Helpless

[fiziwig]

marg asked me to post this here. It was originally posted in the spirit community board:

Have you ever felt helpless? This is fiction, something that tumbled out of my warped mind. Yet it says something I think is somehow true, something I almost seem to remember experiencing.

He knew that smell. It was something to drink. Yellow, foamy, with an almost bitter taste. Yet he couldn't put a name to it. He knew it was something he had enjoyed from time to time before it happened. His memories seemed so clear now, not jumbled like they were this morning. If only they could be this clear all the time. The smell brought back images of a dark, smoky place with loud music playing. Images of men standing around a green table holding sticks in their hands and drinking and talking and laughing. He shook his head and whimpered softly at the memories. The laughter became angry shouting. There was pushing and hitting. And there was a thing, a small black thing that one of the men held in his hand. Why couldn't he remember the word for that thing? He could remember the sound it made. The loud, almost deafening explosion. He could remember the pain he'd felt, and the blood streaming down his face. He could remember falling to the floor. Yet he could not remember the words for these memories.

But he wasn't in the dark place now. He was outside. He felt the soft, warm sand under his feet, and between his fingers. He heard the sound of the waves, knowing what they were, but still not able to form the words to express his knowing. And people laughing. He could lift his head, but only barely. Bright colors rushed by. People in swim suits chasing a ball. He blinked at the bright sun reflecting off the water, and turned his gaze back down to the sand.

Helen put her hand on his back and rubbed softly. He had known her for a very long time, but again the words for that knowing escaped him. They had been together, but she went away long before it happened. Now she was back. Had she come back because it happened? He didn't know. How frustrating it was for him to be able to think so clearly, and remember so well, and yet be unable to simply talk to her about the time before.

Why, he wondered, had this happened to him? Would he ever be like he was before; able to speak, and understand? Able to walk, to pick up a fork and spoon? Would he ever again be free of this helpless feeling? When would he be free of the indignity of being wheeled around like a piece of baggage, and being lifted into a chair and fed mush, one spoonful at a time? Staring down at his weak, useless hands, he began to cry. It seemed he cried a lot these days. He cried out of frustration and out of pain. He cried because he knew no other way to communicate. All he could do was hope that somehow they would understand his frustration. Be he also knew there was nothing they could do. It had happened. That could never be changed. His only hope was that someday he could regain all that he had lost.

He rolled around and managed to get to his hands and knees. In spite of his almost helpless state, he did enjoy these frequent outings to the beach. He wanted to walk, to run through the sand like He used to do, but his legs refused to answer. The best he could manage was to push himself along on hands and knees, and as long as he didn't wander too far away Helen and Mack seemed content to allow him this little bit of freedom. His hand fell on a broken clam shell. He felt the rough exterior and the smooth inner surface, rubbing his fingers from front to back, from rough to smooth, over and over. It smelled of dead fish. He laughed, remembering the time so long ago when he and Mack had been fishing and Mack got drunk and fell off the charter boat. Mack had looked so funny when he pulled him out of the water. He had been strong back then, with large muscles that rippled under his skin when he worked the high steel. Now he felt so small and weak.

He looked back over his shoulder at Helen. She was watching him. He wondered when this would all end. He wanted so desperately to ask her when he would be strong again. But all he could do was to make a few grunting sounds and look into her eyes. Would she get the message?

"Mack," Helen said softly. "Look at him. It almost looks like he's trying to tell me something."

"Huh?" Mack put down his can of beer and looked up from the book he was reading. "Don't be silly, Hel. You're just imagining things."

"I don't know," she replied. "More like he's trying to ask me something."

"For crying out loud, Helen," Mack said, chuckling almost derisively. "The kid's only 8 months old."

He looked back down at the shell, his tiny fingers wrapped around its edge, and thought how strange it was to be so small again.

 

[Marg]

Hey, thanks! I love this piece!

Marg

 

[Marg]

I just read this over again. I wonder if parents could write a piece like this for practice, to help visualize the child's perspective? Especially the ones who have children who are talking about their past.

Marg

------------------
Motherhood is living in a state of perpetual exhaustion and bliss. And knowing your work is never ever ever ever done. LOL!

 

[Eliza]

What a marvelous story!

My earliest memory (that I can recall) is of my mother changing my diaper. I remember that she was becoming increasingly flustered as the diaper pin would not go through my cloth diaper - that was because she was sticking me with it! I recall thinking - really thinking in words - , "Will you stop sticking me with that pin?! Stop!", but all that would come out of my mouth was a baby's cry. She was most apologetic when she realized what she had done, put some salve on the area where I was stuck, and held me.

Throughout my childhood I so often experienced frustration in that I did not have the skills to get my ideas across or that my classmates could not understand my ideas and I did not know why. Your story explains that "why" beautifully.

 

[Sunny]

Diaper changing...

OUCH Eliza!

Like you, I have a couple of clear memories of being in diapers (this lifetime).

on one such occasion, I remember standing in my crib, crying and screeching because I needed I change and my mother was down the hall in the kitchen, paying the sitter. It was afternoon, and I remember the pale light in the room and the drawn shades. I also clearly recall my mother thundering down the hall to my room, angry because of my hollering!

Another memory I have, in a similar vein, is lying on my back on my mother's white chenille bedspread as she leaned over me, changing my diaper. The dresser (which is now in MY room), was to her right, the window to her left.

My mom is amazed I can remember these events.

~Sunny

 

[fiziwig]

Just a few months ago I was chatting with my mom and we got to talking about early childhood memories and I told here about my crystal clear memory of a time riding in an old truck and my mom was fretting about the holes in the floorboard and she told my dad she was worried that the fumes would be bad for the baby. (me)

My mom gave me a strange look when I told her that story. Then she told me, yes it had happened. She also remembered it clearly. With the car in the shop my dad had borrowed an old truck from work to pick me and my mom up at the hospital to take us home. I was 3 days old when it happened. My mom was shocked that I could not only remember the conversation, but even remember exactly what was said long before I myself had learned to talk.

I remembered the truck and the the conversation, but as an adult I had always assumed it was a memory from a later age, like maybe 5 or 6, but my mom assures me that the only time we rode in the old truck, and the only time she had that conversation about being worried about holes in the floorbord was that afternoon in 1945.