July 2002

My first memory is of my father. It was warm outside, a summer evening. The smiling man held me in his arms, against his white t-shirt, and I reached up to touch his face. His face felt scratchy. I felt excited by the change of scene, loved and safe and awed by the man's size. It was 1947, and I was eight months old.

My second memory comes from when I was three years old, going to Deaconess Hospital to have my tonsils removed. I remember the snowy ride to the hospital, a winding drive with wet, black, bare trees.

I remember a roommate in a bathrobe who was all confidence and bravado before his surgery, and who couldn't wake up to talk to me after. We were allowed one toy. I had a blue car with tiny windshield wipers that moved when the car rolled on the floor. He had the same car in maroon. It was my first encounter with coincidence.

When it was my turn for surgery, I was rolled down the halls on a gurney, watching the ceiling lights pass over, one by one, a nurse on my left and a man in white on my right. And into a very bright room, parked, and then a black mask coming down over my face and a smell like burning tires. My brother, who had already had his tonsils out, had told me, "Don't fight it." I fought it, the acrid, hissing smell, the hands that held me down while a softer voice tried to calm me, and then I went under.

When I woke up, I felt fine. But they wouldn't let me eat or drink. Instead, I was told to chew crushed ice, which was a real treat, better than any water or food. It was fun.

As much as I liked the food, the service was not good. One night I was awake, and standing in the crib. I think I had to use the bathroom. I called to the nurse who was sitting up very straight in a chair right outside my door. I could see her through a crack in the door. She had red hair in a braid, and a white cap. Her hands were folded in her lap. She was sound asleep. I couldn't wake her.

And one final memory of the hospital. I was standing in a crib, holding on to the rails, waiting for my mother to come for her evening visit. The room had a high ceiling; the tall windows were black from the night outside, and the light in the room was yellow. I heard voices in the hall, and my excitement died ­ my father had come too. He was wearing a dark coat and he filled the room with darkness as he walked toward me, smiling. My mother hung back in his shadow, and I was afraid.

I don't know exactly what happened between eight months and three years, but I can guess. When I became a parent, my father said, "You've got to show them who's boss the moment you bring them in the door." He had a sour expression on his face as he spoke, while my daughter played quietly, innocently on the living room floor next to me.