paper for school
Although it is never a pleasant experience to have an assignment from a past quarter hanging over one's head, in a way I am glad I am able to write this now, after going home for the first time in five years. My girlfriend Kristi and I made the trip on fairly short notice; my grandmother had been hospitalized since early December and her health was taking a turn for the worse. I had not seen her in five years since I have a flying phobia, but I really wanted to be there, so we drove across the country to Indiana, where my father lives, and then on to Pennsylvania.
When I saw my grandmother, it became very clear that she was not doing well. She was extremely weak and not really able to eat, but she was hanging on knowing that we were coming. I think seeing me and my Dad, stepmom Marilyn, and Kristi brought her some peace. After we left, every day she would ask my grandfather what day it was. She was hanging on for their 60th wedding anniversary, and she made it. She passed away Feb. 7, after we had already started driving back to CA, so we did not return for the funeral, but I got to see her and say goodbye, which was what mattered most.
While we were visiting my family, my father gave me some papers relating to my birth and the malpractice lawsuit that they filed, including my mother's deposition - which was a detailed, emotional account of my birth. As I read it, I could see her as she looked then, thin and tan, with long blonde hair and worried eyes. I could hear the fear in her voice as she described how the doctor arrived late, leaving her waiting too long for her C-section, how the nurse was brusque and uncaring, and finally how the saddle block failed and she felt everything as I was pulled from her womb. The doctor anesthetized her against her will; despite the pain, she was begging to see me and trying to push the mask away. Her next memory was of waking up in a haze, and when they brought me to see her, my head was covered with a towel. Months later, when I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy and she obtained my medical records, she found out I had been cyanotic (blue and not breathing) at birth, and that is probably why they hid my face from her.
It was surreal to read about my birth; I felt as if I were reading a novel or watching a film, and "Karin" or "the baby" was a character on a screen, not ME. It also allowed me to see the events through the eyes of the protagonist - my mother - and suddenly everything made so much more sense. I became her; I saw her dreams for her little girl, then how they were shattered and replaced by grief as she watched me struggling to even hold my head up. She talked about how I hardly moved at all, how she would put me on my specially adapted tricycle and push me around, encouraging me to pedal, but I was too weak to do so. That was not how I remembered it at all - but I realized that my memories must be from later, when I gained more strength. As with all stories, the narrative of my life changes based on whose perspective one takes.
My mother was afraid for me, and that is why she did all of the things she did. All of the physical therapy, the screaming at me because I didn't want to do some physical task, or was running late due to exhaustion - all of that hell I went through was because she loved me. I knew this before, of course; she had said so many times. But the vulnerability she felt, the sheer terror, was not something I could grasp until I read about my birth. My mother died just after I finished my BA, before we had much time to start talking as two adults, and thus I was left alone with all of this, trying to piece together a resolution from the memories. But through her words, she was alive again, and I could relate to her as I am now. I am just five years younger than she was at the time I was born, and in a similar place - partnered and hoping to start a family in five years or so. I have hopes and dreams for my future children, too, and what she went through fills me with a terror I never could have imagined before reaching this stage of my life.
And that is why, when I feel emotionally ready, I will begin a second project - decorating my other plastic brace. As I choose the images and words, I will do so, as best as I can, through her eyes. I will present her side of the story, the side of a woman who loved her daughter so much that she devoted the best years - what would turn out to be nearly all the remaining years of - her life, to helping that daughter. I will show her primal terror that her little girl would never experience the wonderful things she had - going to college, treveling, falling in love. And I will show her frustration and confusion when her daughter fought the physical therapy, despite being fiercely independent, bright, and ambitious. I will place this brace beside the one I made, and perhaps in the space between them, there will be the truth.
When I saw my grandmother, it became very clear that she was not doing well. She was extremely weak and not really able to eat, but she was hanging on knowing that we were coming. I think seeing me and my Dad, stepmom Marilyn, and Kristi brought her some peace. After we left, every day she would ask my grandfather what day it was. She was hanging on for their 60th wedding anniversary, and she made it. She passed away Feb. 7, after we had already started driving back to CA, so we did not return for the funeral, but I got to see her and say goodbye, which was what mattered most.
While we were visiting my family, my father gave me some papers relating to my birth and the malpractice lawsuit that they filed, including my mother's deposition - which was a detailed, emotional account of my birth. As I read it, I could see her as she looked then, thin and tan, with long blonde hair and worried eyes. I could hear the fear in her voice as she described how the doctor arrived late, leaving her waiting too long for her C-section, how the nurse was brusque and uncaring, and finally how the saddle block failed and she felt everything as I was pulled from her womb. The doctor anesthetized her against her will; despite the pain, she was begging to see me and trying to push the mask away. Her next memory was of waking up in a haze, and when they brought me to see her, my head was covered with a towel. Months later, when I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy and she obtained my medical records, she found out I had been cyanotic (blue and not breathing) at birth, and that is probably why they hid my face from her.
It was surreal to read about my birth; I felt as if I were reading a novel or watching a film, and "Karin" or "the baby" was a character on a screen, not ME. It also allowed me to see the events through the eyes of the protagonist - my mother - and suddenly everything made so much more sense. I became her; I saw her dreams for her little girl, then how they were shattered and replaced by grief as she watched me struggling to even hold my head up. She talked about how I hardly moved at all, how she would put me on my specially adapted tricycle and push me around, encouraging me to pedal, but I was too weak to do so. That was not how I remembered it at all - but I realized that my memories must be from later, when I gained more strength. As with all stories, the narrative of my life changes based on whose perspective one takes.
My mother was afraid for me, and that is why she did all of the things she did. All of the physical therapy, the screaming at me because I didn't want to do some physical task, or was running late due to exhaustion - all of that hell I went through was because she loved me. I knew this before, of course; she had said so many times. But the vulnerability she felt, the sheer terror, was not something I could grasp until I read about my birth. My mother died just after I finished my BA, before we had much time to start talking as two adults, and thus I was left alone with all of this, trying to piece together a resolution from the memories. But through her words, she was alive again, and I could relate to her as I am now. I am just five years younger than she was at the time I was born, and in a similar place - partnered and hoping to start a family in five years or so. I have hopes and dreams for my future children, too, and what she went through fills me with a terror I never could have imagined before reaching this stage of my life.
And that is why, when I feel emotionally ready, I will begin a second project - decorating my other plastic brace. As I choose the images and words, I will do so, as best as I can, through her eyes. I will present her side of the story, the side of a woman who loved her daughter so much that she devoted the best years - what would turn out to be nearly all the remaining years of - her life, to helping that daughter. I will show her primal terror that her little girl would never experience the wonderful things she had - going to college, treveling, falling in love. And I will show her frustration and confusion when her daughter fought the physical therapy, despite being fiercely independent, bright, and ambitious. I will place this brace beside the one I made, and perhaps in the space between them, there will be the truth.