Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Muscle Memory






Today is an anniversary of sorts, albeit a painful one. On this day, twenty-one years ago, Sophie was admitted to New York Hospital on York Avenue after being diagnosed with infantile spasms. Those who've read my e-book might remember that I was given the diagnosis while sitting in a gray folding chair in an emergency room. I was holding Sophie. The two young residents were holding clipboards. Their voices came from the end of a long tunnel, and I stood up, raised my voice and said what are you talking about? I remember them backing out of the room when I told them to leave, and then I remember being admitted to a room at the hospital that was straight out of a Dickens novel: six or eight metal cribs with babies and toddlers inside, some alone. Sophie's crib was by a window that looked out onto a shaft. The panes were coated in dust from the 19th century when the hospital was built. A cheerful nurse brought an orange into the room and some hypodermic needles. We practiced shooting the needle into the orange and then pulling it back out to make sure we hadn't hit a vein. The drug needed to go into the muscle. The drug was a powerful steroid given in a very high dose. The skin of the orange was thick and puckered and the needle slid right in. Sophie had been on the planet for three months, and the skin on her legs was so soft. Do babies have muscles? We stayed in the hospital for one week during which the baby's appetite grew so grotesque, my breasts couldn't keep up. Don't worry, a young doctor said to me as I pressed my face against the dirty window and wept. Breastfeeding isn't everything. We went home to our little apartment on the fourth floor of a walk-up on the Upper West Side. We continued to give her the shots, twice a day. Her face blew up like a moon, her eyes slits in puffs of pale, the white pustules of thrush around her lips and bottom. She screamed 22 hours out of 24, so we walked with her. Up and down, up and down, up and down the little balcony off the bedroom, the roof-top water towers marking the sky. She continued to seize. I wasn't going to mark this day, but why not? Muscle has memory even after twenty-one years. I have practiced and never hit a vein.

21 comments:

  1. Oh Elizabeth. I send you and Sophie. So much love.

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  2. Is there any wonder why there can exist such a bond amongst us mothers? Over miles- over nonexistent hours spent in actual presence- over years and years of stockpiling memories in those dirty little rooms. I was there with you- but didn't know you then. And you were there with me- though it would take years to make your acquaintance. Only diff was my little balcony was the first floor of the hospital which was all administration- and I would pace the halls all night pushing a shrieking baby in her stroller- trying not to wake the rest of our unfortunate roommates. You keep touching souls- it keeps us alive.

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    1. Jacqueline -- this has got to be one of the most beautiful comments that I've ever received. Thank you. I feel you, too, over the years into now.

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  3. I wish I knew how to make a beautiful comment on this nightmare memory. I'm so sorry this happened - to you and all the others.

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  4. I have read your book and I remember that time. I felt sad then and now--sad for the memory of a dingy hospital and sad for the fact that not nearly enough has been accomplished to give hope for Sophie and the children who have come after her.

    Best,
    Bonnie

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  5. I cannot even begin to imagine but I can feel from one mother to another. I watched as doctors placed a feeding tube down through the tiniest nose and throat of my newborn premature girl and I still wake up some nights in tears, still wishing I would have/should have etc.

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  6. Muscle memory. Heart memory. Bone memory. Blood memory.
    The every memory.
    I can't believe you are still a sane woman, much less the one you are.

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  7. The day everything changed. I have no good words but want to let you know I'm here.

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  8. I'm here too. Lots of feelings but not sure how to pin them down to words... but I'm here and I feel the glow coming off all your amazing love and determination and you make me believe in the good things, which is a tough thing-lemme tell you!

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  9. The pain never ends. We survive no matter how torn to shreds and the love of those around us tries to sew us back together.
    Sending love, love and love on a day sadly remember.

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  10. I always sit and try to think of words but my brain churns them over and over and nothing is right. But I think of words I read this morning about being with someone during grief and it said, "Just Show Up!! Just Show Up! Be Present." So I am showing up and sending you so much love.

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  11. thinking of you - all these years

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  12. It's real life, and it happened to you and Sophie, sadly. All you could do is make the most informed decisions you could, and tend to your seizing baby girl. Clinging together, you both received some comfort despite the pain. Keep sharing your story. It is deep with pain, love, resolution and honesty.

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  13. Rage. And yet, the yin/yang curves of that picture.

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  14. Bless you and her and all those years in between that day and this.

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  15. I just don't know what to say, except that your writing is so vivid -- I can see the skin of the orange and the needle and the beds and the grimy windowpane. Of course you mark the memory of this hugely significant day.

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  16. I've had to give frequent injections into the muscle of an adult I love, and that was difficult enough. An infant, especially your own, is agony. Keeping you, and your memories, in my heart.

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  17. Oranges I just bought at the market are on the kitchen counter. I can't look at them without seeing you, Sophie as a baby, nurses, just as you describe in your book. I saw mermaid coasters at a bookstore the other day and thought of you and Sophie and the boys.

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  18. Oranges I just bought at the market are on the kitchen counter. I can't look at them without seeing you, Sophie as a baby, nurses, just as you describe in your book. I saw mermaid coasters at a bookstore the other day and thought of you and Sophie and the boys.

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