My dad was raised Christian Scientist, a church founded in 1879 by Mary Baker Eddy. Dad’s mother, Lida Clay Munkirs Cheek, born twelve years later, became a convert in early adulthood, a time when I’m sure the Church was still considered a cult. She raised all four children in the faith, but only the oldest, my Aunt Charlotte, practiced it throughout her life – with varying degrees of success and failure, in my opinion.
Although I never knew my dad to go to church, he still called upon the teachings of Mary Baker Eddy from time to time.
Shortly after we came to California, near the end of World War II, my
youngest brother Glenn, who was about eighteen months old, became terribly ill and turned yellow. He was yellow all over – his skin, toenails, fingernails, especially the whites of his eyes. The only part of him that stayed white was his teeth.
Although Dad had quickly found work as a watchmaker, there was simply no money for medical expenses. The six of us had lived for several months in a 24-foot trailer, barely getting by. My parents had no recourse but to take Glenn to San Diego County Hospital. It was charity, but they were desperate.
Glenn was admitted with a diagnosis of yellow jaundice. My parents were terror-stricken at the seriousness of the disease, and could only cling to each other as their baby was taken away. Even today, I am appalled by the coldness and lack of sympathy shown to my parents and to my little brother at that terrifying time.
I don’t recall how long Glenn was in the hospital, but it had to have been several days in that time of longer hospital stays. The first thing the nurse did was to take away Glenn’s bottle, insisting that at his age he should have been drinking from a cup. What a heartless thing to do to a sick child who would have received some comfort from his bottle, especially since his parents weren’t allowed to be with him.
Visiting hours and rules were strictly enforced. Only my parents could see Glenn, and just at the prescribed times. There was never a possibility of a family member being allowed to stay in the room with him, and we siblings weren’t allowed to see him at all.
But the cruelest action of all was the evening when my parents were told that Glenn would probably not live through the night. My parents were forced to go home and wait, leaving my brother to die alone.
Desperate, Dad turned that night to his Bible and to Mary Baker Eddy’s Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures. (I feel fortunate to have fallen heir to both those volumes.) All night long Dad read, meditated, and prayed, while our distraught mother tried to accept the magnitude of Glenn’s imminent death.
In the morning, after a night that must have seemed eons long, my parents were told by clearly surprised hospital staff that Glenn had made it through the night and that the worst part was over. What a day for celebration!
Glenn had to remain in the hospital a bit longer, but I still remember the awe and excitement when he was actually in our car and we were going home, our family complete again.
He was like a delicate stranger, and we were afraid to speak to him or touch him. He stood in the front seat between my parents (no seatbelts in those days), quiet, subdued, and still faintly yellow around the edges. He was able to stand, but he would have to learn to walk again. The only lasting effect was that he would never be able to donate blood -- a minor inconvenience.
Our family has always been convinced that Dad and God saved Glenn’s life that night. Although my three brothers and I were raised Southern Baptist like Mom, that experience with Glenn has always caused me to regard other faiths with tolerance and an open mind, never to be so narrow-minded and arrogant as to think my view of God and his workings could possibly be the only correct one.
Although I never knew my dad to go to church, he still called upon the teachings of Mary Baker Eddy from time to time.
Shortly after we came to California, near the end of World War II, my
youngest brother Glenn, who was about eighteen months old, became terribly ill and turned yellow. He was yellow all over – his skin, toenails, fingernails, especially the whites of his eyes. The only part of him that stayed white was his teeth.
Although Dad had quickly found work as a watchmaker, there was simply no money for medical expenses. The six of us had lived for several months in a 24-foot trailer, barely getting by. My parents had no recourse but to take Glenn to San Diego County Hospital. It was charity, but they were desperate.
Glenn was admitted with a diagnosis of yellow jaundice. My parents were terror-stricken at the seriousness of the disease, and could only cling to each other as their baby was taken away. Even today, I am appalled by the coldness and lack of sympathy shown to my parents and to my little brother at that terrifying time.
I don’t recall how long Glenn was in the hospital, but it had to have been several days in that time of longer hospital stays. The first thing the nurse did was to take away Glenn’s bottle, insisting that at his age he should have been drinking from a cup. What a heartless thing to do to a sick child who would have received some comfort from his bottle, especially since his parents weren’t allowed to be with him.
Visiting hours and rules were strictly enforced. Only my parents could see Glenn, and just at the prescribed times. There was never a possibility of a family member being allowed to stay in the room with him, and we siblings weren’t allowed to see him at all.
But the cruelest action of all was the evening when my parents were told that Glenn would probably not live through the night. My parents were forced to go home and wait, leaving my brother to die alone.
Desperate, Dad turned that night to his Bible and to Mary Baker Eddy’s Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures. (I feel fortunate to have fallen heir to both those volumes.) All night long Dad read, meditated, and prayed, while our distraught mother tried to accept the magnitude of Glenn’s imminent death.
In the morning, after a night that must have seemed eons long, my parents were told by clearly surprised hospital staff that Glenn had made it through the night and that the worst part was over. What a day for celebration!
Glenn had to remain in the hospital a bit longer, but I still remember the awe and excitement when he was actually in our car and we were going home, our family complete again.
He was like a delicate stranger, and we were afraid to speak to him or touch him. He stood in the front seat between my parents (no seatbelts in those days), quiet, subdued, and still faintly yellow around the edges. He was able to stand, but he would have to learn to walk again. The only lasting effect was that he would never be able to donate blood -- a minor inconvenience.
Our family has always been convinced that Dad and God saved Glenn’s life that night. Although my three brothers and I were raised Southern Baptist like Mom, that experience with Glenn has always caused me to regard other faiths with tolerance and an open mind, never to be so narrow-minded and arrogant as to think my view of God and his workings could possibly be the only correct one.
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