Playhouse 90

My parents' code for being too dramatic.

Playhouse 90 was an American television anthology drama series that aired on CBS from 1956 to 1960 for a total of 133 episodes. The show was produced at CBS Television City in Los Angeles, California. Since live anthology drama series of the mid-1950s usually were hour-long shows, the title highlighted the network's intention to present something unusual: a weekly series of hour-and-a-half-long dramas rather than 60-minute plays. (from Wikipedia)

Photo by Karl Hedin on Unsplash

Chewing the scenery

When I was really little, I think I cried a lot. I don’t have a clear memory of this, but I do have a clear memory of telling someone, “When I was little, I cried every day.” Again, I don’t really remember this.

I do have a clear memory of my mother saying, “Here we go, Playhouse 90!” I don’t know how old I was or when I learned what she meant by that. What was meant was 1) stop crying and 2) don’t be so dramatic.

I’m guessing because the whole period has been hazy to me since I was 11 or 12, but I am assuming I was crying because of discomfort from my skin—most likely blisters.

What were they thinking?

I honestly don’t know whether my mother (and father, although he followed her lead, I don’t think he necessarily agreed with her because of something that happened later) thought that my skin really didn’t hurt that much. The blisters were usually easily visible, although if they occurred under a callous, they would have been more difficult to see. I was also easily injured—superficially—a fall or a bump would take off a sheet of skin. I was cautious, but it happened occasionally.

I don’t know if my mother thought she was “toughening me up” so I wouldn’t be a crybaby when I started school. I do know no pain medication was forthcoming.

In a cabin at the beach.

I have a clear memory of being in a cabin at the beach in Neskowin, Oregon. My extended family had a couple of vacation cabins there, and we were staying in one. It was raining, and there was some kind of iron stove where a fire was burning. I was lying on an army cot with an air mattress; there was a sleeping bag, but I think it was folded open. I was 9 or 10 years old.

My foot hurt so badly that I couldn’t hold still. I was fidgeting and moaning or crying. My mother was in the kitchen talking angrily about how I was just trying to get attention or Playhouse 90 or something. “I don’t know what she thinks we can do about it,” she said with irritation.

My dad eventually said, what if we gave her some Tylonol? “I don’t want her to get hooked on aspirin.” My dad said, “Tylenol.” He asked me if I wanted to try it, and I said, “Yes.”

It helped. It didn’t eliminate the pain, but it took the edge off, and I was able to go to sleep. From then on, if I had what I thought was bad pain (say seven or higher on the pain scale), I would ask my father for Tylonol and skip my mother entirely.

“It’s a wonder she walks at all.”

When I was able to drive, I started going to the dermatologist by myself. (I got my license the moment it was legally possible.)

The dermatologists I saw were part of a clinic at a teaching hospital, so my doctors were constantly bringing in students to take a gander at my rare skin condition.

On one notable visit, I was there to ask for a renewal of a prescription I had for Vicodin—I was highly judicious about taking it; I took about 30 every 6-9 months. Even though it was a hassle for me and a walk, which was uncomfortable, my dermatologist would make me come in, even though nothing was different, and he knew how many months it had been since my last prescription.

I sat there talking to him, and he saw a student walk by. “Oh, Ernest Intern, come in and see this patient.” Eventually, my Old Doc asked me to take off one of my socks to show the student my feet. I was irritated but complied—I hadn’t gotten my prescription yet.

Old Doc pointed out the callouses, the raw places, and the developing blisters to the student. And then he said, musing, “It is a wonder she walks at all.”

I thought—you motherfucker. You and your world-renowned team never helped me with a wheelchair, or pain meds, or jack until I asked for it. You just wanted to experiment on me and pat me on the head.

Why are we so psycho about treating pain?

“There’s no extra points for suffering.”

My mother was nuts. But she was particularly nuts about pain meds because, in the 1950s, my dad’s mother had died from her overuse of aspirin for osteoarthritis. When my mother developed osteoarthritis in her forties, she would rarely take anything for it—no prescription meds ever, except immediately following joint replacement surgery. When she was in hospice, she wouldn’t take pain meds. Eventually, she was out of it enough that they just slipped it to her.

I decided a long time ago that I would rather take pain meds than suffer, which serves no one. One of my tag lines with my students was, “There’s no extra points for suffering.”

But, after a lifetime of my own experience and observing that of others, I am convinced that a large percentage of our society thinks there is some payoff for suffering—even that suffering which might be mitigated or eliminated. I suppose this has a religious source, but I really don’t give a shit. It is stupid, and children and adults do suffer needlessly.

Personal Choice

I realize that people make decisions about pain medication for a variety of reasons in a variety of contexts. What I support is an informed choice. Medical providers shouldn’t impose their personal “moral” views on pain medication.

The other choice that was made for me until I was an adult was getting a wheelchair for mobility assistance. Yes, I could walk, and yes, my feet hurt every fucking day. If Old Doc dermatologist thought walking with a weird gait was preferable to using a wheelchair because it was “more normal,” I have news for him.