Grandpa's Perspective

As most of you know, when I had to be Loren's caregiver up in Rochester MN for three months, there was a period of about one month between the time I left Iowa and the time Sharon returned from her third semester at Grace College. I was filled with much angst during the week that involved Loren's transplant, and the initial recovery in the hospital. Part of my heart's turmoil was trying to find someone to supervise the children in that one month period of time.

My father and mother, Robert J. and Anna Mae Baker drove out from Indiana to fill the need. They were in their eighties, Mom has diabetes, and they thought they were coming for just two weeks. They ended up staying for four. That was a great comfort to me, but probably taxing to them.

It all worked out, though, and my dad lived to write about their experiences in his monthly church paper, "Intersect," put out by the Belmont Mennonite Church, in Elkhart, Indiana.

Recently, I received copies of his five-part contribution. One segment, especially made me laugh aloud, and I thought others might enjoy it as well:

THE IOWA SAGA chapter 4
by Bob Baker

Eight for flu shots

Actually, it turned out to be "nine for flu shots." Let me explain

When in Iowa babysitting (I use "babysitting" rather loosely, since the oldest "baby" was sixteen), I got a call from the Gift of Life Transplant House in Rochester, Minnesota, where our daughter is serving as caregiver for her husband, Loren, who is the recent recipient of a heart transplant. They expected to come home in about six weeks. Heart transplant people worry about several things, the top two being rejection and infection.

Rebecca is looking ahead. She wants no flu in the house when Loren and she return. So she has ding-donged the large medical clinic in Hampton, Iowa, forty minutes from their home and where the family goes for medical service, to give flu shots to the eight children under our charge. She has even begged them for flu shots for the two older children when they come home for Christmas. My task? See that the eight now at home, ages two to 16, get to Hampton where the clinic is located. The 16-year-old will drive the "bus," but I must be in charge. Another cross to bear during our Iowa Saga.

So, she informs me, "Get them up there!" She gives me the day and hour of the appointment.

The day before the appointment, a call comes from the clinic, asking to speak to an adult. That must be either Anna Mae or myself. I take the call. It's a nurse from the clinic. She wants to know the name and age of each child coming. They want to be set up for the invasion; the dosage volume is according to ages. With some help I supply the information.

The next day, nine of us pile into the 15-passenger van (I trust the seating capacity is not a harbinger of things to come) and head for Hampton. Fortunate Anna Mae will remain in luxurious isolation in the old farm house. I sigh as I think of it.

We arrive at our destination. The clinic is a large one, attached to a hospital and serves the surrounding area with great efficiency. They better be efficient to serve my tribe.

The waiting room is well populated. Heads are raised from behind newspapers and magazines, and drowsy ones sit up as we file in. We obviously attract attention. I am tempted to say to the wide eyed ones, "We are Catholic," then cross myself. Rebecca, when she takes her brood to the library, often wears a sweatshirt that carries the message, "Yes, They Are All Mines." I have no such testimony, so I just let these curious Iowans gawk.

The children find seats close to the television which is carrying a children's program. I march to the receptionist and say simply, "The Hoyt family, I am the grandfather," find myself a vacant chair, pick up a Smithsonian magazine, and give a cool look around th waiting room. Those still gazing, retire quickly behind their reading material. I am tempted to say, "the two oldest are away at college, so we are running just a bit short today: Sorry."

I hope my Smithsonian magazine impresses the Iowa corn growers.

Time passes, people are called, but not the Hoyt group. A sign on the wall says, "If you are not called within fifteen minutes, please check at the desk." One of the grandchildren point it out to me, but I gently remind them that we are not few in number and they are doing us a favor.

Occasionally I get an idea. I get one in the clinic waiting room. I mosey up to the desk, not to complain about waiting too long for service but to ask, "Would I be able to get a flu shot today?"

Immediately she replied, "I don't see why not. Do you have your Medicare card with you?"

Two different feelings hit me simultaneously. Great! But she did not say, "Are you on Medicare?" My looks betrayed me: I looked ancient. But I gave her no smart talk. I recall how Byron King, Verle and Bev Hoffman waited hours at Osco's (a drug store) in Elkhart (IN) for their flu shots. I will rejoice at getting the needed vaccine; I will whimper silently at being classified obviously as being "old."

Finally the business-like lady who calls the sick and lame forward, steps out, announces to all gathered, "The Hoyt family." We rise en masse, the "old man" and his "family." Papers and magazines shift. This is no small migration as wondering eyes follow as we parade out. I bite my tongue.

But I will untie that tongue in a few minutes. As we are led down the corridors to the particular room reserved for us, two lady patients returning to the receptionist desk, step aside to allow us to pass. The children are preceding me, led by the one who called us, I bringing up the rear. I look at the two ladies standing, waiting for the Hoyt herd to stamped past. Actually we move quietly, sedately. But we are numerous.

As we pass the two ladies, I say, and I know I should have simply ignored their awed faces, "They are not mine, I am just the grandfather."

Sometimes I think I should see a psychiatrist.

In the assigned room, all is organized, the children's medical charts are in order on the counter, syringes beside them, varying amounts of vaccine in each. Everyone gets "shot," only the two youngest offer resistance.

Finally Grandpa is punctured. I do not flinch, the children applaud, the old geezer is pretty tough.

The nurse says, "I have never given this many shots to a single family."

For the last time we parade through the waiting room. Newspapers and magazines are lowered in silent tribute, but there is no standing ovation for me. I am a bit disappointed.

We load the 15-passenger, count noses, journey back to Anna Mae.

Our Iowa Saga continues, each day brings the expected and the unexpected. We are fortunate to have Belmont prayers cover us from front to back, from side to side.

I do feel a bit smug. Verle and Bev Hoffman, Byron King, wait at Osco's for hours to get their flu shots. There were only eight ahead of me. When my friends read this they will be green with envy.

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