Easter Revelation: A memoir about the Aberhart Tuberculosis Sanitorium, 1955, by Beatrice Daily Huser

A woman sent to a sanitorium to recover from tuberculosis in 1955 learns a lesson from the young children she meets there.

It was the spring of 1955, just 40 years ago. I had been off teaching for six weeks, fighting the "flu", running a temperature, in and out of hospital. My doctor, in Vilna, had sent my chest x-ray to Edmonton to be read. Now the assessment was back. I had tuberculosis.

My family were stunned. My mother burst into tears. I remembered that as a girl, she had helped nurse and bury and older half-sister with the disease.

Literature arrived form the sanatorium. I began to prepare for my departure. Mom helped me sew pajamas. She bought me a beautiful pair of bedroom slippers. As the days passed, my health actually seemed to improve, although I remained very thin and night sweats were common. I got my children off to school in the mornings, took a long rest every afternoon. Mom came in to do my housework.

Finally, on April 5, word came that a bed was available at the Aberhart Memorial Sanatorium. I was requested to come in as soon as possible.

It was hard to say goodbye to my family, especially to my little girls. Karen was eight and a half years old and Sherry was nearly seven. They were to stay with my parents, a mile out of the hamlet where we lived. The boys, aged 14 and 12, would batch with their dad.

On Saturday, April 9, I kissed my husband goodbye inside the wide San doors. A nurse took me up to a two-bedroom, put me to bed, and ordered me to stay there.

"Mayn't I even get up to go to the bathroom?" I inquired meekly.

"Definitely not! You'll stay right in bed, at least until a doctor can see you. And that won't be until sometime next week. This is Easter weekend, you know. I don't see why you didn't wait until after the holiday to come in." she grumbled.

"But the letter said to come as soon as possible." I ventured.

"Hmph! Anyone should know that doctors take holidays too. It's strict bed rest for you my dear." She flounced out of the room.

Strict bed rest. I wasn't even allowed to get up. Tears burned my eyes. How could I stand being away from home, confined to bed in this ugly, sterile place? I was half sick with loneliness already. What would my darling girls be doing right now, I wondered. And the boys, Glennie would be trying to get supper. "Don't worry Mom," he'd said. "I know how to cook." I grinned inwardly, thinking of his past culinary experiments. Reaching into the bedside table, I pulled out my knitting. Maybe if I got my hands busy, I could stop feeling so downhearted.

The door opened suddenly; the same officious nurse bustled in. Her eyes opened wide.

"Here, here! What's this!" she ejaculated. "I said strict bed rest. You're not allowed to knit."

"Not knit?" I queried. "Why not"?

"It's a rule. No handwork on strict bed rest. Put it away." Her lips set in a grim line. Reluctantly, I obeyed.

"Could I please have something to read then?" I asked weakly.

"I'll see what I can find" she said. "Our book cart won't be around until Tuesday either."

After supper - which I barely touched - she returned to plop a few copies of "True Romance" on my stand. Trash.

Easter Sunday dragged. My roommate, a teenaged Indian girl, would only speak in monosyllables. I gave up on conversing with her. Out of desperation, I turned to True Romances. They were awful. What was going on at home? Would the girls get in to Sunday School? How could I be so homesick already? I turned my face to the wall and wept.

But what was that? Bells jingling. Children laughing and calling. Louder. It was coming down the hall. Sounds of gaiety in the next ward. Then right outside our door, and yes, coming in! I sat up in astonishment. A parade of nurses and children, yellow and mauve streamers flying. But the children! I gasped. There must have been 20 of them. Some were in wheelchairs, smiling and waving. Others were on stretchers, limbs in casts, laughing with the nurses who pushed them. A curly-haired, brown-eyed cherub of three lay on his stomach, his legs and feet encased in plaster and help apart by a brace. A freckle-faced ten year old swung along on crutches. A pale little girl of seven or eight clutched a stuffed Easter bunny, smiling as she made it wave "Happy Easter" to us. Then they were off down the hall to the next ward.

Children. Children in casts. Children with T.B. I hadn't known...And I was feeling sorry for myself. Yes, I had T.B. But I didn't feel very sick. And I had four healthy children. A husband who loved me. An extended family to stand by me. Friends at school and in the community. So many blessings...

As darkness deepened that Eater night, I sat in my bed looking out the wide sanatorium windows. A full Easter moon sailed above the city, turning the brown, grassy lawn to silver. Centered on that lawn, stirred by a soft spring wind, floated the Union Jack.

Words formed in my consciousness:It's the flag of our land waving free there,It is God's Easter moon up above;The symbol of freedom and safety,The promise of comfort and love.