After Shock - a Memoir: Lost Childhood

After Shock

A Memoir

Lost Childhood

Margo Bouer

Copyright © 2000 by Margo Bouer.

Library of Congress Number:   00-191317

ISBN #:   Softcover                      0-7388-2560-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[email protected]

Contents

Acknowledgment

Not Safe at Home

A Safe Sanitarium

Parental Rights

Disowned and Disinherited—Whatever That Means

The City

My Surrogate Family

Nurses’ Training

Professional

A Year With Helen

Psychoanalysis

Family

Theraplay

And Then

There Was Music

After Shock

Dedication

This book is dedicated to

Bob, David and Sarah,

with all my love;

to Bunny and Helen

in my memories,

and to Annie today.

Acknowledgment

I have long-term friends who have always supported me and encouraged my writing of this book. Thanks especially to Marge Karlin, Grace Timberlake, and Phyllis Booth.

I also wish to thank my friends from my writing group who have been invaluable in their support and teaching of a novice. Again, thank you Marge Karlin; also Shirley Palmer, Phyllis Spiva, and Delle Borman.

I also want to thank Mary Holmes for your enthusiasm and Karen Herb and Denise Welch for your editorial and typing support, so necessary to bring this memoir to final reality.

Finally, thanks to my fellow Aquadettes of Laguna Woods, California, who keep me happily swimming.

Not Safe at Home

My bedroom looks disgusting. It’s embarrassing really, though no one ever sees it but me. It was embarrassing to be in that big Bullocks store and have mother tell me to pick out whatever bedroom furniture I wanted. Of course I pointed to whatever was closest to me. I wanted to get out of that store and away from that salesman who kept saying, You are a lucky young girl to be able to have such nice parents to get you whatever you want. What do I know about what I want about furniture? No one’s ever asked me before what I want about anything. There was no time to even think about it. So I stupidly point to the movie set stuff right in front of us. Gold. Too grown up. Ridiculous.

Nothing in this whole stupid room feels good. This big, stupid, gold scary bed. I’m lost in it. It makes me feel like a little kid. I hate that. All I see is gold satin drapes, gold satin bedspread, gold furniture, gold rug, gold dressing table with nothing on it but dust. Gold, gold, gold. Even gold sunshine that only makes the room look worse. And it’s so quiet in this ugly house.

I must have fallen asleep since coming home from the police station. Why didn’t mother or dad say anything to me there? On the way back in the car? I wonder if they even know about that horrible test where they looked at me down there. It hurt when they stuck that thing up me. Why did they do it? They kept asking me sex questions. They probably don’t believe me that no one’s touched me. I know how to take care of myself. Besides, Shirley told me a long time ago to just say I’m going to San Francisco or San Diego or wherever where they have a special clinic. It works. Pick-ups hardly say anything after that. I’m strong and can get around. It was just dumb to trust that truck driver in Arizona. He seemed nice but right to a police station he went and then the LAPD and now what’s going to happen?

Who’s opening my door? How did he get here?

Who are you? I don’t know who this guy is. The lady with him must be a nurse. Yeah, she must be, with that white dress and those shoes. Who let them in the house? What’s happening? Why are they pulling on me? They scare me. I don’t want to cry.

You don’t have to pull me. Just tell me what you want. Where are you trying to take me? Why don’t they say something? They’re dragging me so fast. Oh geez. They want to hurt me. My arms hurt. They’re holding on so tight. Where’s Mother? Where’s Susan? They’re pulling me into his car!

Where are you taking me? Say something. Did she call him doctor? Yes. It must be another exam. No one wants to believe me. I won’t think about it. It’ll be over soon. I just can’t cry. Now where are we? This is San Vicente, I think, but this place doesn’t look like a hospital. It’s some kind of retirement place for old people. At least that’s what it says on the sign. Maybe he has an office here. Now what? He’s at the back door and she’s holding me so tightly. He’s unlocked the door and now he grabs me. They’re acting so mad at me. Who are they?

Oh, please, where are we? What do you want me for? Who are these people?

All I see are rows of old people, sitting, rocking and moaning. It’s like a hum, weird, scary. These old ladies look so cold, bent over, holding their blankets or something so tight around their shoulders. No one is looking at anyone else. I feel cold too, even though the room is sun shiny. Now I have to go to the bathroom. Here comes some guy in white.

Please tell me where the bathroom is. Nothing. He takes me by the arm and pulls me up.

You don’t have to pull me. I’m trying to cooperate. He won’t say anything!

I really have to go to the bathroom. He pulls me through another locked door into a hallway. He stops outside a room that says Treatment Room and knocks on the door. That doctor opens it and takes my other arm. There’s a black table and lots of people standing near it. They look at me like they’ve been waiting for me. Did that guy say to lie down? He’s pushing me and that other guy and his nurse and these other people are pulling at me. Who are these people and why is everyone pushing me and holding my arms and legs and what is he putting on my forehead? It’s something cold and with wires. I’m going to die. I have to get off this table. I can’t help it, I’m screaming. What did he put into my mouth? I can’t breathe.

Where am I? It’s dark here. I feel so sick. My head hurts. Oh, God. I’ve wet my pants! I can’t help it. I’m crying and slobbery and smelly and I don’t know where I am or what’s happened to me. Am I in a jail? I can’t remember! What did I do? I must be so bad. Oh, I hurt. My arms hurt. I gotta find a bathroom. Oh, I can’t even stand up. I’m so dizzy. I’m going to fall. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go. I gotta find a bathroom or go in my pants again. I can crawl. I can see a little bit of light. There’s a door. Maybe it’s a bathroom. It is. I feel so sick. The light hurts but, oh God, my face! There’s red marks on my forehead! My eyes are so red. I don’t look like me! I can’t think. What’s happened to me? I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.

I don’t want to get out of bed or do anything but sleep or just lie here. I don’t know what’s happening but it keeps happening. I don’t know if it’s night or day or how many days I’ve been here. I don’t know what to do when I’m awake. Am I going crazy? I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to see anyone. What if I would cry? What would they do? More shock? Right then? I need to think of something. The ceiling is just white but there are cracks, thin ones. I’ll pretend they are roads. Going where? Think of places to go that aren’t scary. Like out on the ocean, sailing, no, driving in the desert. That’s why the road is lonely. But deserts have no water, maybe snakes. Is that so bad? Maybe not. The sand would be warm though. I can lie down on the warm sand. I can try and remember songs. I can’t remember words but I can sing to myself, hear the tunes. That one that goes, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy . . . ’ I don’t remember any more words. But singing the song helps. Over and over and over. I just have to keep my eyes closed so no one will know I’m awake.

Mostly that same attendant comes and tells me to come see the doctor for another shock treatment, or, to come to the dayroom to eat. When I said I wasn’t hungry, he said I had to or the doctor would be mad. I have to go out to the dayroom. The old ladies just sit at the table. Someone is feeding some of them. Some of them just pick up their food with their hands. I just want to go away and lie down. I’ve got my underpants on still, but I don’t know what happened to my clothes. I look like the other old people. I have a funny gown with ties in back and another with ties in front. I don’t remember when I got them. I guess everyone wears them at the same time to keep covered up. My underwear is the same that I wet. I don’t care. I always feel cold too like the old ladies. The bed is cold. There’s a scratchy sound when I move. There’s plastic under the sheet. The blankets are so thin. I guess we can have a small blanket to put on like a coat. That’s what the old ladies have over their shoulders. I won’t sit in a rocking chair though. That’s so scary.

The attendant tells me I’ve been here 3 weeks. I know I’m getting more and more shock treatments. That man or someone comes in early in the morning. They wake me up and grab me and drag me to the same room. People push down on my arms and legs. The doctor puts the metal on my forehead on both sides. Now he always tells me to lift my head up and then puts a strap thing around the back of my head and in front over the metal things. It pulls on my hair. He says to open my mouth. I think I’m going to die each time. It’s OK. I open my mouth and he sticks the black thing in it. Then I’m out. Nothing. Nothing till I wake up in my bed in the same dark room. Someone must carry me back from the other room each time. I hate to wake up. Most of the time I sleep but when I wake up, I remember where I am now because I hear the old ladies moaning, rocking, the same constant hum. When I look in the mirror I get more upset and want to cry again. I don’t even look like me! My face is always red and broken out with pimples and blackheads, all blotchy and terrible. I don’t know if I even wash or brush my teeth. I can’t remember what I’m doing! I never wash my hair. It’s sticky and itchy. I’m so tired. They just keep coming back and leading me to that room for more shocks. My arms have red blotches on them like finger marks. Why? They hold me down so hard on that black table. I guess that’s why my back hurts. If I don’t open my mouth fast enough they grab my face and pull my mouth open. I can’t help it anymore. I cry and cry. I want to die. I can’t think. I can’t remember anything.

I have my period. It must have started during the night. I don’t think I had cramps but I hurt anyhow. My back hurts. My head always hurts, even my arms and legs sort of hurt. I need something for my period. I’m afraid to ask anyone. There’s the lady who makes beds. I don’t see her much. I have to ask someone. She smiled at me. She looks nice, sort of older like she might have kids. At least she sort of smiles.

Could you tell me how I can get something for my period please?

Of course honey. Do you need a belt or do you want to wear it in your panties. That’s what I do. Just pin them in my panties. Oh, but you can’t have any pins.

Why? I asked without thinking. I forget for a minute that I didn’t think I should say anything that would make anyone mad at me.

Uh, pins are dangerous. They aren’t allowed. How old are you honey?

Almost 12 I think.

Gee, you look older. This place has never had kids here before.

What day is it today? I mean, how long have I been here, do you know?

I don’t know. I only work weekends now. Used to work nights here. Here’s some clean gowns. Looks like you’ll need them. What’s wrong with your skin? You look all red?

I don’t know. I have marks on my arms and legs but I don’t know how I got them.

Oh sorry honey. I know. You’re having the treatments. They have to hold you for the convulsions so you won’t get hurt.

Convulsion? What is it?

Uh, sort of like a fit, like when someone has epilepsy and they jump all over and can hurt themselves by their arms and legs flying all over the place. I guess they have to hold you pretty tight to keep you from getting hurt. They learned that from poor Charlotte down the hall. It broke her back but then she’s an old lady. Sorry honey, I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff but you’ll be fine. Got to go now.

I can put the pads in my pants. But now I can’t wash my underpants out for a while. I don’t care. When I ran them under water and tried to dry them on a towel, they still were cold and wet when I put them back on. It just doesn’t matter.

I’m enough of nothing to be safe, I guess. The doctor said he will take me home after the shock today and pick me up from home for the next time. He said I better do what he says or I’ll be back here. I don’t care. I’m tired. I don’t remember much about anything. I feel sad for these old ladies. I look like them too.

Now the doctor and his nurse pick me up in the mornings 3 times a week and take me for the shocks and then back home in the afternoon. On Saturdays, a tutor starts to come so I can get caught up at school. I have a hard time remembering what I had at school. It’s easier to remember what the teacher is giving me right now.

The doctor said today that it was my last treatment. He said I should go back to school now. So I go back to school. I don’t know what my friends at school know about me. Marsha and Lorraine and Jeannie said they are glad to see me but I look different. I know I do but I can’t care anymore. They say I’m so quiet. That’s the only safe way to be. The guys who are my friends seem scared to see me. I still sleep a lot and the rest of the time try to remember. Most of all, I have to control showing anything how I feel, not ask