My Body Remembers

What is the line, exactly, between present-moment me and that raging, terrified, trying-to-survive child who still lives in me?

Folks using screen readers and anyone who prefers to listen — there’s an audio player bar just below this paragraph, with a play button on the far right. Please let me know if you have any trouble with it.

Fuzzy black-and-white photo of a young Rebekah being held by her dad in the hallways of a hospital. Most of her face is washed out. Because of chemotherapy treatments, she has very little hair. In the photo, you can just make out the shapes of the plastic baby doll and soft white lamb she's holding in her arms. She is looking straight at the camera. She appears to be smiling. My dad is holding me on his hip. He's looking at me, smiling. This photo was taken for my medical chart. You can see my name – Taussig, Rebecca (misspelled) – at the top, next to ID. At the bottom, the date – 8/3/89.

Content Warning: This essay dives into childhood medical trauma and the ways that manifests in adulthood. 

I started getting MRIs on my spine when I was 14 months old and continued to get them regularly until I was about 9. Always in the same corner of the basement of the same hospital. And when I am 36, I go back – same place, same scan, more than 25 years later. 

I’m not worried about this appointment at all. I’m not anxious about the test results or the exam itself. Easy peasy, just another task to check off the list in a busy week. 

I tuck my lips into a twisty smile as I move through this familiar hospital, passing the gift shop where my parents used to let me pick out one treat for each of my five siblings at the end of a long day of tests and appointments. I go straight to the elevators, remembering just where to turn in the labyrinth of hallways. And look! They replaced the swamp green carpet on the lower-half of the walls with some basic taupe paint! Oh 80s, how we miss you. 

And then I round the final corner – the last hallway – that will take me to the waiting room where I’ll check in. And suddenly I feel tears welling up in my chest, there is a lump in my throat. I want to cry. My body remembers. 

But I’m fine! We’re fine! my brain insists. What is this? 

I push on to the entrance of the waiting room and pause. The ache persists, heavy on my chest, swelling behind my eyes. This is the same room, the TV still mounted to the same corner, the chairs still arranged in the same configuration where my mom used to wait with her denim bag, her unlined paper pad, her Bible.

The photograph of that waiting room I took that day, a line of chairs against the left wall, a longer love-seat against the back wall, a TV mounted close to the ceiling to its upper right. The floors and ceiling and walls are white. There's a strong fluorescent light on the left side of the wall.

It’s hard to imagine, but even as a tiny kid, I learned to hold perfectly still for hours, unsedated, as the MRI knocked and pounded and buzzed me into another planet. I remember the tiny etches in the ceiling of the tube, only inches from my nose. I remember feeling a tickle on my face, trying to quiet it with my mind – refusing to indulge the impulse to itch. I knew what was expected of me, and I would let my body burn alive before I would relinquish my Good Patient stars. I remember the sound of my dad’s voice, close to my head, reading me Little Critter, Nancy Drew, Reader’s Digest in the quiet moments between the blaze of sound. Thud, thud, thud, BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ – sounds still ricocheting through my body as I type these words. I remember pretending the machine was a rocket. I left my body for the weightlessness of outer space, my dad’s voice radiating and fading from the center of the sun.

A few months later, I told this story to a group of Child Life Specialists – this group of people whose job it is to tether children to humanity through the course of inhumane medical treatments. (At least, this is my interpretation, but I never had a Child Life Specialist myself, and you might find a different definition on their website.) During the Q&A portion after my talk, someone asked me how I handled the rest of that appointment. Was I a better advocate for myself as an adult than I had been as a child?  

My first instinct was to laugh. No! I said emphatically and with some amazement at how little I’d changed in that arena. In fact, I recounted, they gave me this little orange ball to squeeze in case I needed a break during the MRI, and I thought about squeezing it the entire time. My anxiety was much more pronounced than I remembered as a child – I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, it was hard to breathe, I felt almost frantic to get out of there. But my instinct to stay – to prove I could do it without asking for anything extra – was my strongest impulse. I heard my voice – almost at a distance – remain cheery and light. “You are so good at your job!” I said, praising the technician as he pumped dye into my veins halfway through. And when I got home that afternoon, recounting the experience for my partner Micah, I made sure he knew – “I didn’t squeeze the orange ball.” Perplexed, he said “Are you proud of that? You seem weirdly proud of that.” And again, I laughed. “YES! I am so proud! What is this??” I wished I had something better (more pleasant? tidier? a bit of wisdom?) to offer the audience of Child Life Specialists than this picture of an adult who remains a bit fucked-up, still stuck in her childhood survival brain.

And when I say a bit fucked-up, I do mean it. A year or so ago, Micah and I watched a show where a woman was traumatized by an invasive medical procedure she didn’t consent to. Everyone around her was kind of baffled by how profoundly this affected her, but it gripped her and wouldn’t let go. And my adult brain felt all the sympathy. Of course patients should have control over their own bodies, and of course having that taken away from you can be truly traumatic. But something deeper inside – well beyond reason – came out of me as I watched this story. It almost felt like a cave child I usually keep locked up and hidden started shaking the whole mountain in RAGE. I was inexplicably furious at this character for making such a big deal out of her medical experience – a fury that came, not from my intellect, but from deep in my body. IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME. GET OVER IT. STOP WHINING. YOU’RE SO DRAMATIC. YOU’RE SO WEAK. The child in me was SCREAMING. I tried to explain it to Micah. He was a little horrified. “Are you kidding? You’re angry that she was traumatized?” I tried to explain – No, not really! Not actually! I don’t believe the raging cave-child voice! I know that voice is patently incorrect! But my words came out jumbled. Because what is the line, exactly, between present-moment-me and that raging, terrified, trying-to-survive-in-the-only-way-she-knows-how child who still lives in me? 

The cave child learned early that in order to keep us alive, she needed to turn into a statue. A shell. A trinket who doesn’t feel or need or falter. And while I still don’t totally understand it, I notice – she panics when she sees a living human feeling and needing and faltering under medical dehumanization. My body remembers.

As I worked on this essay, I looked through old photographs that might fit with these themes and add to the story. The first, obvious choice is a grainy black-and-white photo from when I was about three. I found it in my 20s when I was rummaging through my old medical charts. In it, a set of disembodied hands lift my hospital gown up to my chin, the fabric bunched over my mouth, my entire chest and belly exposed, my ribcage and hip bones protruding. A tube comes out of my chest. They’re preparing my body to be tattooed for radiation. The part of the photo that grabs me (haunts me?) the most are my eyes. They’re large and open, alive but frozen, looking to the side. I’ve turned myself to silent stone. 

I’ve shared this photo before. I’ve used it in writing workshops and for an Instagram post back in the day. It’s an amazing artifact, a piece of art, full of metaphor and horror. What makes this time feel different? Is it my own evolution into motherhood and my instinct to protect my own baby? Perhaps my growing – slowly growing – ability to hear my own child voice? Either way, I felt conflicted about sharing it.

I shared a draft of this essay with my sister. “I don’t know what’s over-sharing.” I texted her. “Am I just continuing to treat that baby like an object by distributing that photo widely instead of protecting her??” My sister took in every question, thought, and word with care. She left me a voice message in the middle of the night, her voice fragile, breaking with tears. And as she acknowledged all the thorniness and stakes, she cautiously said – “It just made me think that you could ask – and sit with – and hear from that sweet baby. To let her know that she’s safe. And you’re there to protect her. And I think you could ask her what she needs and wants.” I cry, listening to my sister. As she conjured this sweet baby, I knew – she shouldn’t have to worry about the answer. She should be protected, resting easy in the knowledge that the adults in the room are going to take care of her.

Changing back into my clothes after the MRI, my adult self can’t name the feeling this time around. Is it indifference? Pride? Powerlessness? I still have such a difficult time understanding the little me whose opening moments of life were shaped by MRIs and needles and drugs and “thank you” and “that didn’t hurt at all” and 5 stars for not needing a thing. She’s right there in the center of me without any words to explain what she’s seen, heard, felt. So here we sit. Quiet. Attentive.

A mirror selfie Rebekah took right after the MRI she had so many years later. She sits in her wheelchair, paperwork in one hand, her phone in the other. Her eyes look down toward the image on her phone. The rest of her face is covered in a mask.

And in the silence in between I tell her – 

I hear you. You are not okay. And hear me now – you don't have to be. Your body was handled like a medical object for years – a lot of kids (and adults) in hospitals experience the same thing – and none of it is okay. You don’t have to get over it. You’re not whining. You’re not dramatic. And love – please know – I don’t need you to be strong.

One long pink swipe made by Rebekah’s son with paint.

CHEWY QUESTIONS – If you want to continue to think through the ideas here, these questions are for you – please feel free to explore this in your personal writing, to talk about it with your people, or to join the conversation on Substack.

• How does your child-self show up in your present? And does that form or expression ever take you off guard or confuse you?

• Have you found ways to tend to/make space for/acknowledge that younger you? What does that look like/feel like?

• What do you think your child-self needs to hear? 

Thank you for being here!

xoxo

Rebekah