Lakes and delicious beyond any measure. People rave about Ben and Jerry’s or this brand or that one, but believe me, none could hold a spoon to Altamont’s.

So Li’l Dopey Boy was going under the knife all right, but he was gonna do it with a smile on his face … or so I thought.

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Harsh reality

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On surgery day, my bro and I were checked in, assigned a room, and given those great gowns that show off your dupa to fine advantage … and to the widest of audiences. Then it was just a matter of waiting. I don’t remember much about that, except I was in fine fettle. If there’d been a party in the room, I would’ve been the life of it.

Perhaps saving the best for last, my brother got wheeled out first. I waved him a cheery goodbye and deciding not to waste my time, pored over some fine reading material — my collection of Green Arrow comics.

I’ve no idea how long I waited, but after however long it was, they wheeled my bro back in and put him in his bed. I took one look at him and about wet my non-drawers. Holy Moly! The boy looked half-dead … at best.

He was a ghastly green — that shade I’d only seen on Halloween masks at Newberry’s — his eyelids were flying at half-mast, and his eyeballs were rolled up so only the whites could be seen. Beyond that, his breathing was off — short and choppy — and he was making a weird “Gark, Gurk, Grak” sound with each exhale.

As soon as the nurse heard that, she put a kidney-shaped puke-pot under his head. Almost immediately, a long bloody mucusal drool seeped out the corner of his mouth … and kept seeping. I stared, gobsmacked, but before I had time to react, I was being wheeled into the OR myself. Like people who recite the rosary when in crisis, I mouthed, over and over … “ice cream, ice cream, ice cream …”

As for the OR? All I remember was getting sodium pentothal, being told to count, and hitting maybe five before the curtain dropped.

When I came to, back in the room, I was understandably mokus — not really aware of where I was or what was going on. Then, suddenly, I was hyper-aware! And what I was hyper-aware of was my throat, which felt like it’d been blasted with a blowtorch. It burned and hurt so much, I could think of nothing else — including ice cream.

Eventually, my scourged gullet felt better, and I was able to slide some ice cream down it. But it didn’t matter, because as far as I was concerned, it was too little, too late, since according to my “plan,” I was supposed to scarf the stuff immediately post-op.

As I said, back then they thought tonsils served either little or no function. Now we know better. Tonsils (and adenoids) actually trap germs of all ilks and neutralize them. They are, in essence, a solid line of defense against mouth and throat infections.

So I suffered a double whammy: Not only did my tonsillectomy deprive me of lifetime protection against disease, but even worse, it screwed me out of my ice cream.