I might be paralyzed for my whole life. You go through this whole process without anybody who is supposed to care about you being there.
I didn’t know it, because I can’t feel anything from the waist down, but I had shit the bed. And that’s just humiliating. I mean, there’s another big shame ball right there—no pun intended. Then my arms were strapped down to the side of the table like in
The Cuckoo’s Nest
and they wheel me into another room and put my feet in the stirrups, and all of a sudden I’m givingbirth to a baby. I remember, vaguely, a suctiony kind of emptying out, and a baby is born and I see this unbelievable mass of black hair on this incredibly beautiful reddish-brown baby. The first thing I saw was this really long, sticking-out, crazy, wild black hair like that boxing promoter guy, Don King. That was my baby. Then after I give birth I’m really, really sore because, you know, they gave me an episiotomy. I’m surprised they don’t sew it completely up on teenage Catholic girls, you know? Just sew the whole damn thing up.
So I’m in my room and my roommates from the home came to see me. It was very weird because it’s not something you should be celebrating, but it was like the end of this whole crazy time. The girls gave me flowers and I remember the retarded girl had her baby and she came in the room and talked to me and she brought me a gift. The girls were really very compassionate. I named my baby Raina Elizabeth—Elizabeth after my girlfriend. I did get to hold her for three days. She was beautiful. She had a little tiny heart-shaped mouth, big dark eyes, beautiful reddish-brown skin, and tons and tons of black hair. I held and fed Raina as much as I could. And then on the third day my parents came. I had everything packed. I knew it was the day that I was leaving the hospital and I was leaving the baby in the nursery.
We walked out of the hospital. My dad got in the driver’s seat and my mom got in on the passenger side. I got in the backseat. We always had Chryslers because they were safe cars—they were like boats, you know, huge. So my dad’s way up there driving, totally white-knuckled, and I’m looking out that back window at the hospital. And seeing the view of the hospital getting smaller and smaller and smaller, I flipped out—it was total, 100 percent, ripped terror, wailing, screaming, crying—and nobody said a word. My mother didn’t even turn around. I could tell she was crying because I could see her shoulders going up and down. My dad was white. He was like a statue driving the car. I just had that kind of cry that was a giant, wailing, screaming, weeping, until you just are totally crumpled in and your whole body is crying.
It was the beginning of it being invisible. It was never, ever, brought up again. It was never talked about—not once, not ever. I was never asked, “How are you? How are you feeling?” I don’t even remember the ride home. I must have gone unconscious inside.
I went back and graduated from school. Then a friend of mine had a 1950 Pontiac Chief, one of those fat cars that had the Indian chief on the hood, and he was going to Aspen, Colorado. He was taking five friends and there was room for one more person in the car. This was the summer of ’69 and there was this rumor that the Beatles were gonna be in Aspen, so I said, “Definitely, sign me up.” I stayed away thirty years.
When I was forty years old, I initiated a search and when I was forty-six I met Raina. When I initiated the search, my daughter from a subsequent marriage was part of the whole thing. I told her the story when she was about thirteen or fourteen in the sex talk. I said, “There’s another reason I want you to be really well informed, because this is my story.…” I shared the whole thing with her. So I got the nonidentifying information about Raina and did the registry thing. I called my mother and I said, “Look, I have to talk to you about something that
I didn’t know it, because I can’t feel anything from the waist down, but I had shit the bed. And that’s just humiliating. I mean, there’s another big shame ball right there—no pun intended. Then my arms were strapped down to the side of the table like in
The Cuckoo’s Nest
and they wheel me into another room and put my feet in the stirrups, and all of a sudden I’m givingbirth to a baby. I remember, vaguely, a suctiony kind of emptying out, and a baby is born and I see this unbelievable mass of black hair on this incredibly beautiful reddish-brown baby. The first thing I saw was this really long, sticking-out, crazy, wild black hair like that boxing promoter guy, Don King. That was my baby. Then after I give birth I’m really, really sore because, you know, they gave me an episiotomy. I’m surprised they don’t sew it completely up on teenage Catholic girls, you know? Just sew the whole damn thing up.
So I’m in my room and my roommates from the home came to see me. It was very weird because it’s not something you should be celebrating, but it was like the end of this whole crazy time. The girls gave me flowers and I remember the retarded girl had her baby and she came in the room and talked to me and she brought me a gift. The girls were really very compassionate. I named my baby Raina Elizabeth—Elizabeth after my girlfriend. I did get to hold her for three days. She was beautiful. She had a little tiny heart-shaped mouth, big dark eyes, beautiful reddish-brown skin, and tons and tons of black hair. I held and fed Raina as much as I could. And then on the third day my parents came. I had everything packed. I knew it was the day that I was leaving the hospital and I was leaving the baby in the nursery.
We walked out of the hospital. My dad got in the driver’s seat and my mom got in on the passenger side. I got in the backseat. We always had Chryslers because they were safe cars—they were like boats, you know, huge. So my dad’s way up there driving, totally white-knuckled, and I’m looking out that back window at the hospital. And seeing the view of the hospital getting smaller and smaller and smaller, I flipped out—it was total, 100 percent, ripped terror, wailing, screaming, crying—and nobody said a word. My mother didn’t even turn around. I could tell she was crying because I could see her shoulders going up and down. My dad was white. He was like a statue driving the car. I just had that kind of cry that was a giant, wailing, screaming, weeping, until you just are totally crumpled in and your whole body is crying.
It was the beginning of it being invisible. It was never, ever, brought up again. It was never talked about—not once, not ever. I was never asked, “How are you? How are you feeling?” I don’t even remember the ride home. I must have gone unconscious inside.
I went back and graduated from school. Then a friend of mine had a 1950 Pontiac Chief, one of those fat cars that had the Indian chief on the hood, and he was going to Aspen, Colorado. He was taking five friends and there was room for one more person in the car. This was the summer of ’69 and there was this rumor that the Beatles were gonna be in Aspen, so I said, “Definitely, sign me up.” I stayed away thirty years.
When I was forty years old, I initiated a search and when I was forty-six I met Raina. When I initiated the search, my daughter from a subsequent marriage was part of the whole thing. I told her the story when she was about thirteen or fourteen in the sex talk. I said, “There’s another reason I want you to be really well informed, because this is my story.…” I shared the whole thing with her. So I got the nonidentifying information about Raina and did the registry thing. I called my mother and I said, “Look, I have to talk to you about something that
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