Anecdotal Tales
My Earliest Memory
I sat up on my knees facing the wrong direction on a hospital bed as nurses wheeled me away in the opposite direction of my mother.
She stood there in the cold, sterile hallway. Her eyes were on me, but her shoulders slumped.
I reached out for her, both arms outstretched. Hands grasping at the air.
“Why isn’t mommy coming?”
We went into a mint-green operating room.
I was shaking. Kicking. Screaming.
They tried to soothe me, but I couldn’t hear them over my fear.
They put a mask on my face.
I snatched it off.
They put it on again.
I snatched it off again.
The green room fades, and so does my fight.
The last time I recalled this to my mom, she said she couldn’t believe I could remember that. I was two years old at the time.
I was born with glaucoma and went through more than thirteen surgeries before I turned two. My mom said she stopped counting after thirteen.
This was the final surgery and the only moment I remember so clearly.
They say whenever we recall something it’s not the moment we remember, but a memory of the memory, and each recollection changes slightly. I’m not sure this holds true for traumatic moments.
I write this to have a solid recollection before the edges blur.
As an adult, I understand it was for my own good.
That my mother loved me dearly and would do everything in her power to give me the best life she could provide.
But as a child, I was afraid.
Mommy let the strangers take me.
I couldn’t understand yet why something helping me had to hurt or be so scary.
I fought, but they held me down and I was overpowered.
“Why wasn’t I strong enough to make them stop? Why weren’t they listening to me?”
Helpless.
Angry.
I think this left my nervous system on high alert. I’m still untangling the knots in my stomach.
I have to remind myself to relax.
“I’m ok,” I tell myself, as I take deep breaths and release the muscles that still hold tension from moments like this.
My logical self looks back at the situation and sees nothing wrong. I was a child crying, no big deal. “She’ll be ok,” I think dismissively.
“She’ll thank us later,” I imagine they thought.
But living with the trauma makes me soften a bit. I want to acknowledge and validate her.
I want to sit with two-year-old me.
Hold her tight against my heart.
Calm her inner state.
I sit with her.