Grandma Gabelko's Hospital Stay, Circa 1972
Mar 04, 2024 by Katrina Gabelko
The time from late 1972 into mid-1973 was an eventful, often tumultuous, period in history. For Mrs. Gabelko’s favorite (and, only) daughter (me), a newly minted nine-year-old, it proved life-defining. Half a century later, I share this story, transporting myself back to enjoy the feeling of having a second sight:
Right around Christmas (I was still eight at the time), Mr. Gabelko (my father) took Grandma Gabelko to the doctor. I didn’t think anything of it until my dad called my mom from the hospital. Some twenty years before mobile phones, people didn’t really stop mid-errand to call and chat. This call, therefore, was likely a Big Deal. Nonetheless, I had relegated it to a Grownups’ Big Deal, until I heard my mom’s startled cry into the phone: “She did WHAT?” I felt like an icy hand had reached down into the pit of my stomach, exerting a grip that would have made any vise proud. Grandma had suffered a mild heart attack and was being kept in the hospital. The extended Gabelko family of six had not undergone hospitalization since my mom had gone off to have me. Understandably, even though I had played a central role in her hospital experience, I really didn’t remember it.
Shortly after his call, my dad returned with Grandpa Gabelko. Grandma had apparently been whisked off into an abyss, albeit a sympathetic one. I loved visiting the hospital. It was a brick affair constructed the year my mother was born, characterized by large flagstone steps and a pervasive sense of hushed reverence. Central to this proto-holiness were the hospital matriarchs, the registered nurses. I thrilled at the quietly immaculate competence which exuded from the nurses’ caps down to their highly polished white oxfords. With their outerwear, blue capes with red lining, these ladies were nothing short of royalty. Everything would be all right. Grandma, once a nurse herself, would be consoled and would heal as her sisterhood undoubtedly welcomed her back with open arms.
In the days that followed, my dad and Grandpa spoke very little. On those rare occasions, they spoke in their native Ukrainian dialect. Grandpa loved playing with us kids, especially my brother. As they went through their familiar routines of playing hide and seek, reading stories aloud, and watching the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite, Grandpa seemed to be doing fine. I don’t recall that I ever asked him how he felt with Grandma being in the hospital. It didn’t occur to me to ask. In my certainty, Grandpa also knew Grandma was safe.
One evening, we all piled into the car to pay a visit to the hospital. My brother and I had no expectation of actually seeing Grandma. Unlike the three-ring circus created by hospital visitors in these modern times, back then, “visiting hours” were a Thing. For one, they really lasted only about an hour. In addition, well-recognized as high-spirited incubators of all things contagious, kids under sixteen were not allowed to visit the hospital wards. No matter. Grandma was apparently on a special kind of ward that was still under construction, a cardiac care unit. My mom, my brother, and I waited in quiet, hopeful anticipation while my dad and Grandpa went upstairs to visit. It was cold in the lobby, since it was still under construction. Unfortunately, no nurses were visible. However, the lobby ceiling was a geodesic dome, which was almost as exciting. Small wonder, that people kept talking about the amazing new cardiac care unit. No other area of the hospital boasted a biosphere for a ceiling.
Somewhere around New Year, Grandma came home, hale and hearty as ever. As expected, the nurses had taken superb care of her. The house officers (resident physicians), however, had apparently left much to be desired. Among their myriad shortcomings, they had insisted that Grandma exist on Cream of Wheat, made without salt. Grandma rallied a good seven years before her next heart attack. If only she could have waited a bit longer, she undoubtedly would have received care from Mrs. Gabelko’s favorite daughter. Regrettably sans caps, the splendor of nursing garb had been further reduced to lowly navy blue or white knit sweaters in place of those dashing capes by the time I attended nursing school. A few years after graduation, I was honored to be trained by a senior nurse who had been one of the pioneers on the cardiac care unit in 1972. Close to twenty years after the fact, I learned that the geodesic dome was but a forerunner of the miraculous events that took place on the Unit.
In Chapter 9 of Belonging, Mrs. Gabelko shares other stories of goings-on in the 1960s and 1970s.
________________________
[ Katrina Gabelko, as she pictures herself (left) and as the rest of the world pictures her (above), is Mrs. Gabelko's favorite (and only) daughter. She still loves nursing, enough to have a PhD in medical sociology amd to have worked in direct patient care through the pandemic. ]
NEXT TIME: Mrs. Gabelko plans a trip; Mr. Gabelko makes a huge sacrifice for his children's education.
Right around Christmas (I was still eight at the time), Mr. Gabelko (my father) took Grandma Gabelko to the doctor. I didn’t think anything of it until my dad called my mom from the hospital. Some twenty years before mobile phones, people didn’t really stop mid-errand to call and chat. This call, therefore, was likely a Big Deal. Nonetheless, I had relegated it to a Grownups’ Big Deal, until I heard my mom’s startled cry into the phone: “She did WHAT?” I felt like an icy hand had reached down into the pit of my stomach, exerting a grip that would have made any vise proud. Grandma had suffered a mild heart attack and was being kept in the hospital. The extended Gabelko family of six had not undergone hospitalization since my mom had gone off to have me. Understandably, even though I had played a central role in her hospital experience, I really didn’t remember it.Shortly after his call, my dad returned with Grandpa Gabelko. Grandma had apparently been whisked off into an abyss, albeit a sympathetic one. I loved visiting the hospital. It was a brick affair constructed the year my mother was born, characterized by large flagstone steps and a pervasive sense of hushed reverence. Central to this proto-holiness were the hospital matriarchs, the registered nurses. I thrilled at the quietly immaculate competence which exuded from the nurses’ caps down to their highly polished white oxfords. With their outerwear, blue capes with red lining, these ladies were nothing short of royalty. Everything would be all right. Grandma, once a nurse herself, would be consoled and would heal as her sisterhood undoubtedly welcomed her back with open arms.
In the days that followed, my dad and Grandpa spoke very little. On those rare occasions, they spoke in their native Ukrainian dialect. Grandpa loved playing with us kids, especially my brother. As they went through their familiar routines of playing hide and seek, reading stories aloud, and watching the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite, Grandpa seemed to be doing fine. I don’t recall that I ever asked him how he felt with Grandma being in the hospital. It didn’t occur to me to ask. In my certainty, Grandpa also knew Grandma was safe.
One evening, we all piled into the car to pay a visit to the hospital. My brother and I had no expectation of actually seeing Grandma. Unlike the three-ring circus created by hospital visitors in these modern times, back then, “visiting hours” were a Thing. For one, they really lasted only about an hour. In addition, well-recognized as high-spirited incubators of all things contagious, kids under sixteen were not allowed to visit the hospital wards. No matter. Grandma was apparently on a special kind of ward that was still under construction, a cardiac care unit. My mom, my brother, and I waited in quiet, hopeful anticipation while my dad and Grandpa went upstairs to visit. It was cold in the lobby, since it was still under construction. Unfortunately, no nurses were visible. However, the lobby ceiling was a geodesic dome, which was almost as exciting. Small wonder, that people kept talking about the amazing new cardiac care unit. No other area of the hospital boasted a biosphere for a ceiling.
Somewhere around New Year, Grandma came home, hale and hearty as ever. As expected, the nurses had taken superb care of her. The house officers (resident physicians), however, had apparently left much to be desired. Among their myriad shortcomings, they had insisted that Grandma exist on Cream of Wheat, made without salt. Grandma rallied a good seven years before her next heart attack. If only she could have waited a bit longer, she undoubtedly would have received care from Mrs. Gabelko’s favorite daughter. Regrettably sans caps, the splendor of nursing garb had been further reduced to lowly navy blue or white knit sweaters in place of those dashing capes by the time I attended nursing school. A few years after graduation, I was honored to be trained by a senior nurse who had been one of the pioneers on the cardiac care unit in 1972. Close to twenty years after the fact, I learned that the geodesic dome was but a forerunner of the miraculous events that took place on the Unit.
In Chapter 9 of Belonging, Mrs. Gabelko shares other stories of goings-on in the 1960s and 1970s.
________________________
[ Katrina Gabelko, as she pictures herself (left) and as the rest of the world pictures her (above), is Mrs. Gabelko's favorite (and only) daughter. She still loves nursing, enough to have a PhD in medical sociology amd to have worked in direct patient care through the pandemic. ]NEXT TIME: Mrs. Gabelko plans a trip; Mr. Gabelko makes a huge sacrifice for his children's education.
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