It
started with a bottle of baby aspirin.
I
recently experienced my first high grade fever and my mom gave me an orange
baby aspirin. I loved the orange-y
way they tasted; like Tang but condensed into a tiny flavor button that
exploded when you bit into it. I
let the pinky-orange tablet sit on my tongue until it was at the perfect stage,
just between mushy and powdery, then with reckless abandoned, I would smash it
between my back molars. I decided
one fateful Saturday afternoon in 1974 that if one baby aspirin had so much
flavor and was so much fun, then, well, more would be even better. By the end of my mushing and biting and
savoring and swallowing adventure, I had consumed the entire bottle of Bayer's
Baby Aspirin. My mom knocked on
the bathroom door. I had been
sitting on the toilet chewing then getting up to look at the pinky-orange glob
on my tongue before swallowing. I
felt sick. My stomach rolled
around like a Kit Kat wrapper in a windstorm. My head, in an ironic twist, my six year old self was not
quite old enough to fully appreciate, throbbed with one of the worst headaches
I had ever experienced. I opened
the bathroom door. My mom stood,
framed in the doorway, her yellow sundress with white and brown overlapping
circles shimmered under my gaze. She leaned towards me, eyebrows furrowed, blue
eyes crinkled. “You don’t look
good, Cristien. How bad is
it?” I slumped onto the bathroom
floor unable to answer her. She
saw the empty bottle of baby aspirin on the counter. “Did you eat the entire bottle?” I tried to nod but was
pretty sure my head was not cooperating. “Yes...” I finally eked out. “Crap.” She replied.
I
was leaning against my mother’s shoulder as we sat in the emergency room, both hands on my stomach in a vain
attempt to stop what felt like a roller coaster competition for: Worst. Ride.
Ever. My mom absently patted my back.
Then, he appeared. I looked
up from my miserable, nauseous, throbbing, aching, shaking, moaning state of
existence, and saw him. I sat up,
tried to smooth my sweat-matted hair.
He looked me in the eye, put a soft warm hand on my shoulder and said,
“Hey there, seems like you like those aspirin.” I nodded, smiled and felt even more flushed, which I hadn’t
thought was possible given my feverish state. His voice was husky and full of concern. His green eyes sparkled with just a
hint of a smile. When he took his hand away from my shoulder, I put my smaller
hand over the spot, letting the lingering warmth seep into my palm.
The
rest of the afternoon was a blur of efficient nurses in white snapping gadgets
together, poking me with sharp metal objects, cold metal tables and the taste
of strawberries when a mask was placed gently over my mouth. I woke up, lying flat on my back
encased in a million baby blue polyester blend hospital blankets. My stomach felt like someone had
vacuumed it, which as I found out later was not too far from what actually
happened. Every inch of my body
ached. Even my fingernails felt sore.
I looked over and saw my mom through the side rails on my bed reading a
magazine. The doctor came in. “How are you feeling? he asked. I nodded and a thousand pebbles crashed
against one another in my head creating electric blue and white sparks that
blurred my vision. “Ok.” I tried
to smile and look brave. He smiled
back at me, put his hand on my forehead and I leaned into it like a cat does
when you pet it. I wanted to stay
that way forever. “Looks like you
are feeling a little better.” He said as he moved his hand from my forehead to
my shoulder, swiping his small grey pen-light into my eyes. “You’re all set to go home, but no more
aspirin for you young lady.” I
nodded, pebbles clanging as I silently glowed under the words, young lady.
The
rest of that day and for much of the following week, I recalled the feel of his
hand on my shoulder and the concern in his voice. My parents, barely on the other side of adolescence
themselves when my sister and I were born, were overwhelmed with raising twins
and getting my dad through graduate school. Because money was tight, they worked as RA’s or residential
associates in a doom filled with over 30 hormone-raging physicist-in-training
and were constantly being called to put out a small chemical explosion, or help
disassemble the motorcycle that had been built in the women’s bathroom, or
remove the still functioning and ungodly heavy cannon that had mysteriously
been dropped into the wading pool.
In other words, my parents did not have a lot of time for my sister and
me. This was fantastic in some
ways. We were the only children on
campus and we got to run around the entire 100 plus acre grounds unsupervised,
playing for hours, sometimes entire days in the various dorms, auditoriums,
libraries, the wading pool and enormous olive tree grove. I got to watch someone light a cannon
full of gunpowder and paper mache on exam day in order to startle the masses of
students slumped over test papers. I helped students prank a dorm resident when
he was on vacation by rearranging his entire dorm room using glue and basic
geometry so that the ceiling became the new floor. It was fun getting woken up by giggling grad students at 3am
so you can help them TP the dean’s residence or fill the wading pool with
hundreds of gold fish. It was
amazing when the students who lived in our building constructed a haunted house
just for my sister and me. I got
to help build contraptions that shot small household items into space. No one challenged me when I took long
serrated knives from the cafeteria or Bunsen burners from the chemistry lab to
use for my daylong archeological digs.
I parachuted from the top of the one of the graduate housing dorm room
roofs with two bed sheets tied together.
When one of the dozens of students who looked after my sister and me was
busy studying or making out in the TA’s lounge, I learned how to nurse my own
bruises and soothe myself when I became scared.
Despite
the excitement and daily sense of adventure my life had at the time, I secretly
longed for a mom or dad who would hover over me at bedtime asking inquisitive
question after question. I ached
for an adult who would sit next to me on Saturday morning to watch cartoons, or
brush my hair while we ate popcorn and listened to the radio. When I got hurt, my mom or dad would
ask, “How bad is it Cristien?” As in, do we need to take you to get stitches?
To be fair, I got a lot of stitches.
Instead of a clinical assessment, I wanted someone to rush over, put a
warm soft palm on my forehead and gush, “ Are you ok?” So, when Mr. Doctor, as I called him,
leaned over me, a concerned look creasing his forehead, a slight smile curving
the edges of his mouth, and put warm soft hand on my forehead while asking me
“How are you feeling Cristien?” I
was hooked. I wanted more.
The
rest of the week was spent plotting.
How does a six year old get admitted to the emergency room on a Saturday
afternoon without getting hurt too badly?
How do you assess the dangerous-to-dumb ratio of an idea? How do you
know the where the tipping point is between a brilliant plan and a
could-get-you-killed-stupid scheme? How do you know the scenario you picture in
your imagination will actually come to fruition? I didn’t. But I
had to try. The memory of those
green eyes, soft palms and the way he thoughtfully warmed his stethoscope
before placing it on my shoulder blades were powerful. I couldn't resist. I fine tuned a plan.
Being
someone who enjoyed exploring the world through my senses, and being willing
to, on a dare, taste just about anything that smelled good, I came up with the
perfect idea. The time I drank whole
bottles of vanilla and almond extract I felt woozy but the burn the liquid made
as it poured down my esophagus was tolerable. When I drank all the cherry cough syrup in one sitting, I
felt ok, sleepy all the next day, but generally fine. What else smelled good enough to drink and would make me
sick? By Friday, I had my
answer. Gasoline. I loved the way it smelled. I loved the tangy, bitterness of
gasoline vapors when they wafted up my nose. Perfect. By
Saturday morning, my good idea was turning out great. I brushed my hair, smoothed my bangs, and after asking my
mom to help me put on my favorite outfit, I was ready. I stopped to look at myself in my
bedroom mirror. Ok, I thought as I
checked out my 6 year old reflection staring back at me; my purple, brown and
green checkered pant-suit look good, my vest was buttoned up, the bell bottom
of my pants hung just below the heels of my worn in brown cowboy boots. I even wore my appaloosa belt with its
dappled horse-head buckle. I
sauntered out of our dorm room apartment, cowboy boots clipping on the
sidewalk, the bright Saturday morning sunshine warming my shoulders. I walked to the parking lot where I had
previously stashed the bit of hose I lifted from the chemistry lab earlier in
the week. I unscrewed the gas cap
on my dad’s blue Volvo, savoring the tangy waft of vapors, stuck in the hose,
and with a deep inhale and satisfied smile, sucked in the sweet smelling
gas. The last thing I remember as
I slumped against the Volvo’s rear tire trying not to get any of the gasoline
I’d spit back up on my purple, brown and green pants was my dad leaning over
me. “Cristien, did you just drink
gas? Jesus Christ. How bad is it?”
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