I cannot remember how I got to the luminescent hallway or where my clothes went. I simply remember wearing what I now know to be a child-sized hospital gown. It had frogs or dinosaurs on it…maybe puppies. It was pale blue with white edging and snaps. My recollection gains traction with fluorescent lighting. They were blinding overhead and passed by as I was pushed down a long hallway. At 5 years old, not many kids have a strong grasp on notions of time and distance. I can’t say how long I was watching those overhead lights, but it felt like an eternity. The bulbs above me gave off a putrid glow from behind the once-clear plastic coverings; the orangeish hue was likely the result of years of those lights getting too hot and burning the plastic while they accumulated the stories of those unlucky enough to pass below.
The lights were evenly spaced apart, and we rolled along at a snail’s pace as I counted each; I seem to remember the number 10, though I’m not sure why. I remember the number precisely, just like the scuff marks on the white walls, people talking in hushed voices, the beeping of small machines, and the clickety-clack sound coming from the wheels rolling along the crappy linoleum floor. The smell of alcohol and antiseptic was overpowering. Clean, fresh, and safe. To this day, those smells bring me peace. It would be 35 years before I fully understood why.
My mother was on my right side, holding my hand while a nameless, faceless person in scrubs pushed me along. I remember small talk between my mom and the person behind me, yet I cannot tell you if that person was a man or a woman. The hospital staffer charged with my transport could have been Charlie Brown’s mom, because my memories of this person’s cadence sounds just like what I heard on TV, muffled voice and all. They conversed about the temperature outside, how we were expecting an unseasonably cold winter, and when I interjected to comment about the lights overhead, my mom jokingly noted that we should be glad we weren’t in New York. It was the late 70’s.
I have the strangest recollection of that day and those events. Everything my mind remembers about the late 70’s was in excess; my senses were inundated by all that was bright, loud, shiny, and metal. My God, everything was metal. There was no sensory peace for Gen X kids; everything was overdone. The high-polished metal railing that was customary on hospital beds ran down both sides of my bed, and I was tucked neatly in between like a car that was parked perfectly in the middle of the white lines. I can see my father’s hands on that metal railing on the left side. His hands were gigantic and calloused from a few years of working as a lineman with the power company and from loading bombs on airplanes in Vietnam years prior. His wedding ring was always snug on his finger and his nails were well manicured but dirty; cuticles clipped, not jagged, and his nails filed. His digits had permanent staining from the dirt and oil that were common in his line of work.
They were so young, my parents, in their 20’s. For a brief moment, on that gurney under the crisp white hospital sheets, there was no fear. Except for the fact that I had to pee and was told that I couldn’t without seeing the doctor first, this fleeting snapshot is peaceful.
At 4’11”, my mother was a short spitfire. Nobody messed with her. I knew she’d move hell and earth to be with me, their only child at the time. My nickname was Pumpkin Seed, and I’m not entirely certain how I earned the moniker. As we wheeled to the room where doctors and nurses were waiting, my mom leaned over and whispered into my ear, “it will be ok Pumpkin Seed. I promise.” Those 8 words landed softly upon my ears but they ushered in a terrifying reality for me. Why, exactly, was my mom telling me everything would be fine? And I needed to pee.
Immediately before making a sharp right turn into the secluded room, my parents were told they had to stay in the hallway. I was not happy with the situation and vocalized my opinions accordingly. Tears. Soon, though, I went into rationalization mode. This would later become a hallmark coping mechanism. I would be alone in that room, the lights were on, so how bad could it be? At least this is what I told myself. There were curtains on the windows and I thought I could hear a television playing. Maybe it was a radio. Regardless of what I heard, I was hopeful that Bugs Bunny would be part of this increasingly bizarre experience. A nurse told me that she would give me a popsicle. I chose “the purple flavor.” Looking back, my innocence is almost comical; colors don’t have a taste. Nevertheless, this serves as l one of the purest memories from my youth. To this day, I don’t ask for grape popsicles, I ask for the purple flavor.
Rounding into the room, curtains pulled closed behind me, and I was greeted by what seemed like a gaggle of people. Why the hell were so many people in my room? This is all so strange and confusing. My popsicle is dripping and I need to pee.
“Can I please use the restroom,” I asked.
“No, sweetie, we have to examine you first and then you can use the restroom. And when you do, one of us nurses will help you pee in a cup. Can you let me see your hands really quickly?”
As I extended my drippy popsicle hands out for her to see, I was perplexed about the peeing in a cup thing. It was strange, but whatever. I was eating a popsicle. Upon looking at my hands, the nurse commented that I didn’t have any glue on them, that my fingernails were clean, I had no blisters, and my skin hadn’t been picked or show signs of any chemical burns. Glue on my hands? What? Thank God for my popsicle, because this whole experience was strange in my young mind.
I looked to my left and saw a new hospital bed, one that I was apparently transferring to. It was plastic looking, I’m guessing vinyl of some kind, and had a sheet of paper over it. At the foot of the bed, attached to the bottom left and right corner, were two metal arms that looked like the handle to my red wagon or the handle to the snow shovel my dad used when storms hit. Except the handle to my wagon was black and these were, as you might expect, bright silver; these funky shovel handle arms stood perfectly upright and perpendicular to the exam table.
“Here sweetie, let me help you over to the new bed. I’ll hold your popsicle.”
The man in the room, presumably a doctor, extended both hands to help move me along with the assistance of a nurse. As they pulled me over to the new bed, I had a searing pain shoot through my groin and crotch. It was a pain like nothing I had experienced before and like nothing I have felt to this day. I cried out and immediately heard my mother screaming in the hallway that somebody better let her in to see her goddamned daughter.
Once placed on the bed, I remember a burning sensation between my legs. The doctor, who I believe was in the earliest days of practicing medicine, was awkward and seemed uncomfortable. He kept diverting his eyes to a nurse that must have been twice his age. Finally situated on the bed, I was asked to scoot down to the end and put my feet into the shovel handle-looking things. But I couldn’t. Not only was I too small to reach them, I literally couldn’t spread my legs apart because someone had superglued my labia and thighs closed. The entirety of my vulva was glued shut.
I, quite literally, couldn’t pee.
I remember a nurse leaving the exam room crying, but the older one stayed by my side the entire time. This nurse cut her eyes to the doctor and said again, “doctor, she’s got no glue on her hands.” Everyone and everything stopped. The nurse looked at me and asked, “who did this to you sweetie?”
“Who did what to me?”
“Do you remember what happened before you got here?”
“No.”
“Do you remember…..?”
My God, the questions wouldn’t stop. I had to pee and I couldn’t remember anything about the days or hours leading up to this event. And I still can’t.
The one thing that stands out now, some 40+ years later, is the lack of glue on my hands. Even the most skilled craftsmen can’t use superglue with precision. Especially the amount of glue it would take to glue an area as large as human genitalia and the upper thigh region. That shit gets everywhere. To think a 5-year old could glue her entire crotch shut and not get glue on her hands could only mean one thing. Nevertheless, I spent years trying to talk myself into the notion that I did, in fact, glue myself shut in some act of juvenile stupidity. That rationalization worked for a while, until I learned about things like gravity, physics, and how liquid rolls downhill. Undeniable scientific truths always bite you in the ass. I had no glue in or around my bum or on my cheeks. As a grown woman that has parented two children, I am now certain that no 5-year old has the dexterity to accomplish this task. I didn’t glue myself…but someone did. The nurses knew it and the doctors knew it. My parents knew it, too. They were silently terrified I’d remember exactly who did this to me and tell someone. Remembering the looks on their faces tells me all I need to know.
That sweet nurse held my hand, wiped away the drippy popsicle and tears streaming down my face, and hummed a song that is forever imprinted on my mind. To this day, I do not know the title or artist of that song, but when I hear it on oldies stations in the car, I have a visceral reaction that is equal parts nausea, sweat, and terror. I vomit almost instantly. I hate that fucking song. I’ve never looked up the artist or title, and I never will. It’s bad enough that the melody is quite catchy and it’s been playing on repeat in my head for decades, long before this memory came to the forefront of my mind. It can only be described as the worst case of musical terrorism in history.
And here’s where this memory abruptly stops. I last remember two doctors and nurses looking at my genitalia, a bright light being pulled down to help them see, which radiated warmth on my legs, and then nothing. My mind goes completely blank and I cannot remember anything else from that night. Not one thing. It’s as if my mind just faded to blackness.
