Written April 29th, 2008
If We had Known You Were Going to Be a Writer, We Would Have Been Nicer to You
I have one baby picture of myself, I found it in my sister's house and took it, scanned it, and gave it back to her. I'm a toddler, 3 and half or so, so happy and holding up my new baby doll- Viva. I am grinning madly with a giant bandage on my head. I am a cutie pie, I figure I'm pretty high on painkillers.
One of those surgeries, I suspect the one in the picture, is in my first memory. I'm laying on the table, maybe I'm being restrained, but I'm laying on my back. The doctor is explaining what is going to happen: I get the shot, I'm asleep before they count to 10, and before I know it I'll be waking up in my fathers arms.
It sounded good, I never got to see my dad that much, but I really didn't want that shot, "it's not going to hurt at all..." That line, whatta line. I went down screaming, I was really mad he lied to me. It hurt pretty bad, but I was out real quick. I didn't wake up in my fathers arms though; the first time I had doctors looking over me, then I was in a room and my dad was sitting and reading nearby.
I hated hospitals for a long time, the smells, the pain, the lies... I'm still bitter on that. I know I was just a bratty kid that they needed to knock out so they could crack my head open, but did they have to lie? They could have to told me to suck it up cause it would be quick, it's my oldest memory for godsake, does it have to be of a lie? My parents got me the dolly to keep me company in the hospital, it took friends when I was older to point out she was black. So? One of those friends had the white version, sooo not as cute. When asked my mom admitted that all the black baby dolls were on sale, I've heard of this phenomenon before (it's documented in a heartfelt story on This American Life). The visual of American KKKonsumers turning their backs on black dolls as a representation for the way America treats black people never fails to piss me off.
I got over my distrust of hospitals, I ended up spending a lot of time in them, not for myself. My mom worked in them of course, but she was also bi-polar. Every few years she checked herself into the mental hospital, rested, got her all her medications upped and balanced. I would visit when I could, bring clothes and books (no hangars! No shoelaces! No belts!), but you have to be of a certain age to be allowed in. When I was too young I would watch everyone else go through these secure doors and I would wait outside. I spent the time peeking through the window, spying on shuffley people wandering or standing awkwardly, spacily, in a sterile hallway, fluorescent lighting, you know the deal. I waited, trying not to stare, smiling at the people that walked by, surrounded by that smell and the hospital workers. Recieving curious looks, trying to look innocent, or transparent so I wouldn't taken away for another surgery, you know the deal.
I'm lucky though, a lot of people who struggle with depression, anxiety, bi-polar, or other 'disorders' turn to drugs to deal. Well, my mom was always highly medicated, but at least she put it into the doctors hands, instead of whiskeys hands or something. Or rather, the doctor and god. Most women in my family have been hospitalized, locked up, at one point or another, my distrust of people in the medical profession kept me out.
So yeah, as I got older I got a lot healthier with most of my problems stemming from a slight scoliosis in my spine. Luckily I've probably spent more time in hospitals visiting people and keeping them company than actually being worked on myself, but those first few years definitely had an impact.
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