Echoes from the Heart - "Speaking of Myself" by P.A. O'Neil

 Speaking of Myself

by P.A. O’Neil

I am a storyteller, not a liar, but a teller of tales. I have what’s referred to as “The Gift of

Gab.” I will talk to anyone about anything. There’ve been times when talking has set me aside,

for example my spending all of kindergarten and half of the Sixth grade in the corner. My

parents never chided or punished me for talking. They reminded me to respect the rules of my

teachers when it came to speaking out of turn, but they always encouraged me to talk. It wasn’t

that I had anything worthy to say, but because I actually could talk. There was a time when they

thought I might forever be a mute.

It was the middle of the last century when families lived in the suburbs and parents

commuted to work. Children were left in the care of neighbors, or as in our case, my infant sister

and myself with family members. Mama was a secretary, and every morning after breakfast, she

would pack us up, kiss everyone goodbye, and head out to work. Daddy put me in the back seat

with a small bag of clothes and food, then placed my sister in the bassinette on the floor behind

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the passenger seat. We’d drive to Nana and Tata’s house, which was only a small detour from

the route Daddy took to work, where he would drop us off with a kiss and a thank you. Then

we’d settle down to our second breakfast.

Nana and Tata were in their sixties. They had raised five children, buried one, and after

having lived through two world wars and a depression, were considered elderly by the standards

of the day. Their youngest child was still at home finishing high school. He would be gone to

school by the time we got there, but when he returned each afternoon, he’d grab a snack and lock

himself in his bedroom to do homework uninterrupted by the annoyance of a toddler and a

newborn.

I was the toddler, two-years old and not exactly verbal, but with enough words to get my

point across.

Tata had been a machinist and had a shop in the garage, a place we for years were

forbidden to enter. He spent most of his days there, coming in only for lunch to eat off a TV tray

in the front room while he watched the news. I still remember how he always drank his milk with

ice cubes, out of a Mason jar.

Every day the routine was the same with my sister had been bathed and placed in her

crib. Not yet sitting up on her own, her entertainment would be the sunbeams floating over her

bed from the open window. This day, I heard her cooing and giggling to herself, and I wanted to

know what she was doing.

Daringly, I placed the toe of my leather shoes on the decorative trim along the footboard

of her crib. Stretching as far as my little arm would go, I caught hold of the top of the board, and

using all my strength, managed to grab it with my other hand as well. Making connection with

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my remaining foot, I peered over the edge of the crib to watch this relative newcomer waive her

hands and babble as she swatted away the light, then suddenly came the pain!

Perched on my tiptoes, I had stretched my head completely over the edge of the wooden

crib but slipped down. If I had fallen backwards, there would be tears, but no story. Gravity

pulled me downward, my chin hitting the edge, teeth bearing full force onto my tongue, nearly

severing it but a thread.

There are few things in this world you will never forget. Sometimes it’s unbelievable joy,

other times it’s unbearable sorrow. This was one of those times, only two years old and I will

never forget the pain of biting off my tongue.

Other than howling, which is the best one can do without a tongue and tears flowing

down my cheeks, I only have fleeting memories of what happened next.

The baby started screaming, which brought Nana, from the next room, to check her for a

poking pin. She didn’t notice me right away because I had fallen mostly under the crib.

Emerging with a face full of tears, blood running down my shirt, she put the screaming infant

back in the bed and grabbed a cloth diaper to apply to my mouth.

Scooping me up with one arm, the other pressed to my face, she ran to the back door.

‘Bill, Bill…’ she cried, ‘help me, Sugar’s been hurt!’

Tata lumbered out of the garage and into the house, all the way wiping his hands on the

rag he kept in the back pocket of his overalls. He found Nana at the sink, chilly water running

from the tap, trying to rinse the now red cotton cloth. I was sitting on the drainboard, still in

hysterics. ‘What’s this, let me see, what did she do?’

‘I don’t know, she was back behind the end of the crib, the baby was crying, and I found

her like this.’

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Tata placed one hand behind my head to hold it still while he pinched my cheeks with his

grease-stained fingers, telling me to open my mouth. ‘My God, she’s bitten her tongue off.’

# # #

If this had happened today, I would’ve been rushed to a hospital emergency room, but in

those days, emergency rooms were for car crash victims, heart attacks, and women in labor. My

grandparents took me to a local clinic specializing in Family Practice. Somewhere along the line,

Tata had managed to run to the neighbor’s house asking if they would care for the baby. Armed

with a bag full of cloths, he placed Nana and myself in the back seat of the Jeep and drove away.

‘Did you call her mother to meet us?’

‘No, I couldn’t take my hands away except to leave milk and diapers for the baby. I

didn’t want her to swallow it. We’ll call her from the clinic.’

Southern California in 1960 was a peaceful time. Suburbs were connected by larger

streets and arterials where businesses tended to congregate. The clinic was on one of these

streets. The large waiting room was similar to those of today with matching chairs grouped here

and there offering a modicum of privacy. There were two doors, one off the street, the other into

the clinic itself. A sliding window separated the reception desk from the crying babies, coughing

children, and tired parents all waiting their turn to see the doctor.

Tata parked the car and ran around the Jeep to let Nana out. He picked me up and

followed her along the sidewalk to the door, all the while calmly telling me it would be all right.

I had buried my head on his shoulder, still sobbing.

Once inside, Nana pushed aside a woman at the counter and demanded we immediately

see the doctor.

‘Hey, now, you can’t…’

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‘Now, ma’am, I’m sure if you’ll just sit down and wait your turn…’ the annoyed

receptionist admonished.

‘You don’t understand, my granddaughter has bitten her tongue off.’

The pushed aside patient gasped as Tata walked up, my blood on the rags and his chest.

The receptionist called for a passing nurse, who after a brief explanation, moved quickly

to let us into the clinic proper.

# # #

Certain memories linger or haunt you forever. This next is one of those memories, though

brief, it has followed me and is as real as if it happened yesterday.

We were immediately ushered into an examination room. I was placed on the table a

strap of leather pulled tight against my mid-section. Tata stood to the side with his hand on my

chest as if imparting his strength into my small, frightened body. At first the nurse and then the

doctor pulled open my mouth to assess how grievous the injury was. The doctor barked

instructions and as the nurse set out his equipment, he called out unseen others in the hallway.

When he returned, he was followed by two more women, another clinic nurse, and the

bookkeeper from the back office. The three women, along with Nana, held down my limbs to

keep from flailing. Tata’s strong hands embraced my head. Making vice with his strong hands he

held my head still, my soft curls escaping through his fingers. With a practiced calm, the doctor

used his thumb and forefinger to pull my tongue out as far possible, carefully resting the

dangling piece on the other fingers.

I remember wanting to fight, blinded by the overhead light and my own tears. Someone

kept telling me to hold still, whether it was the doctor or Tata, I don’t know. Through my wailing

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I begged for Mama, for them to let me go, and just general fear expressed through loud noise, all

the while this man was doing his best to stitch my tongue together.

This is where the memory fades, and probably for good reason.

The receptionist had called Mama, who somehow flew to the clinic. The doctor had

insisted we stay after the procedure to see if shock had set in. The bleeding had stopped, but the

crying continued, the difference being the crying sounded normal. Nana said I had calmed

enough for occasional moping gasps until Mama showed up when a new batch of tears erupted.

The doctor warned we needed to watch for bleeding and infection. “The tongue is a

resilient organ and will attempt to heal itself, but the graft might not take which would mean

further surgery and the loss of normal speech.” They left the clinic with a sense of relief, but my

parents and grandparents were cautious over the next few days, until the follow-up visit when the

doctor proclaimed the entire tongue pink and healthy with no need for further surgery.

Time progressed with no residual difficulty with my verbal development. My language

skills progressed along with the decline of my curiosity about what my sister was doing. If Nana

ever felt remorse over the incident, it wasn’t for long. Nana was a wise woman, she understood

you can’t be everywhere, or hover over your children, and even if you did unpleasant things

could still happen.

Does speaking properly have anything to do with my ability to tell a good tale? It might,

but then again, I can always type one instead. As for confirmation of this tale here, all the people

involved have since passed on, with the exception of my sister, but she was only an infant and

wouldn’t have remembered much anyway—or would she?

END