Rage Can Kill You

First it was Human Trafficking Awareness Month, which I got through mostly by dissociating.  I thought I wasn’t, but I was.  My past homelessness and survival prostitution still haunts me, and although I have forgiven myself, I can’t forgive my parents for not rescuing me, nor can I forgive the shameless bastards who raped me when I was a naive little girl trying to survive on the streets.

Then it was Child Abuse Awareness Month.  I really thought I might get through that in one piece, but after the pieces on emotional and psychological and verbal abuse started coming hard and fast, I have to say I took a pounding.  I grew up with a relentlessly abusive mother and an absent, codependent father who played the sympathetic one and passed me his handkerchief while explaining that Mom wasn’t feeling well, had her period (he described her as a “wildcat in a hatbox” when she was menstruating), or any of a million excuses for her evil behavior.

Since my chief drive as a recovering Adult Child of Abusive Parents is still to try to mollify my mother and protect my now-disabled father from her wrath, I moved to the US from my beloved Jerusalem to try to help them in their old age.  He is 88 and she is 86, although she claims to be 85.

They live in what my dear friend R_ in Jerusalem affectionately calls “East Bumfuck.”  Their house is in a remote hollow, and the road leading to it is so steep that the UPS man refuses to drive down there–he parks at the top and walks down, except in the winter when their access road is a bobsled run and utterly impassible.  Then he leaves the package at the post office, which makes the postmistress frantic because they’re not supposed to do that and what if she gets inspected etc., but there’s nothing to be done about it.

Because of the nature of the road and the ice in the winter, they are often housebound for weeks.  Several years ago when Dad was still healthy he slipped coming down it and broke three ribs.  My mom broke her ankle on it.  My dad broke his wrist on it.

The power goes out frequently.  Since Dad has been losing his balance and falling a lot, I pitched a fit about the kerosene lamps they used to put around everywhere when they were younger, and they finally caved in and got a generator, which has made life easier in that area.

I moved here in a panic, in the winter of 2010-11, when there was storm after storm and they were completely snowed in.  My mother was putting on ice cleats and crawling up the hill to gather firewood.  My dad tried to help her and slipped on the ice and got another of the three concussions he racked up that winter.

I had been calling all the neighbors to please go and check on them, since if anyone asks my mother if she needs help she will say no, whether she does  or not.  Please, please, walk down there and make sure they’re all right and have what they need.  Since they only have one neighbor, I didn’t have many to call, and he never did go down there.  So I packed up my house in Jerusalem and three weeks later was on a plane to East Bumfuck.

I had a hard time getting there because it had just snowed three feet, so I rented the biggest SUV I could find and put the fucker in four wheel drive with the towing gear on and managed to get down into “the hole,” as the UPS drivers call it.  They were in pretty sad shape, and mighty glad to see me.  I had brought groceries and eight gallons of spring water, since the electricity was out and they didn’t have the generator yet.

Well, that was two and a half years ago, and the winters since then have been mild, and my dad’s dementia seems to have stabilized.  And now is the time to start talking about the fact that East Bumfuck is no longer an appropriate place for them to live.  My mother has a million reasons why they can’t move, which I will not enumerate here.  None of them is insurmountable.

Then comes the question, where will they move to?  Their first thought is to move to the nearest small city, which is a lovely artsy place with all the amenities and museums and theatres and lovely architecture.  I remind my mother that Dad is not going to get better, and she is not going to be able to handle him herself for much longer, since she is no spring chicken.

“Well if we move to Hip City, what will you do?”

“I will go home to Jerusalem.  I miss my home.

“But this is your home!”

“No, mother, this is YOUR home.  My home is Jerusalem, and my soul cries for her every day, all the time.”

Her mouth twists with disgust.  I get triggered.

Anger starts to brew.  What does she expect me to do, spend the rest of my life taking care of her?  Dad won’t be around much longer, although his own father lingered in a pitiable state till the age of 91.

I get hold of myself.  ”I’ve sent for a packet from Lovely Hillside Retirement Community, where you can live independently until you need more help.”  She is a geriatric social worker and knows exactly what I mean, and knows the place.

“We can’t afford it.”

“I believe you can.”  I outline the plan.

“But what will you do?”

“I am going back to Jerusalem, and will visit frequently.”

Silence.

It’s obvious that HER plan for me is to be the caregiver, so that she can live the way she wants, with no regard to my life, my needs, my health…

Anger starts to brew.  I will not go into the childhood abuse issues that started coming up, because I don’t want to go there again.

Anger brewed into rage.  I live in a separate building, so there was no chance of confrontation, thank G-d.  Rage filled me, overcame me, and every time the sonovabitchin’ trains across the river blew their infernal horns, I was screaming with them.

I started feeling exhausted.  My exercise tolerance was for shit.  I started having these vague, vapory headaches, and I am not a “headache person.”

My blood pressure has been creeping up in recent months, to 130′s over 80′s, which is not good for a person who usually hangs out in the 120/60 range.  I felt so weird that I bought one of those home BP monitors:  150/100!  Fuck, I’m gonna die, and it’s all because I feel trapped by my guilt at not being able to fulfill my idea of filial piety without ruining my not-so-good health and sabotaging my future, which I hope will contain a home and a partner.  I went to my internist, and now have yet another pill to take twice daily.

At this point, my plan is to get them into someplace appropriate for their now and future needs, which is going to be a shrek in itself, since their house is a fine art museum which will have to be turned into money in order for them to afford the new place.  The property will be sold, so that means no inheritance at all for me because they failed to plan for retirement.

And they planned to use me as an unpaid caregiver, room and board included of course, with my social security for pin money.  But now I’ve come and thrown a monkey-wrench into the works, by coming to the realization that I deserve to have a life.  They also deserve to have a life, a pleasant and comfortable life.  But I’m a person too, and I sure don’t plan to live out the best years I’ve got left caring for people who made my whole life hell, and would continue to do so, if I let them.

Flashback: TRIGGER WARNING

TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT

Why is it that the tiniest thing will set me off spinning out of orbit?  I went over to Facebook to look up a rabbi I want to visit when I am in Jerusalem next time, and there on her wall was a comment from that guy I had an affair with last year.  Well, I had high hopes (actually was completely convinced) that it was “the real thing,” but it turned out to be an affair.  So I though I was over it, and was really quite proud of myself for getting out of an abusive relationship before it became addictive (yes, I have a tendency to become addicted to abusive relationships.  Has to do with the way I was raised, according to my psychologist).  Various anniversaries of benchmarks in the relationship came and went, and some I made note of in a casual way and was pleased that I didn’t have a reaction to them, and some I sort of reacted to but not badly and talked it out with my therapist.

Enter Facebook, that double-edged sword of connectedness, whether you want it or not.

I saw his name, and his comment, and a sly comment to a former lover of his who had also commented…..and suddenly (flashback) he was in my bed getting ready to force his cock down my throat, and I freaked out, because unbeknownst to him I had been raped that way, and besides he should have asked before doing something so invasive, and he stopped, and I thought oh, what a good man because he stopped.  Never thought of it that the fact that he would do such a thing “on our first date” was an outrageous disrespect of my SELF, and what I should have done was to throw his ass out of my house and my life then and there.

But I didn’t.  And why?  Because my self image is still where it was forty years ago when I was living on the street for a living and taking pot luck.  Telling some dickhead “no” was not an option.  So that might be why, when push comes to shove,  my reflex is to thank the bastard for not violating me.  For not raping me.

There had been signs, during the long-distance phase of our relationship, that he wanted what he wanted, and objected to my having my own priorities.  But I ignored them and pretended they didn’t exist, for the most part, except for one extreme boundary violation that sent me to bed for three days with a violent PTSD reaction.  But I got over that one too, and soldiered on with the relationship.

Fast forward a few months, and I was in his bed, halfway around the world.  We had just lain down, no contact yet really, and he grabs my hand and pushes it toward his cock, without asking, without any tenderness at all.  That triggered me bigtime. because how many times has that happened to me in the past, against my will or without my wanting it?  I drew back my hand.  Angered, he then grabbed my wrist and forced my hand downward.  I ripped my hand out of his grasp and laid it on his belly.  I should have read him the riot act and gone to sleep on the couch, and taken a cab out in the morning, but instead, “You know,” I whispered in my best whore voice,” you’ll like it better if I do it my own way.”

“Go to hell with your fucking game-playing!” he said, and rolled over, farted, and went to sleep.  I was left shaking, in a cold sweat.  The next morning I packed my bags, but I didn’t leave yet.  I tried to talk to him about the sexual stuff, but he just shouted at me that I was playing games and would not engage with me.

I stayed another week.  We didn’t have sex at all after that.  I was constantly reprimanded: I left the faucet dripping; I left foot prints in the bathtub; I used the wrong knife to cut up fruit (that was a big one, precipitating a screaming fit on his part), I this, I that.  So, since I hadn’t unpacked my bags, I arranged a ride to the other end of the country.   As I was leaving, he staged a scene:

“Are you leaving, just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you really want to leave it this way?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll keep in touch, right, we’ll keep this dialogue going, won’t we?”

To this one, I lied “Yes,” because I knew that if I said no he would launch into something that would keep me standing at the door when all I wanted was to walk through it and be gone.

I wonder now, whether I have the capacity to identify a truly good man.  I met a few, during my time on the streets, but they belonged to somebody else.  I’ve met a few since then, but ditto, married or in a relationship.  I think I might be able to see one, but so far my longing for someone to fit the picture I have in my mind and my heart has got me into more trouble than I can begin to describe.  I think the factor of unavailability helps me to see the goodness in a man, because my subconscious believes that a good man is not for me.  Therefore the attractive ones are the “bad boys” who abuse me and do me wrong.

There are exited prostitutes who manage to focus on the nice, sweet guys, I guess, from what I’ve read.  And yes, I did have encounters with nice, sweet guys, and all of them were married, and I don’t know what they wanted with me in the first place, but there you go.  Unfortunately, my life was peppered with rapes of different kinds for so many years, that it’s hard for me to disengage from them enough to pick a guy who is not a brute.  I sometimes fantasize about having a relationship with, say, a paraplegic, someone for whom sex is impossible, but then I remember that all abuse is not sexual, not by a long shot, and it would be just my luck to get into a relationship with someone who was platonically abusive.

I hate to think of living the rest of my years alone, aging and dying alone with no one to share the “golden years (hah!)” with.  Getting old is not for the faint of heart, said my grandmother, crazy as a bat but wise in her way.  But now that I have become a true recluse, I have no idea how to meet a truly good man to share life with.  An interesting one, with quirks I find endearing.  I’d like one who loved me for who I am, craziness and all, who respected and even adored me, and made love fully in mutual agreement.  Is that too much to ask?

Earth Day, And I Am Alive And Well

Earth Day  has always been a challenge for me.  Some of you may be old enough to remember the very first Earth Day, April 22, 1970.  It was a big deal: there had been an environmental consciousness movement rumbling beneath the earth’s crust, and suddenly it broke through in fire and smoke into a real above-ground popular movement with a “Day” all its own!

But that’s not what was happening for me.  I was a misfit 16-year-old, lonely and depressed, and somebody liked my legs, and I got dragged into a dark musty basement and violently raped.  The physical and psychological (not to mention sexual, oh no) consequences have followed me like an unwanted companion all of my life.

Hence, every April 22 since 1970, that would be 42 of them not counting this one, I have had a relapse of the off-the-charts PTSD symptoms that I got courtesy of the events of that day, plus a large dose of depression to go with them.

But.

This year I have been hard at work writing my novel, which is based on the events of that day and the seven months following it.  I have written that scene many times, minutely, going over and over it to make it perfect.  I have submitted it to a few contests as a short short fiction piece, and had it rejected because it was too graphic.  Victory!  I am not pulling punches.  I am not turning away in fear or disgust.  I am writing it like it is, like it was.

And today is once again April 22nd, “The Unhappiest Day of the Year,” as I used to dub it.

But guess what:  I’m not unhappy!  I’m not keyed up with the tension of waiting for the “big one,” the giant wave of PTSD to hit, pulling me under and keeping me inundated until it decides to leave me bedraggled and panting on the sands of release.

I just feel normal.

I grant you, I am a little suspicious of this, but I’m going with it, you betcha.  If this means that all of the agony of describing that day in living color time and time again has allowed it to flow out of my head via the miracle of touch-typing, then I thank all the gods and goddesses there are, even the ones I don’t know about.

Happy Earth Day, people.

Sometimes A Scream

Photo on 2013-04-20 at 21.37

 

Sometimes a scream

Gets stuck behind

My breastbone

It’s the one for when

I gave my dog away

130 pounds of

Black Alsatian sweetness

He didn’t like my boyfriend

I should have kept the dog

That dog knew my heart

And now my heart is hurt

And that scream, stuck behind

My breastbone

Has no way to get out

Sometimes a scream

Gets jammed in my windpipe

In my voicebox, really.

It’s the one for when

I closed the office door

For the last time:

Children’s Health Care

Office Closed.

I locked that door myself

But I left something inside

A chunk of bleeding flesh

It looks like a piece of my liver,

The one that is stuck in my windpipe

Trying to scream.

Sometimes a scream

Struggles with my lips,

As I fill the compartments

Of my medication boxes

One, two, three, seven

Pills for tonight

More for the morning

All to keep me from

Screaming and screaming and screaming.

PTSD TRIGGERED!

As I write this my hands are shaking.  There’s a jigger of good bourbon at my left elbow, and hopefully Noga the Wonderdog  will decide to hop up under my right.  I’ve just downed my evening med cocktail, plus an extra milligram of Ativan, plus a extra 5 mg of sleeping pill.  I hope to G-d they work, and soon.

Monster Mother has been working her poison.  It’s very subtle and mostly accomplished with tone of voice and a twist of the face, a sarcastic remark, a minimization of something I find important, or an outright barb.  That’s not so subtle after all, is it?

This time is was merely that I had forgotten I have a therapy appointment on Thursday, so I couldn’t give her the day off from taking care of Dad.  ”Why don’t you make up your mind?” was the irritable remark that set me off.  I was carrying in her copious number of plastic bags from Walmart when she said that, and I reflexively rattled the bags to cover up the fact that I was shouting “You fucking bitch!”  I think she heard me anyway, but good.

Poor Dad is triggered too.  I sat with him while he ate his lunch yesterday, so that Monster could go out shopping, and a bit of the orange he was eating dropped onto his sweatshirt, making a stain.  He panicked.  Oh, he said, I am so clumsy.  I should have been more careful.  I am such a slob.  Now this is language that I have never in my life heard from his mouth until recently when he has been confined to a wheelchair and completely dependent on you-know-who except when I am there.  And why am I not there more often?  Because if I was, I would drive my car off of one of the many handy cliffs that the Blue Ridge has to offer.

I asked Dad, “Are you upset that your orange landed on your sweatshirt, which will go in the wash tomorrow?”  ”No,” he said.  ”Then who is it that gets upset if you drop a bit of food on yourself?”  ”Someone else,” he said.  ”Do you get upset about it?” he asked me.

“No, I just think it’s normal.  It doesn’t upset me at all.”  ”Oh.  Then we know who gets upset.”

I am 100% sure that she is verbally and emotionally abusing him, just the way she has done to me all of my life.  He has started to say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for transgressions such as dropping his napkin or drooling on his front.

And she is the reigning narcissist, who is triumphantly happy to finally have everything her own way.  It’s chilling to see it in action. I’m going to have to write a more cogent essay about this, as the drugs are starting to take effect.

What triggered me, other than the Me-Me Monster’s ugly mug, is all the reading I’ve been doing on Narcissistic Personality Disorder, the havoc it can wreak on the next generation, and the panic regarding the fact that even though I’ve been working with shrinks since my son was a 5 month old fetus to try to prevent my behaving toward him as my mother behaved toward me, there still might be some spill-over to feel guilty about.

The drugs are taking hold, and I am going to have a little bit to eat before blessed Nepenthe folds me in her arms and takes me down, down, down…

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Verbal and Psychological Abuse

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

“You’re nothing.”  ”You’re useless.”  ”You’re shit.”  ”Can’t you do anything right?”  ’Well if you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you.”  ”You couldn’t find your ass with both hands and a flashlight.  (laughter)”  ”You’re too sensitive.”  ”Grow some skin/a thicker skin.”  ”Fat ass.”

Just a few of the loving epithets hurled at me daily.  I never did grow that “thicker skin,” so I always dissolved in tears and ran out the door, if the weather was good, or up to my room to hide under the covers while the rage downstairs continued with slamming cupboard doors and curses muttered and shouted in mounting fury.

I know what it’s like to go on tiptoe, to see what the “mom weather” is like at the moment, and how to disappear quickly.

I know how to appease the rabid beast, by bringing bribes of flowers and candy and “I love you” handmade cards.

I know how to avert the armageddon, at least temporarily, by making a surprise dinner (although since I allegedly did not know how to do dishes, and this was a thing so simple that any idiot could do it and therefore I should not need to be taught, unless of course I was an idiot, dinner could be a shark tank).

I know how to have suicidal fantasies.  In fact, I know how to commit suicide.  I just haven’t done it.  Yet.

I know how to get straight “A’s” in school in order to please her.

I know how to get a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree, and a Doctor of Medicine degree, to please her.

I know how to run away from home, when the pain got too much:  first, at age 16, to the other side of the country; and later, at age 50, to the other side of the world.  Both helped for a while.

And yet: and yet….even now, when she is 86 years old and I have dragged myself out of my personal heaven in Jerusalem to help her, one word, one look, and I am that terrified child, nauseated, shaking with terror and homicidal rage.

I have touched her twice: once when I was 16 and she had seized hold of me when I was doing the dishes wrong…I grabbed her by the wrists, wrenching her clawing hands off of me and pinning her against the wall of the kitchen.  She spit, struggled, kicked at me, but I held her till she went still and met my eyes.  I could feel my eyes burning into hers and knew I had won that round, the first and the only.  I threw myself away from her and ran out the back door, not daring to come in until after dark and my father was home.

The second time happened only a few years ago.  We were sitting at the dining room table.  I don’t remember what set her off, but she grabbed my forearm with her claws, and I grabbed her wrist and ripped it off my arm and threw it away from me.  She continued as if nothing had happened.  I desperately wanted to pound her into mush, but I swallowed my rage and pretended there was nothing wrong.  Nothing at all.

Maybe I am thinking of these things, not only because of my Child Abuse series, but because the anniversary of my last failed relationship is coming up.

My psychologist, who I have known for ten years (and perhaps more importantly, has known ME for ten years) and who has seen me through a number of relationships, tells me that a healthy man would not feel right to me because I don’t know what a healthy relationship is.  At first gasp that seems like a negative thing to say, doesn’t it?  But really it’s quite true.  I grew up with a harpy for a mother, and a father who, although I love him dearly, was quite content to step aside and let the chips fall where they might, and hand me his handkerchief afterwards to dry my tears, making excuses for my mother:  she had her period, she was having a hard day, blah blah blah.

Years later when I was in my Pediatrics residency there were posters everywhere that showed a little girl curled up in a corner crying, and a caption that said, “Words can hit harder than a fist.”  I remember looking at those posters, puzzled, wondering what that could mean.  Words can hit harder than a fist.  I actually did not understand the meaning of those words.  In fact, it was not until recently, 25 years later, that the meaning dawned on me.  Verbal abuse can be more damaging than physical abuse.  And I realized why it has taken all these years for me to “get it”:  PTSD.  It was just too traumatic to let into my psyche at that time.  I was not in a safe place, and I had not had the distance from my abuser that would allow me to process that statement: Words can hit harder than a fist.

I am lumping verbal and psychological abuse together for now, because I cannot parse them out.  There are certainly other psychological ways of abusing children (and adults), but from where I am standing at this moment they seem all tangled up together, verbal and psychological and emotional.  I plan to work on this over the next few days and see if I can untangle them, and be more clear.

I know what it is to be confused.

Child Abuse PTSD

Noga the Wonder Dog I really do intend to get through Child Abuse Awareness Month.  And I really do intend to impart what I hope will be useful information, along the way.  It’s just that talking (writing) about child abuse triggers my PTSD to the extent that I am schlepping myself around exhausted, not particularly eating, and not particularly interested in anything much.  And then there are the dreams.  Good thing I have little Noga to keep me entertained with her hijinks and motherly kisses.

I have flashbacks about the little 9 month old who had learned how to turn over and try to wiggle away from having his diaper changed, so his father grabbed him by both legs and gave him a few vigorous shakes, so that he broke both his legs.  That baby turned out to have multiple rib factures in various stages of healing, so it looked like nobody had much patience for him.

Or the little girl who came in from the Souther Tier, always a bad sign.  The Southern Tier is a set of mountains south of Rochester, NY, where things go on that make the movie Deliverance look like Mary Tyler Moore.  This girl kind of stumped us for a while, because of the polka-dot pattern of  three-inch-diameter burns over her whole body.  Her parents, who were filthy, with greasy locks, reeking of beer, were no help at all.  They only brought her in because several of the odd burns had become infected.  One of the professors in the ER that day solved the mystery:  he brought over a light-bulb, and voila! The end of the bulb fit the burns exactly.  The parents eventually admitted that they had been “disciplining” the girl by applying the end of a lit table lamp to her skin.  I’m happy to say the girl was whisked away into the hospital, where she was healed of her physical wounds, and got to do play therapy and art therapy and music therapy and even school, which she had not had the opportunity to attend while languishing in the Southern Tier. She was placed in a good foster home and eventually adopted.

It was not unusual to see intentional injuries that simply don’t compute, at least not to me.  A grandmother “disciplined” her grandbaby by pouring black pepper down the baby’s mouth.  The baby died, and on autopsy was found to have its windpipe completely packed with pepper.  Another grandmother gave her grandbaby an enema of boiling water.  That poor child lived, but had to have five feet of intestine removed, and multiple reconstructive surgeries to try to avoid the year-old baby having to grow up with an ileostomy (wearing a bag on its abdomen to collect stool).  An irate babysitter held a toddler under scalding water in the bathtub, resulting in third-degree burns over 100% of the child’s body.  He died.  And the list goes on and on.

Children chained to their beds, brought in with some incidental illness, and we see the raw and scarred ligature or handcuff marks.  A teenager who was raised in a crawlspace under the house, and was essentially feral, brought in because he had vomiting and diarrhea.  Otherwise, he would have spent his entire life in the crawlspace.

Why did they do these horrible things to their children?  They were bad children, said the caretakers (torturers I say).  Bad children, so they deserved to be burned, imprisoned, tortured, some tortured to death.

I am not crying now, and that is because I dissociate when I think about these things.  But I am making a lot more typing mistakes than I usually do, so that shows that it’s getting through somewhere.  I want to get hold of those parents, grandparents, babysitters, and do the same things to them that they did to their children.  Break their bones.  Burn them with hot light bulbs and lit cigarettes. Etc, etc, etc.  It’s amazing how creative these monsters can be at torturing their children.  We’re not talking getting carried away with a spanking here, we’re talking thinking up things to do to cause grievous physical harm.

The key to avoiding many of these atrocities, I think, starts at birth.  It’s a great time to screen for child abuse risk.  Have a good look at the mother and father.  Watch how they relate to each other.  Watch how the mother relates to her newborn.  Is she in love with her new baby, or does she only want to sleep, and when the nurse brings her the baby to feed, does the minimum required and sends the baby back to the nursery so she doesn’t have to be bothered with it?

Social workers can help immensely, especially if they can make home visits to at-risk families.  There’s nothing like going to someone’s home to get a sense of what really goes on there.  That’s one of the reasons it distresses me that physicians seldom make house calls anymore.  If you only see the baby when the mother (or other caretaker) brings them in for their shots, you really only have a snapshot of what the home environment is like; although let me tell you, some of the routine office visits I’ve had have been hair-raising: if this is how they treat their kids at the doctor’s office, what must it be like at home???

I’ve managed to give you some snippets of what’s causing my child abuse PTSD.  These are only a few of the things I have seen.  I am going to try to soldier on with this, and hopefully manage to navigate through some of the other types of child abuse that damage our children, who grow up to be damaged adults.

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Signs of Physical Abuse

Boy am I having a hard time with these posts.  Maybe it’s because I spent 20 years in the trenches as a pediatrician, many of them in the emergency departments of hospitals large and small.  I know I have a hefty case of PTSD from it all, because when I even think of writing these things my stomach goes into a knot and I have an almost uncontrollable urge to bolt.

In today’s post I want to talk about signs of physical abuse that everyone who interacts with children should know about, and be alert for, and know what to do if they see them. I went to my usual source for slides and looked at them, and found that I am no longer capable of looking at color slides of abused children without getting sick.  I guess that’s a good sign, because it means that at least I am no longer capable of dissociating when I look at the patterns of injury.  I had been planning to include some slides with this post, but now I’ve decided I won’t, because they are so heart-breaking that I really don’t want to put them up.

I used to have a slide lecture distributed by my professional organization, the American Academy of Pediatrics, that I took around and showed to teachers, school nurses, volunteer firemen, and anybody else who wanted to hear the talk or who I thought ought to hear it.  I stood up there, brave professional woman, and showed them all these gruesome pictures of inflicted injuries, knowing full well that some of the people in the audience had been abused themselves as children, and that some of them had inflicted injury on their own children.  I must have given that talk well over 50 times, and I never got through one without at least one person in the audience breaking down in tears.  It’s a hard subject.

But even harder is for the subject not to be broached, and for those who are the most likely to be on the front lines of child care to be ignorant of the signs.  How many of us have heard, over and over, about children who have had multiple reports made to Social Services regarding suspected abuse, and the case is neglected, and the child dies?  These children are dying of nothing less than torture.  So if we see or hear something that makes us suspect that a child is being abused, REPORT IT!  Where do we report it?  We usually start with the Department of Social Services, or DSS.  If they don’t act promptly, call 911.  And if you in any way suspect that a child is being abused RIGHT NOW, call 911.

Patterns of Injury

We all know that children run around careening off of every object in their world, including one another, and they all get bruises, cuts, and scrapes; sometimes they even break a bone getting torpedoed off the trampoline or crashing on their bikes.  My own son broke both of his wrists (not at the same time): one by flying over the handlebars of his bike, and the other in an unintentional (on his part) game of roller-derby.  His teacher called DSS on me.  I said, good on her!  Then he broke both of his legs, one getting tackled while playing flag football in sixth grade, and the other playing Varsity football in high school.  Nobody called DSS about those.

There are places that you normally see bruises, scrapes, and cuts: knees, elbows, cheekbones, eyebrows.  Those are the places that stick out and get whacked on inanimate objects.  And the bruises don’t look like anything in particular; they’re usually oval-ish or irregularly shaped.  Cuts are usually jagged and also over bony prominences: how many of you and/or your children have a scar on your eyebrow?  That’s because that’s the part of your face that hits the ground first.  It IS a part that gets hit by a fist first too (besides the nose), but for some reason we see this less in abuse and more in adolescent fights.

So if you see a child who has bruises on the upper arm, as if someone grabbed him, or on her back or the backs of her legs, especially if the marks are linear (as a belt would make) or in loops (electrical cord) or any other pattern, that is very likely inflicted injury.  One interesting exception is the pattern of red marks running parallel to the upper spine that the Oriental folk medicine practice of “coining” makes (rubbing up and down with a coin, usually meant to treat chest congestion), or the circular red marks of cupping, also on the back and sometimes chest.

Babies who are not yet walking, and especially if they are not pulling up on things and falling down, should NOT get bruises.  They don’t do anything that causes bruises!  Bruises can sometimes be accidental, such as a baby rolling off the changing table or couch; in those cases the caretaker is usually frantic with distress over the event and seeks medical care immediately.  That usually (but not always) rules out abuse.  But if you see a slap mark on the baby’s face or anywhere else, that’s abuse.  Bruising on the ears is a red flag for hard slapping.  Bruising over the abdomen can mean internal injuries and must be seen in the emergency department immediately.

Burns

Older kids do get burned, but the cause is always explainable: playing with fire, for instance.  Cigarette burns on an older child signal abuse: that child is probably being abused in other ways also.  Toddlers sometimes get accidentally scalded.  I have seen some horrendous accidental scalds from toddlers pulling electric tea kettles over on themselves.  Since babies’ and toddlers’ skin is so thin, it only takes a moment to produce a full-thickness (third-degree) burn in a small child.  Burns to be concerned about from a child-abuse standpoint are any burn that looks like it has a pattern to it, whether it be the punched-out holes of a cigarette or the “stocking-glove” pattern of a child who is literally dipped into hot water and pushes away with its hands and feet, so that mostly the hands and feet get burned to the same extent.  Some brilliant caregivers get angry with a child who is being potty trained and has an accident, and immerse their bottoms in scalding hot water.  I can’t imagine what goes through these sadists’ minds.  I won’t go through all the varieties of burn patterns, but at this point (if you’re still with me) you get the idea that if there is a pattern to the burns and/or bruises, it’s most likely inflicted injury and must be reported immediately.

Broken bones

It’s hard for a lay person to assess broken bones in patterns of abuse.  One thing that is clear, if you are a caregiver such as a babysitter or a daycare teacher, is that if a baby who was crawling, pulling up, cruising along the furniture or walking, suddenly stops doing this, there’s something wrong.  If the baby simply won’t move a limb or cries when you move it for him, there’s something very wrong.  Report this and don’t be afraid.  Much better to make a report and be wrong than let a baby or child be battered at home.  Amazingly, most small children who come to medical attention for one broken bone are found, on X-ray, to have multiple broken bones in various stages of healing, indicating that this poor child has been repeatedly battered to the point of breaking multiple bones.

One notable exception to the rule that refusal to move a limb means it might be broken is the pesky “nursemaid’s elbow.”  It’s and accidental injury that comes from holding a small child (9 months-3 years) by the hand, and putting tension on the arm, such as swinging the child across puddles (fun!), pulling the child along by the hand because it has suddenly stopped (who has not done this?), or, in the case of my own child, holding the child by the hand and then he suddenly sits down.  Blam!  It pulls the head of one of the two bones in the forearm (the radius) out of its socket, and then it gets stuck and can’t get back in.  My ex-husband was taking my spaghetti-sauce-covered two-year-old son to the sink to wash him off, when my son suddenly sat down, and his screams nearly blew the roof off.  I was an intern at the time, and I had not yet seen a case of “nursemaid’s elbow,” so as we rode to the emergency department I spat all kinds of venom at my ex regarding what I was going to do to him for breaking our child’s arm.  My Pediatrics program director met us at the ER and very kindly explained the innocuous nature of the injury and talked me down from my murderous rage, and showed me how to fix the dislocation (actually it’s a subluxation, but that’s a technicality).  My first case of  subluxation of the radial head, a.k.a. “nursemaid’s elbow.” Some kids have very flexible elbow joints, as did my son: his injury recurred many times, the last time being when he was five years old and was shutting the car door.  The wind caught the door and pulled his radius out and he gave a shriek.  I jumped out and ran around to his side; but by the time I got there he had already fixed it himself.  He was very proud of that, as you may well imagine.

Well, I seem to have managed a few words here on physical abuse.  I may have to take a day or two off now, before I dive back in, as the next topic on the list is sexual abuse; not anything that anyone ever wants to talk about, including me.  But it must and will be talked about.

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Introductory Remarks

Prevent Child Abuse ribbonAs I stand on tiptoe, readying myself to launch into what is going to be a very important yet extremely painful month of campaigning, I have to take a moment to remind myself to breathe deeply; that this is not the first time I will be writing and testifying about these things; and that the pain in my chest and throat that I am feeling right now is not a heart attack: it is PTSD.

As some of you may know, I am an Adult Survivor of Childhood Abuse.  I carry a significant burden of PTSD from that.  It’s possible that my experiences as an abused child made me a better Child Abuse Investigator, when I was in practice as a pediatrician.  It certainly fueled my later career as an Expert Witness for the prosecution in child abuse cases.

In the coming days and weeks I hope to write my first-hand experiences as a pediatrician specializing in Child Abuse.  It will not be pretty.  Some of you might not want to read it.  That’s OK, I understand.

I’m uploading the Prevent Child Abuse ribbon for my sidebar.  I encourage you to swipe it and share it liberally.  Children are our treasures.  They depend on us to protect  them.  They have no one else.

Noga The Wonderdog: my anchor to reality

Noga the Wonder Dog

Meet Noga.  She’s my Psychiatric Service Dog.  What service does she provide for me?   She keeps me grounded in reality.

You see, many years ago I was raped.  Not once, but many times.  And that has provided me with a whopping case of PTSD:  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The way I coped with being a homeless street kid who got raped a lot was to dissociate.  To leave my body behind, while horrible things were being done to it, and go floating away to Somewhere Else.  It became a habit with my brain, to dissociate from anything threatening; and at last my brain started doing it all on its own, in response to triggers that I may not even be aware of.

And even now, forty years later, I often find that I have been “gone” for hours at a time.  I often have no idea what happened to trigger the episode.  But Noga can tell when I have dissociated, and she jumps up on my legs and “bops” me with her feet, and if necessary, pulls at my pants leg to bring me back to the here-and-now.

And then there are the nightmares.  In my last post I showed you a picture of all the pills I have to take in order to get through the night.  But even with all those drugs, some nights (like last night, for example) I will dream, or hallucinate, or both, that someone has climbed through the window and is standing over me.  B.N. (Before Noga), I could spend hours in a half-dream, half-waking state of paralysis, waiting for the intruder to make his move.  But Noga is a fierce 13 pound watch dog, and she bites!  Now if I have a nightmare I can reach over and if Noga is sleeping beside my left shoulder as she always does, I know there is nothing to fear and I can safely go back to sleep.  Here is Noga keeping the bed warm:

Noga refuses to get out of bed on a rainy morning!

Whose bed do you think this is, anyway?

There are other things she does for me, besides being my Service Dog.  She keeps my right elbow at the proper height for typing by curling up under it, for instance.  That plaid thing is my elbow.

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Plus, she’s just my cute little buddy.

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Noga hates getting her hair wet.

Photos courtesy of my Samsung Galaxy SIII phone.

 

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