ABSTRACT
It’s January 21st, 1963-one of the coldest days Chicago has ever had. My mom is back at the hospital and it looks like the labor pains are for real this time. I’m born-at last! The third girl, only my parents are both excited. Everything seems healthy. I have all my fingers, all my toes. My arms and legs are healthy, my vision seems fine and I am eating without much prompting. My mom can finally relax after many months of worried prayers that her baby would be healthy. (You’ll have to remember that this was the era of “DES” babies; only no one knew exactly what was causing all those terrible birth defects at this time, people were just plain scared that their babies would be affected.)
It’s Autumn 1963. President Kennedy has been fatally wounded, the weather is getting chilly again, and I continue to be a screaming child, who is failing to thrive. I’m back in the hospital again, with the nurses taking turns rocking me (hhhmmm, wonder if there was an OT on staff doing some intervention?!) . . . not that I’d fall asleep. I just kept on screaming. Food allergies, the doctor decided. I’m on goat’s milk now and doing so much better. I’ve gotten this little bulging tummy and my skin isn’t red anymore. But I continue to have a lot of difficulty relating calmly to my environment. It’s hard for others to interact with me. I’m not always the type of child people rush over to gush over-especially when I am screaming.
