When my father was little, it was common to do operations,
such as tonsillectomies, in the family home.
He told me this story about when he had his tonsils removed.
Days of old, when my pop a lad,
My father, his tonsils, found bad.
Need to remove them, doctors said.
Used kitchen table for a bed.
Ether was used in days of yore.
Not shut off pilot, ran through door.
Both doctors, they flew out of the room,
To save themselves when it went boom.
Left poor baby, my dad, to gloom.
Granddad, his pop, to rescue came
Ran into room, heedless of pain
Healers, those doctors, who did swear
First no harm, they did disappear
At first signs of risk to their hides
Maybe why, dad, his trust, subsides
No faith in doctors, yet resides.
– – June Nash