Sweet Dreams (are Made of Smell Memories)

In my earlier post, Smells like Bubblegum, Anesthesia and Methadone, I touched on some smell memories that I was encouraged to explore deeper. The smell of memories themselves, the pre-op waiting room/playroom at the Children's Hospital versus the children's play area next to the security guard at the drug treatment center. 

How it started – six of my ten surgeries took place at the Children's Hospital. The ones from age 4 to age 7, left an indelible imprint. I'd get all geared up in circus-covered pajamas/hospital gown. I'd have conversations with surgeons and my dad before being whisked away to the pre-op waiting room, which was also a playroom because it was a children's hospital. It's a weird feeling being absolutely terrified about what you know is coming, not knowing when it's going to be your turn, and being given toys to play with and stuff to ride around on, while you wait to go under the knife again and again. I can feel the fear as I write that. My small body trembled, hoping this one wouldn't be too bad, and wishing for it to just be over so I could go home and play instead. 

Similarly, every morning of my childhood, before school, I would go with my dad to the drug treatment center and wait in the children's play area next to the security guard while my dad got his methadone. That's the first place I ever remember seeing a gun in person. It's also where I learned that junkies were dangerous and that I wasn't safe inside or outside of this building. Meanwhile, I was expected to play and have fun while I waited for Dad to do his business. I can feel the fear as I write that too. 

Where it went – I spent so much time in the Children's Hospital, that I took karate lessons there when I was in the fourth grade, and I joined a handicap sports program to ski every winter. I went skiing with the Children's Hospital every winter from first grade through fifth grade. I only quit going skiing because I wanted to spend time with my friends from school. What I remember most about Children's Hospital karate is that I couldn't kick very high because of how spastic my legs are, which is still a challenge. I also met a kid who'd been shot in the face but survived and that was probably the scariest thing I'd ever seen because you could still see the indent in his head where the bullet hit him. On the ski bus to the slopes, I met a lot of kids with Cerebral Palsy. I met a lot of kids who couldn't talk very much, who couldn't walk like I could, some who were paraplegics, and some who were quadriplegics. This program gave each of us the opportunity to belong and to achieve. I left the ski program because I wanted to spend time with my friends from school and around the neighborhood, which is something I regret now from a physical standpoint, but I also understand that that was kind of the beginning of me wanting to distance myself from a life dominated by CP. I was not comfortable in my own skin because I got made fun of every day for how I walked and moved. I knew then, like I know now, that I had it way easier than some of my peers with CP and I also knew that as much as I didn't like being othered by people, I was equally capable of othering people. 

Likewise, I spent so much time accompanying my dad to the drug treatment center, that I can tell you exactly where it is to this day without a GPS or directions. I can tell you what the inside of the building looked like, I can tell you what the parking lot looked like, I can tell you the many hours of fearful thoughts I had waiting for someone to try and rob my dad of his methadone because that was a concern of his that he didn't mind communicating to his children. I was on high alert all the time and every time I was at that clinic. I learned more about drugs and drug addiction in the first four years of my life than I hope most kids ever know. I knew my dad was an addict and that he'd always be an addict, I knew the other people at the center were addicts too, and I knew that methadone was a risky substance to have in one's possession. Most of my closest friends are either learning these stories for the first time now or they didn't learn them until my late twenties when I needed their help. It was okay to talk openly about addiction in my house and with my father but not outside of the house. I wasn't supposed to talk too much about that. He didn't like talking much about it either, including in church groups, even though his addiction is how he got “saved,” and I realized my dad struggled to belong because of his choices the same way I struggled to belong because of my CP. I was an outsider raised by an outsider. I have never felt like I belonged to this world. 

How it's going – after I put Children's Hospital karate and ski programs behind me, I didn't step foot in that Children's Hospital again until I was eighteen years old. I went back with a high school classmate who'd been going there for their own reasons for some time and I knew how long I'd made myself invisible because it was one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life just to walk the halls of a place I once knew well. I went another eight years before returning again. Interestingly, it was my work in Youth Ministry that led me back through those doors. I would take a group of about a dozen high school students to a place I'd spent much of my childhood to do some community service and bring some joy to the children that were spending their time there. That's as close as I would get to acknowledging my CP story until the first time I was asked to talk to a group about living with Cerebral Palsy. 

Coincidentally, I also went a really long time without visiting the drug treatment center that I used to go to every day with my father. It's been thirteen years since I stepped through those doors because the course of my life changed dramatically, but the smells and the memories are with me every day. The fact that most of my peers growing up, well into adulthood didn't know that my dad was an addict was not a mistake. It was pretty intentional. There might have been little bits and pieces that were said over the years to others outside of the know, but for the most part I knew my dad didn't want me to talk about it. He was really worried about people knowing if he was in possession of methadone or not because it made him paranoid to have that responsibility. But I also think he didn't like the stigma of being a junkie. I mean he kind of wore the recovering addict thing with pride in some ways, but also if you got close enough you could feel the shame. I knew if Jesus was the real deal, then the kingdom of God was a place where everyone from disabled people like me, to addicts like my parents, and other marginalized people had a place to belong because that message is the opposite of the world I know and experience. 

The only reason I tell this part of the story today is because my dad is gone. If he were still here, I would likely continue to keep his secrets. But I carried this burden, of being the child of a drug addict and an alcoholic, and for many years I carried him. I became an adult long before I was an adult. I missed parts of my childhood and youth, while learning how to be a codependent caretaker. As a result, it's impossible for me to separate what it's like to live with CP and what it's like to have addicts for parents because I was navigating both at the same time. I was learning where I did and didn't belong in this world, while seeing where they did and didn't belong in this world too. For all those who wonder why I'm so jaded and cynical about just about everything, look no further than right here. I've received one message loud and clear my entire life, that thing you want is not for you. You don't belong here. You're different. Your family is different. You are other. I write these stories to combat that message, if nothing else for myself.

In the stories to come, I'll share more about belonging and feeling like an outsider in pretty much everything I've ever done.