Disappointing Gifts

When I was small, perhaps kindergarten age, my tonsils swelled up to lilikoi size. I was rushed to the hospital in my panda bear pajamas. Doctors bent over and squeezed my neck, nurses drew blood, thermometers were stuck up my rectum. It was unpleasant and confusing.

The verdict, delivered by a tall man in a pea-green gown and stethoscope hanging from his neck, spoke solemnly over my blond angel hair head, was, “We need to operate now before they rupture.”

Rupture was a scary sounding word. A big unknown word. As I shrank back, my parents tutted and consulted and handed me over to the doctor. They removed my panda pajamas and tied a white gown around me. I clung to my mom’s leg and was pried off. She leaned down and said, “It won’t hurt. And when you awake, there will be a big present for you. A surprise. A big surprise and you will love it.”

Whoa—my little brain was spinning around the words— usually when they tell you it won’t hurt—it really does! Like shots. Needles. Ouch. Then there was the “when you wake up” but I wasn’t tired—why would I go to sleep? And then the twist of the present promise—“A big present…”.

Did they somehow read my mind and know what I really really wanted? I’d seen it in the Macy’s window at Christmas. A giant stuffed giraffe. Towering as tall as my ceiling.

Looking up into my mom’s milky blue eyes, I asked, “Is it yellow?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised.

“Is it really big?”

“Why yes it is.” She looked at my dad curiously. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

He shook his head no.

I was feeling okay about going off on that wheelie table with the green gown people. I was going to get my giraffe. Euphoric. I couldn’t believe my luck. The looming vision of ruptures gone. Just visions of giraffes roaming the Serengeti of my bedroom shag carpet danced behind my eyes as I slipped into dreamland.

Where am I? I looked around the shiny, white-walled room, laying in a narrow bed in a crumpled gown. Bright florescent light glared down at me.

My mom’s round smiling face came into focus and she squeezed my hand.

“Want some ice cream?”

“No, I want my giraffe.”

She looked quizzically at me.

“What giraffe?”

“The surprise. The big, yellow surprise.”

“Oh—we painted your room yellow. You will love it.”

This story of childhood desire emerged from my Big Island writers group exercise recently. The prompt was “disappointing gifts”. We free-wrote for 10 minutes. I highly recommend using prompts as a way to stimulate the creative writing part of your brain.