The slippers looked just like Oscar the Grouch, which is to say they seemed to be made of green shag carpet, with a touch of brown shag for his eyebrows. Black vinyl soles made for easy scuffing along the carpet, and the green elastic cuff hugged my ankle, keeping the cute characters from falling off my feet. I was in the hospital bed closest to the door when a shoebox-sized gift was handed to me and out popped two Oscars. What I don't recall is if I received them before or after surgery.
Putting a 7-year-old under anaesthesia for several hours of surgery was enough to check her in to and keep her overnight at Children's Hospital. Dr. Stella cut into the white portion of my left eye, peeled back the cornea, snipped the muscle behind, spliced the now shorter muscle together, and stitched me back up. Several weeks of bandages and eye patches later, and I emerged with two perfectly centered eyes. Until the surgery, the left eye had been crossed since Jan. 26, 1969. The day I was born.
My babysitter, Nancy, visited me in the hospital, bearing handmade cards from her kids and my classmates. But I think it was my parents, or possibly one of my grandmas, who gave me the slippers. It seems odd that at nearly 8 - the surgery was about a week before my birthday - I was still a fan of Sesame Street, but I believe the public television hit show featuring Jim Henson's Muppets was also born in 1969. It was still a relatively new cultural phenomenon that probably adults loved as much as kids.
Oscar, who you might recall, lived in a metal garbage can and I found him distinctly lovable despite his grouchiness. He never seemed loud or overbearing in his grumbling. He sought to quiet himself away from the world by sinking back into his can at least once an episode. Not like that blue Cookie Monster, who barreled through Sesame Street shouting about his desire for cookies. When he found some, he chomped monstrously and spilled crumbs down his furry front and into a pile on the street.
Rather than be offended or worried about the possible commentary about my behavior, I was thrilled with the Oscar slippers. I was a kid not afraid to be friends with the outcast. Instead, I was celebrating, by wearing on my feet, the monster who I suspect many besides me secretly loved.
Putting a 7-year-old under anaesthesia for several hours of surgery was enough to check her in to and keep her overnight at Children's Hospital. Dr. Stella cut into the white portion of my left eye, peeled back the cornea, snipped the muscle behind, spliced the now shorter muscle together, and stitched me back up. Several weeks of bandages and eye patches later, and I emerged with two perfectly centered eyes. Until the surgery, the left eye had been crossed since Jan. 26, 1969. The day I was born.
My babysitter, Nancy, visited me in the hospital, bearing handmade cards from her kids and my classmates. But I think it was my parents, or possibly one of my grandmas, who gave me the slippers. It seems odd that at nearly 8 - the surgery was about a week before my birthday - I was still a fan of Sesame Street, but I believe the public television hit show featuring Jim Henson's Muppets was also born in 1969. It was still a relatively new cultural phenomenon that probably adults loved as much as kids.
Oscar, who you might recall, lived in a metal garbage can and I found him distinctly lovable despite his grouchiness. He never seemed loud or overbearing in his grumbling. He sought to quiet himself away from the world by sinking back into his can at least once an episode. Not like that blue Cookie Monster, who barreled through Sesame Street shouting about his desire for cookies. When he found some, he chomped monstrously and spilled crumbs down his furry front and into a pile on the street.
Rather than be offended or worried about the possible commentary about my behavior, I was thrilled with the Oscar slippers. I was a kid not afraid to be friends with the outcast. Instead, I was celebrating, by wearing on my feet, the monster who I suspect many besides me secretly loved.
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