CYANIDATION: The Refinement of My Life: A Memoir

Nivea & Popcorn:

My earliest childhood memory was warm, comforting, and fluid. Blissful waves of emotion surrounded me as my mind slowly drifted into consciousness upon waking from a sound sleep. The feathers slipping from the blanket that covered me tickled my nose. The smell of freshly popped corn mixed with seasoned salt was in the air. I heard my mother’s voice in the other room, softly singing a cheerful melody. Rumbles of familiar clanks and tinkles confirmed that she was in the kitchen. My stomach began to roar and grumble in response to the fragrant corn filling the air. The sound was so loud that you could probably hear it across the room. Why haven’t I opened my eyes? I began to move only to realize my efforts were restricted. I was lying faceup in a somewhat awkward position. I lifted my hands to remove the blanket and its feathers from my nose while trying to shift my body’s position. To my surprise, my hand movements were also restricted. My thumbs moved somewhat freely; however, I couldn’t spread my four other fingers to grab the blanket. Mittens—my hands were covered with mittens. Why did I have on mittens? I chose to use my elbows instead of my hands to shift my position and relieve the now throbbing ache of my lower back.

It was then that I noticed the extreme, unforgiving pressure from the top of my chest to the tips of my toes. I wiggled my toes in protest to confirm the familiar numbness, and I was instantly annoyed. Looking back, I should have been afraid or scared, but somehow I wasn’t. This was normal. Now, fully repositioned, I was comfortable enough to resume my efforts to open my eyes, but I couldn’t. There was something soft yet firm resting on my left eye, and my right eye was covered with some sort of cloth. I used my mitted right hand to try to push the cloth on my right eye upward toward my forehead. I could feel the cloth protest my efforts as it snagged on the abundance of ponytail knockers strategically placed around my head. At last I was able to peek underneath the stubborn cloth with my right eye and see the television positioned in front of me. That’s right; we were going to watch a movie as a family. I watched in amazement at the screen as a large, beautiful, shiny, black horse (an Arabian stallion) galloped over the crashing waters on a beach. Entranced, I was distracted long enough not to realize that the singing in the kitchen had ceased. I didn’t know I was scratching at my rumbling stomach with my mitted left hand until the blanket was lifted and the rush of cool air waved over me all at once. “Oh it must be time for another Nivea rubdown,” my mother announced in her singing voice. In an instant I was vertical and standing in front of my mother, her eyes bright with a big, wide smile spread across her beautiful face. The smile soon faded as she continued to de-layer the child who stood before her. She began with the cloth around my head, gently removing what must have been medical tape before she unraveled the cloth. She carefully navigated the cloth over and under the strategically placed ponytails. Once the head wrap was undone, she briefly taped the four ends of the medical tape in the shape of an X over the soft yet firm round thing (medical eye patch) covering my left eye. “That has to stay on a few more days.”

My rising mitted hand was caught mid-flight and pressed securely back down by my side. “No scratching. Prevention is always better than a cure. Be obedient.” My mother smiled at me once again and kissed my right cheek and my freed right eye. Her smile slowly faded once again as she moved on to the next task. She took a firm grip of the silver tab at the base of my neck. The zipper on my cotton onesie slid down with ease. She removed both mittens and allowed me to balance myself and lean on her shoulder while she gently peeled the snug fitting garment off my quivering body. The cold in the air was fully upon me, and like a leaf in a turbulent wind, I began to tremble fervently. The trembling was not helpful, and my mother was visibly frustrated as she slid down the next zipper. The zipper on this next layer was attached to a nylon-like skin that fit me like a glove. There were no hands on this skin, and the feet were a few sizes too small. “Be still, my Precious. We can’t afford to tear this one.” I’d heard the phrase “my Precious” from a book she had read to me, and it made me feel special. My mother took an eternity to peel this next layer off, inspecting every inch of it as she went. When I was finally free from the nylon skin, she wrapped me in a towel and dunked the skin in a basin of soapy water. I watched as she pressed and rubbed the skin between her hands and rinsed it with a pitcher of clear water. A large floor fan was facing away from us, and she laid the skin across the front of it to dry. The wrinkly skin blew gently in the manufactured breeze like a flag at half-mast in remembrance of fallen soldiers. I hated the skin and was glad to be free of it. I watched it blow around and didn’t notice my mother grab hold of my arm. She had a firm grip on my left arm with her left hand and a heaping pile of Nivea cream in her right hand.

Tears filled her eyes as she whirled me facedown over her lap and began to apply the cream. The burns on my body treated by skin grafts sourced from my legs had completely healed, but physical therapy and daily moisturizing was necessary to keep my skin flexible and prevent it from tearing as I grew older. I felt my mother’s tears land on my back and sit there in suspension like dewdrops on a forest leaf during the crowning of the morning sun. The tears were soon comingling with the cream as she rubbed and massaged my entire body. She then dressed me for bed with the cotton onesie and underwear instead of the nylon skin. I took one more menacing look at the wrinkled skin blowing in the manufactured wind. I didn’t see the huge bowl of popcorn covered with fiery red Lawry’s Seasoned Salt placed beneath my nose. I shifted my focus to see my mother’s face smiling once again as she handed me the bowl. I held the plastic bowl like it were made of Grandma’s fine china as I looked around for my older brother, but he was already fast asleep. Disappointed, I turned to see my mother’s face. She seemed to read my mind and answered the question I had not the courage to ask. She leaned close to my nose and whispered, “Yes, you can have the whole thing!”

Gangway BBQ:

The word gangway is a midwestern term notoriously used in the Chicago area to describe the spaces between large apartment buildings on a city block. I didn’t grow up in Chicago, but somehow the term seemed more appropriate than breezeway or passageway used in other urban areas. It was dark, very dark, like a midsummer night’s dream. Music with a heavy bass line filled the air. The smell of hickory barbecue (Open Pit) danced in unison to the high notes tickling my eardrums while playing tag with the fireflies. The grass beneath my bare feet was warm and crunchy as I walked, skipped, and twirled. Every one of my senses was filled with this orchestra of life—stimulating, compelling, hypnotic. I heard in the near distance, “Jenny, hide! We’re playing hide and seek. Not it!” Still under the hypnosis of the orchestra, I broke into a run and hid. I crouched down low and covered my knees with my arms, making sure to keep my legs close to me. I couldn’t let them find me. I was good at this . . . good at hiding. As I settled in my position and waited, the orchestra eventually faded, and the radio in my head switched on. I was two songs in when I realized that no one called “olly olly oxen free!” I perched my head up and tilted it to the left, listening for voices.

I didn’t hear anything—no sound, no music, no orchestra, just the smell of the hickory barbecue. Panicked, I stood to my feet and peered around the tree I had been hiding behind. I didn’t recognize where I was. The yard looked the same, and the back of the building in front of me seemed the same, but somehow it was not the building that was my home. I turned to my right, and I turned to my left, yet I saw no one, just darkness. How far had I run? How long was I hypnotized under the power of the orchestra and the radio in my head? I called for my brother. No answer. I called for my mother. No answer. A chill ran up the back of my neck like the icy tingle on the tip of my tongue with the first taste of a Fla-Vor-Ice popsicle. Something was wrong, and I dared not call out again into the darkness. The fragrance of hickory barbecue was still thick in the air. I looked up to see a hint of billowy smoke pass a dimly lit outdoor wall light high above the entrance of the gangway. The light hung with the authority of a deflated balloon. My feet were like lead bricks as I took two steps away from the tree. I heard a soft, rustling noise behind me like a breeze blowing through a pile of leaves in the fall. I turned toward the noise and came face-to-face with . . . nothing. There was nothing there. As if on cue, a single firefly appeared out of nowhere. It was yellow with a green light flickering in and out amid the darkness, providing me a glimmer of comfort that I was not alone. Instantly, the radio in my head switched on again, selecting a tune complementary to the beat of the flickering firefly. I was halfway through the song when the light from the firefly disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. I took a moment to calm the panic rising in me once again. I felt so alone.

Darkness in front of me . . . darkness to the right . . . darkness to the left. Where did my firefly go? Why did you abandon me? I turned around and saw that the deflated balloon light was now behind me. I was in the center of the gangway. I didn’t notice that the smell of hickory barbecue was gone. My link back to my home was gone. My firefly companion was gone, and the radio in my head was now silent. Do I go back, or do I keep moving forward? Before I could decide, a dark shadow positioned just out of my line of sight moved toward me with the swiftness of an owl scooping up a field mouse. I was surrounded in darkness once more.