Tea and Reverie

Tea and Reverie
Poems written during morning tea, by Marian M. Fay

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Living One Handed in a Two Handed World (Introduction)



I was born in the year 1955 into a German/English/Irish Catholic family. It was a difficult delivery. I had what was considered a caul over my nose and mouth. It is like a veil or membrane over a baby’s face, which happens rarely but supposedly means I had a special destiny. I guess God had a plan for me before I even started. Not only was I born with a caul, I was a C-section, which was not commonplace back then especially for Roman Catholics. My mother had to fight for my life as well as her own. Well, I obviously survived the first few hours because, thanks to God, here I am 61 years later with the normal aches and pains of aging.

I must have been born with no off switch. Most of my toddler pictures showed me running with my father behind me holding his arms out to catch me. He was probably making sure I didn’t end up in the street. My goal when I was about 3 years old, was keeping the hula hoop up and twirling around my waist, and standing up on the swings in our yard swinging. I was a happy and very active child. Then towards the end of my third year of life, I got polio. I didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t get up and run around and I couldn’t raise my arms. I was scared and very frustrated. I remember crying out of fear and mother thought I was in pain. I guess the yelling threw her off. I don’t remember any pain. I just remember being frustrated. I couldn’t move on my own. I remember being roughly carried out of the house by strangers who put me in a van and took me to a strange hospital where I stayed for about three months more or less. So, I suppose I was a bit traumatized.

My family was there every day to visit. I still remember the only food I ate came from home, even though some kind elderly lady with a gold tooth tried daily to get me to eat tasteless hospital food. Try as I might I couldn't eat hospital food, much less identify it. If it weren't for the Franco American Spaghetti  my Aunt Ella and Grandma Hosfeld brought almost every day in a thermos, I wouldn't have survived. Staying in the hospital also disrupted my bedtime routine. My father would come every night to tuck me in and say my prayers but what I really wanted was to be held and told everything was going to be alright. I would cry hysterically when he left. When the nurses told him about it he made sure I knew he would be back. Boy, was I learning how to wield power over my situation or what?

Polio attacked my upper body. I could still move my legs not to mention my head and my mouth were still working. That gets me in trouble still to this day. I slowly regained use of my left arm but only the shoulder, wrist, and three fingers of my right arm regained partial strength. I should also mention that when I regained control of my left arm, I figured out how to put the side of the crib down. But, because I overestimated my balance, instead of successfully climbing out of the crib, I fell out and cracked my skull. Special destiny? I think not! At least it didn't feel that way at the time. But the devil couldn’t keep this kid down for long. Obviously, I lived to cause my parents more emotional triumph and trauma for years to come. I also learned what "Livibng One Handed In A Two Handed World", was like.




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