Much of my early childhood (pre 5 years old) is a fuzzy blur. Then again, who can remember that long ago? I had, or so I was told, a relatively active childhood in which I was firmly attached to my mothers hip – a classic oedipal case. I don’t know why I gravitated to my mother, but every time she would leave, I would assume the fetal position and cry, or play my little 4 year old guilt-trip game, which never seemed to work, as evident by her leaving anyway.
My mother was a tom-boy, “don’t fuck with me” type of woman. By societal standards, she was big woman –not big, as in BIG, but tall, 5’11” to be exact. She had very broad shoulders, and quiet demeanor. She was a talented gymnast; she would frequently perform back-hand springs all the way down her street. The only downfall was her family. Her family, for reasons still unbeknownst to her, hated her with a passion. I am not talking figuratively, but literally. This hatred had always made her stand on point, and keep aware of her surroundings. It also, on multiple occasions, caused her to be the subject of violent physical and mental attacks at the hand of her brothers and sisters, from which she always came out victorious. One time, her sister attacked her, and my mother grabbed her by the throat, and pushed her against the third floor balcony, and threatened to “end her.” Needless-to-say, her sister didn’t try anything again – at least not without back up.
As I said, my recollections of my years before five are quite blurry. However, I can remember one incident that haunts me to this day, and his given me a pretty hefty fear of doorknobs. I was two (yes, I do remember that far ago), and I was running through our house in Little Falls, NY, and, I am still trying to figure this out, slipped and went head first into a doorknob, thus splitting my head wide open. I seem to have an affinity of going head first into things, but more on that later. I truly believe there is nothing worse for a parent, then seeing their child crying and having blood pouring down their face. Hell, a child’s cry can send a parent into survival mode from 30 miles away. From that day on, doorknobs and I have mutually agreed to exist in each others presence.
Now, from what I have been told by my parents, I was a very, very quiet child. When I was still in diapers, then only time I would cry would be when I “did the deed” or I needed to eat. I never really played with any other children, except when I was forced or coerced by the presence of cake, which I opted to wear rather than eat. I guess a lot of people really liked my hair, which, by the way, was bright, bright red. Apparently I made a lot of friends, and had lots of sleep-over, but I don’t remember much.
Earlier, I made reference to remembering everything past five years old. Frankly, that is when my life would change, and I would experience the “real world.”
At five years old, the only thing a child should have to worry about is making sure the G.I. Joes were fighting, and making sure Mom didn’t catch us taking a cookie before dinner. We were protected from the world by our parents. For me, that was short-lived, and my parents couldn’t protect me all much more, and it is not their fault, it was a hand they were dealt, and they handled it the best they could.
One afternoon, my mother noticed that my right foot, when I was walking, stuck out to the side, almost perpendicular to my left. Of course this, in true motherly fashion, caused her anxiety, and a great deal of it. She immediately informed my father of what is happening, and they made an appointment with my local pediatrician. They x-rayed my leg, and they couldn’t find anything wrong with it, so back home I went. Day after day, my walk started to turn into a pronounced limp, and it started to hurt to walk. My parents took me to pediatrician after pediatrician, all of which resulted in a question mark.
My shining light happened when a doctor decided, not to look at the leg, but what it was connected to – the hip. Low and behold, jackpot, baby. The problem was my hip, but in particular, the ball in my hip. You see, the hip is in a ball-and-socket formation, where the ball of the hip sits in its respective socket. Apparently, the ball in my hip, instead of being round, was perfectly flat, or at least we thought. This diagnosis was known as Legg Perthese Disease. The doctor was very blunt in telling us that there is no doctor that can handle this type of problem, and that the best place to go to was Shriners Hospital in Springfield, MA.
We have a diagnosis, but now the question is raised: what will happen?
My family and I start the four hour trek to MA, and I think my parents, at the end of the trip, were about ready to knock me out if I asked “how many more miles?”. Hey, I was 5, and I was inquisitive, so sue me. We finally arrive at Shriner’s, and it was the biggest building that I had ever seen. It wasn’t tall, but it was big and dark. It scared me, as I remember thinking that the people here were going to hurt me, and take out my brain (I watched movies when my parents went to sleep). The air that day was particularly cold, and all I wanted was to be home, because I was afraid of they were going to have to say about me.
I would have made an absolutely horrible psychic.
The staff and doctors there were the nicest people, next to my family, that I have ever met. They had this knack for making you feel like you belong, and that your condition is not your fault, and that you are somebody. Well, cutting right to the more advanced diagnosis; the doctors confirmed Legg Perthes Disease, and explained what it was. When a bone is forming, it needs an active supply of blood to form normally. Well, the ball in my hip had its blood supply cut off, and, as a result, the ball was extremely pliable, almost to the point of being complete mush. It was this that was not allowing for my leg to have its full range of motion, thus the limp, and my foot sticking out to the side.
When you’re a child, the last thing you really want to do is to be away from your parents.
We were informed that the only course of action is for me to be put into traction at the hospital, which meant that I was going to be away from my parents for while. You probably could have filled a bucket with the amount of tears I, and my parents shed. It’s scary.
