So, about that picnic ...

ROBERT GARDNER

My great-grandsons just had their tonsils removed, which brought back

one of the more sensitive episodes in our family history.

My daughter was about 7 when she had her tonsils and adenoids

removed. According to her, she was told she was going on a picnic and

then was taken to the hospital, etherized and woke up to find she had

a throat so sore that even ice cream hurt. I will stipulate to the

hospital, the ether and the sore throat. However, I question the

picnic part. Granted, one might be interested in smoothing the way to

the hospital, but an outright lie?

When, over the next decades, the story came up, my wife always

insisted that a picnic was never promised. “I may have told you it

wouldn’t hurt” was as much as she would cop to.

Like so many of those who appeared in my courtroom over the years,

I have no recollection of the matter. I have scoured my memory, and

it is a blank. However, in the interest of truth, I have done what so

many parties did in court. I have attempted a reconstruction,

although mine is done without any highly paid experts. In fact, it is

done without any experts at all.

In my reconstruction of the case, I have come up with a couple of

plausible scenarios. In the first, I say something like, “It’s no

picnic to have your tonsils out.” In this instance, it is a case of

simple misunderstanding. In the second, I could have said, “Well, it

won’t be as much fun as a picnic,” which she interpreted to mean that

while there wouldn’t be fried chicken, potato salad and lots of rides

on the swings, there would still be an element of fun that she

subsequently was unable to find in the tonsillectomy.

My daughter denies under oath these possibilities, stating flatly,

“You said we were going on a picnic.” While I would never attack my

daughter’s credibility, as a concerned party I feel compelled to note

that she was the only one that was given drugs during the episode.

Anyway, there can be no question that to this day she believes her

version.

She certainly believed it at the time. The Germans at Stalingrad

got a warmer greeting than we did when we went to St. Joseph’s to

pick her up. We hurried in all full of smiles and solicitations only

to be met by a silence as frozen as the Russian winter.

“Her throat hurts,” explained the kindly sister who was her nurse.

The look we received from our child made it quite clear that her

silence had nothing to do with the pain in her throat. There was one

glacial glare, and then we might as well have joined the Germans at

Stalingrad for all the attention she paid us. Despite our entreaties,

the cold shoulder went on and on until it looked like she was going

to spend the rest of her life among the sisters at St. Joseph’s

rather than return home. Finally, in desperation I ran to the nearest

bookstore and bought a brand new “Oz” book, which I beseechingly

presented. She looked at the bribe, thought a moment -- probably

weighing if there was more loot to be had -- then allowed herself to

be enticed home.

Her throat eventually returned to normal, as did her attitude

toward us. The only lingering awkwardness occurred when we would

occasionally venture lectures on the importance of honesty. “Oh, like

telling a child she’s going on a picnic and then taking her to the

hospital to have her tonsils out?” would be the withering reply.

As for my great grandsons, I’m sure their mother said nothing

about a picnic. Maybe Disneyland?

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.