Convalescent Home

This will be the last post about my time in the convalescent home.

After the first week I was moved to a unit generally known as "Runabouts" because all the kids there were mobile. I was one of the only two eleven-year-olds and all the others were younger, but many were from the inner city and more sophisticated than I was.

The kids had various kinds of conditions and, in most cases, I never found out what their disabilities were. Our physical activity was limited, we had to take boring naps every afternoon, and most of us were given meds often. Once the nurse came out and gave me my allergy shot in front of the other kids on the playground and they thought I was brave not to even to flinch. Of course I was used to shots by then and they didn't bother me.

Our classroom was similar to a one room schoolhouse, although there were actually two classes divided by age. The teacher was good and she thought I was smart because I could shelve books in according to the Dewey Decimal system, which I'd already learned while hanging out in the library at home.

We were cared for by nurses and, like teachers, they had different styles of working with kids. One was a pushover and the kids could get away with anything when she was on duty, one was just, plain mean, and my favorite was strict, but fair.

Although living in the convalescent home wasn't a bad experience and I had no asthma attacks while there, I was happy to be sent home at the end of my six week stay, which happened to also be the end of the school year. But the experience had changed me in ways I couldn't guess at the time. It helped me understand people who were different from myself and made me care about people with special needs for the rest of my life.

Gladys, A Deaf Child Who Changed My Life

I posted this information long ago, but it's relevant to my recent posts about my own experience with Special Needs, so I'll share it here again with a few changes.

While in the Babcock Unit at the Stanford Convalescent Home I met a very cute little girl with big blue eyes and curly hair. Her name was Gladys, but I never heard her last name. The other new kids who had been there longer would grab my arm and pull me away when I approached the child, shouting, "Don't talk to her! She's Deaf!"

But Gladys and I communicated using facial expressions and gestures. Once she woke everyone up early by turning on all the lights. The nurses said, "She doesn't know any better," but Gladys let me know she did know she might get in trouble and I assured her I wouldn't tell anyone. Another time she asked me why she had no fingers on one hand and I told her I had no idea. (Back then the Oral Method was used in schools for deaf children and Sign Language was discouraged.)

The nurses told me her parents had brought her to the facility when she was six months old and they found out she was deaf and were never heard from again. How could anyone reject such a darling child?

I only knew Gladys for one week, but she changed my life completely. Because of her I volunteered with special needs kids while I was in High School, learned American Sign Language, went to work at California School for the Deaf, married a Sign Language interpreter, and raised three deaf foster sons.

I wish I could find out what happened to that little girl.

Stanford Convalescent Home

In the last post I described the asthma I had as a child. When I was eleven years old I was sent to live at the Stanford Convalescent Home because of it.

Recently I did some internet research and learned the full title of the place was The Stanford Convalescent Home for Impoverished Children. I never thought of our family as impoverished, but we had very little money because my widowed mother couldn't earn nearly as much as men could in those days.

The first week they were in the facility all children, including me, stayed in the Babcock Unit. There were two large rooms full of beds. In one the children who were bedridden stayed. Many of them were not expected to survive.

I helped the teacher there by tutoring one little girl in reading. She was terminally ill and I was horrified at the idea that anyone might die before learning how to read. Perhaps working with her was one factor that later motivated me to become a teacher myself.

I slept in the other room with the infants, preschoolers, and other newly-admitted kids who, like me, were kept there for observation.

I'll share more about that facility in later posts.

The Child Who Changed My Life

  When I was a child I was sent to the Stanford Convalescent Home because of my severe, chronic asthma. The first week all new patients were assigned to the unit for babies, preschoolers, and bedridden kids. In that unit I met an adorable three year old girl named Gladys. The other new kids would grab my arm and pull me away when I tried to talk to her, crying out, "No! Don't talk to her! She's deaf!" But Gladys and I communicated with gestures and facial expressions. For example, she asked me why she had no fingers on one hand and I replied that I didn't know. 

       I only knew that child for one week, but I'll never be the same because of her. If we hadn't met, while in high school I might never have volunteered with kids who had special needs and spent most of my time with a boy who was deaf. Later I might never have learned American Sign Language, gone to work at California School for the Deaf, married a Sign Language interpreter, raised deaf foster sons, or interpreted in churches. 

       I would love to know what happened to Gladys. I never knew her last name, but she had naturally curly hair and big blue eyes and she would be in her late 50s now. I don't know if she ever learned Sign Language and become part of the Deaf community or not. If anyone who reads this knows what happened to her, please tell me, because I'd love to let her know how she changed my life.