Why Me?!

I don't write much prose or stories but this is a memoir I wrote about 18 months ago for my college course's Creative Writing module.There might be some references in it that won't be recognised outside of Ireland so just ask if you're lost!!

I woke up in a bed. I knew where I was and I knew my mother should have been in the chair beside the bed. But she wasn’t. I was lying still and I couldn’t move much but there was so much noise -the banging of trays and trolleys and other hospital paraphernalia- and disorientating artificial light flooding down on me that I couldn’t help but fall into a panic. It felt like chaos and I started to cry. The curtains around the bed beside mine were pulled closed but they quickly opened when my loud sobs and tears began. My mother appeared from behind them laughing away, calm as could be. I couldn’t believe it; I was obviously in distress and she was over there giving Zig and Zag chocolate bars to Jamie, the little jockey from Wexford. My panic and fear were replaced with shame and an overwhelming feeling of silliness. Sure, wasn’t I always the silly little girl; too quick to over-react and jump to conclusions and simply just too hyper- sensitive?

I still am.

But through many a late night conversation with myself and many an early morning conversation with various doctors and ‘professionals’ the conclusion has been drawn that it all began around that time, 18 years ago…

I’ll synopsise the major occurrence which was the making of, though I prefer to say breaking of, myself. When I was three years old I began to complain of pains (which were crippling and even now, as was the case back then, I lack the ability to articulate how great this pain was…it was REALLY sore.) all down my left leg and I developed a limp ( which for a long time was considered to be endearing rather than worrying and hence prolonging my suffering.). Now, I don’t remember exactly how events unfolded but by the time I was four, almost five, I was diagnosed with Perthes Disease. The two reasons my diagnosis took so long are : 1.)it’s a rare disease and 2.) it usually affects boys.( In moments of distress I was often comforted with the trivia that Niall Quinn had also been a sufferer. And, coincidentally, his wife is named Gillian.) Perthes Disease is the name attached to osteochondritis of the upper end of the femur (or osteochondritis deformans juvenilis). Simply put, there was an insufficient blood supply to my hip joint. There are those who may try and lay blame with my mother for smoking through her pregnancy but it is an inherited condition. So, rather than cause it she just helped it along on its way. And anyway, I’m fine really; my asthma cleared by the time I was four.

So, that’s the disease; here’s the cure - the cure that fixed my bones but broke my head. First came the plaster of Paris casts on both my legs. Simultaneously. This did make movement nigh on impossible. The bar placed between my legs made movement impossible. (Imagine a capital letter ‘A’ to visualise how my leg looked.) This lasted for the best part of a year and acquired my previously mentioned sojourn in Waterford Regional Hospital. Following this my left leg was kept in a sling for approximately another year. To go along with this stereotypical gimpy, geeky girl accessory were special shoes, attractively clunky, boyish and brown, and crutches. If I had been allowed to go into the playground at lunchtime I would have been the school’s token retard.

I’ve alluded to how as my bones got better my head got worse. These days the correlation between the two seems obvious to the point where mentioning it doesn’t even seem necessary. But I will as I believe it to be of the essence.

When two years ,maybe even more,of one’s life are spent being ogled and pointed at, two years spent as a little John Merrick, one has a tendency to develop a few complexes. Frequently it is mentioned to me that all this happened years ago and why don’t I get over it already!?!? It is clear to me then that many people lack the education of amateur psychology. These things happened to me during a crucial point in a child’s development- at the point where their mindsets and mentalities are forming and their foundations are being mortared solidly. This is when a child gets an awareness for things outside of their parents’ arms and homes. Children go to school and playgrounds and meet new people, places and things. They begin to learn a new social -awareness and spacial awareness…I got an excessive self-awareness. Which I still have. True, this probably means I’m more empathic than others who are ‘special’. but the repercussions  of an early childhood being a ‘special one’ have been detrimental to me as a person now. Occasionally these insecurities of mine manifest themselves in absurd ways (in the opinions of others). It’s all perfectly understandable ( in my opinion).

Often I have to remind myself that I’m not four years old anymore. I have to remind myself that if a stranger is staring it’s not because I’m an oddity. (There isn’t really a comforting solution as to why someone is staring at you after you conclude that it’s not because you are an oddity. My mother taught me never to look at these people in the eye as you never know who is s a weirdo.) It’s true that I had a multitude of embarrassing moments during my foray with physical disability and these are the moments which have constructed who it is I am now. Or rather the responses of me and others to these moments. Some may call them humbling; I say demeaning. Some may call it conditioning; I say its demoralising. Two full-length leg casts at the same time mean that when you fall over you stay down until somebody notices. I’m notoriously clumsy so this was a frequent event. Sitting down on a chair requires a lot of leg bending and movement until you get comfy. Legs provide balance so that the chair does not slip out beneath your behind. For most of senior infants I went through my days standing as I just gave up on chairs. Special underwear was also required in order to get over the big bar between my legs. Special underwear with snaps and buttons and locks and keys all over the place. I became a frequent public pants-wetter. Also, toilets are kind of like chairs or seats when it comes to positioning yourself. I became a little agoraphobic as the basic necessities of life and society were not equipped to deal with the likes of me. Consequently, I forgot how to interact with people. I became painfully shy, which I know is a cliché to say but it is a truism. I resented everyone who was ‘normal’ and I resented those who were ‘normal’ but disregarded my problems and incapabilities all the more. I became paranoid and self - conscious. The cotton wool stuffed down between my skin and casts yellowed over the months and exuded a memorable repugnant sour smell. I remember how it looked dirty yellow and I imagined that if  the colour yellow had an odour this would be it. I was wheeled around in a buggy until I was six. I made my communion on crutches and a month later I was a flower girl on crutches too. The page boy asked me to dance at the reception. I declined. I got given out to for refusing the boy. I pointed out my current inability to dance. Around these years I also realised that adults are not as smart as kids give them credit for. I became self- contained and self - reliant. To this day the methods of my ways and of my thinking are often questioned and not understood by others. I adapted my self for the parts of life I could still partake in  and ,admittedly, I have probably not sufficiently reacquainted myself with the real world almost two decades later. I’m anxious, I’m shy, I’m nervous, I’m paranoid, I’m self- conscious, I’m insecure and those are my reasons why.

I haven’t called this Why Me!?!?  in an attempt to garner sympathy. The reason is two fold. When I was in hospital my grandmother gave me a t-shirt with a picture of Donald Duck in some sort of uncomfortable situation with the caption ‘Why  Me?!’. In 1992,during my sling-backed leg time, Linda Martin won the Eurovision with the classic song Why Me? These are both coincidences but ones very suited for my situation at the time.

Are my memories of the time made more painful because of the Linda Martin association?

Yes. She ruined You’re a Star for me.

Reviews

[Gillian]

I remember the joys of knitting needles from back then too!! I wrote the story for people to laugh at and enjoy. When I read it in class people there felt bad for laughing. I could have made it longer as I've so many anecdotes from back then,most of which involve me falling or getting stuck on the ground.

[Anita B Jacques]

Thank you Gillian for sharing, I'm ashamed for enjoying your story, because I should only feel bad about the tough time you had in your childhood and still have recourse's. It is a good write. A clear memory of the events and well expressed. I had my right leg in a cast for 2 months (16 years old) I had a knitting needle near by and used often. God bless you.
Your friend
Annie