Dear readers, in today’s entry we revisit the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens and explore its unexpected connection to my extended hospital stay as a young girl.
Certain events etch themselves into our collective childhood memories: the moon landing, the day Elvis died, the Vietnam War, and, closer to home, the eruption of Mount St. Helens—each moment frozen in time, shaping not only our understanding of the world but our place in it. For me, the eruption of Mount St. Helens intertwines with a saga of illness, fear, and isolation.
On Sunday, May 18, 1980, at 8:32 a.m., Mount St. Helens erupted, sending a plume of ash skyward. That very day, a scared little girl lay in a bed, in isolation, at St. Vincent’s Hospital, battling pneumonia and pleurisy. That morning, a doctor, with a needle long and intimidating, punctured my side to drain the fluid from my left lung—a procedure terrifying in its intensity.
In that room, fear gripped me. I held a nurse’s hand, seeking solace as the ground itself seemed to shake from the distant eruption. News of the volcanic explosion didn’t reach me immediately. Instead, I lay there, feeling alone and abandoned, not knowing the world outside was changing, covered in ash.
Every day, my mother Evangelia religiously made her way to the hospital, bringing with her the comforting tastes of treats like Kentucky Fried Chicken and red licorice in an attempt to ease both the starkness of the sterile hospital room and my loneliness.
Evangelia’s visits anchored me, connecting me to the world beyond the hospital walls. Her presence meant everything, yet it also marked the absence of my father. On that tumultuous day, when the mountain erupted and uncertainty filled the air, Evangelia’s visit came late. She had spent her Sunday morning at church, engrossed in the Divine Liturgy, perhaps seeking strength and solace in prayer.
Nicolas, my father, was a world away, in the Holy Land with his brother Gerry, seeking spiritual renewal and redemption in the waters of the Jordan River. Little did he know, I was undergoing my own form of baptism back home—not with holy water, but in a trial by fire and pain.
In the solitude of the hospital, a small yellow transistor radio became my companion, connecting me to the outside world through top 40 hits. Music provided a distraction, a momentary escape from the pain and isolation. The physical pain of those days eventually subsided, but the emotional impact lingered. The loneliness, the fear, the ordeal—each left an indelible mark.
Today, I carry the memory of that spring with me. It serves as a reminder that strength can emerge from solitude; that music has the power to heal. The yellow transistor radio, though small, was my lifeline in those dark times, providing a connection to a world turned on its head. And the little girl who lay scared and alone in a hospital bed, baptized by ash and pain, grew stronger, forever marked by the events of a spring that changed everything.
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