Abio 11: Born at the Age of Five - a Flashback - February 25 2024

February 25 2024 Drummer column, Gibbs, 1,299 words

Abio episode 11: Born at the age of five

On the evening of August 28, 1958 at the age of four and a half, I was hit head-on by a car traveling 25 mph just a half block from my house. I’d darted out into the street following my older sister, Carol. The driver, Robert Frederick, live nearby on Vernon Street. I hit the front bumper, bounced my head on the roadway, and rebounded up to become lodged in the engine block. He dragged me eight feet before stopping, according to Carol, who was right there. Word spread. Alarms went off. My dad leaped a five-foot fence in our yard to get to me and crawled under the car to be with me the whole time, according to my sister. My chronicler.

I was gone to the world. I learned that the fire department had to summon a tow truck to lift the Oldsmobile high enough for a safe extraction. At the local hospital, two blocks away, it was diagnosed that I had a ¾ round skull fracture, which nearly tore my left ear off and sent me into a three-day coma, plus a broken right arm in two places, and multiple lacerations, or road pizza. Ten days in the hospital, four days in a coma; my head swollen like a melon.

Carol told me she saw me on the second day and she could barely find my face.

On day three, a sewn-on ear began to leak and the liquid drained out of my head. The swelling went down. My mother said I soaked the pillow, but I did not wake up. Doctors were optimistic. Give it time. My parents took 24-hour vigils, in turns when they didn’t have to work. On day four I opened my eyes to an empty room. Nothing was familiar. A beige back wall and a counter full of flowers. It made no sense. A closed curtain on the right wall kept the light out. To my left, I discovered I was not alone. A curly-headed man was reclining in a chair holding something.

I had no idea who he was. I had no ideas. The accident knocked everything out of me, my memory, what little I had – the breast feeding, the alphabet song, our bouncy bouncy times, tickles, language – gone. I didn’t know a single word.

The curly man, who turned out to be my father, Harry, 33, saw my eyes were open, and his face lit up. He jumped up, yelled down the hallway, and then came to me and kissed me, and jabbered at me. He held out the object in his hand and offered me a sip through a straw.

It was a chocolate milkshake, apparently a favorite of mine, because it swept through me. My first taste in my new world – chocolate milk. Welcome back to earth, Steve.

I was in a hospital bed, but I felt fine. No pain. The cast hung overhead, but it didn’t hurt. I didn’t know what it was. All was right with the world. My dad was hugging me.

From my inside view, I was just stunned, like I got hit in the face with a snowball, except the snowball was an Oldsmobile. I had no idea what was going on, but things seemed under control.

That’s when a tall woman rushed around the corner of the bed, removing and dropping her coat on her way, smothered me in kisses. She didn’t just kiss the exposed skin. She kissed my bandages and my head wounds and hands, all my casts. She wanted to get in bed with me, but no.

I didn’t know what mothers and fathers were, or nurses, or families. She was Beulah, my mother. She smelled oddly familiar.

Truth be told, I felt nothing about anything. Language was gone, so all their talking to me was gibberish. Doctors, nurses, candy-strippers popped in to say, “How are you, Steve?” I heard that often, but didn’t know what it mean. I was labeled non-responsive.

Nothing seemed unusual. I’m in a hospital bed. So what? My head was wrapped to hold my brain together and keep my ear in place. Big deal. My arm was in a shoulder-to-wrist plaster cast hanging from the ceiling. That’s the way of things. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to me. It was an average day.

The next day my mother and father came to take me home. “How are you today?” they both asked. Gibberish. I got a sling, said good-bye to the nurses. Then we drove the four blocks to our house.

We lived in a small town, 6,000 citizens in the ‘60s and 3,400 today.

Note: anytime I write like I know what was being said and done at this time, that info was told to me years later by Carol, my chronicler.

Inside our modest home, next door from grandma’s house, the closest family lined around the living room to greet me. Carol asked me how I was doing. So did grandmother, “How are you, dear?” Neighbor friends told me to snap out of it.

After the welcome ceremony, we opened envelopes from well wishes. “How are you? “Hope you’re fine.” My Aunt Mary sent me an Ollie sock puppet. Little Patty tried to get me to talk to it, but I declined. “Hello, T.T.” No one knew what to do next?

My sister, mother, and grandmother wondered what games I could play? I certainly didn’t know. Roll a ball? Could I play cards, or would I go crazy and kill everyone?

The next day my mother bought me a dump truck. That fixed everything. It’s all I needed in life. Roll that truck, forward and backward. A connection. I would roll that truck around the house for hours and I made truck sounds – Brrrrrrrrrrr. That turned out to be a big deal.

That summer I got a sandbox. My mother told our doctor about our progress. It wasn’t long before we got invited to Erie for special tests, with free train tickets.

My first train ride, oh, boy. It felt good to press my head against the cold glass window

An Erie taxi took is to the Child Trauma Center. We waited in an all-white lobby on white chairs and white elevators.

“The doctor will see you know,” and the secretary held the door open his office door. My eyes had to adjust. His whole office was dark mahogany, cherry, walnut, and word posters. It had a smell to it.

The doctor came in smiling, He said promising things to my mother that made her smile. Then he directed his attention at me, like we were pals. He wheeled over to me and pointed at his top desk drawer. Then he opened it slowly and pulled out an Ollie sock puppet with the brown and white stripes and the red heel for the mouth. I have one just like it. My little sister couldn’t get it to work on me.

This Erie specialist, 120 miles from home, in his mahogany office. put the puppet on his right hand WHILE I WATCHED. He didn’t turn his back, or ask me to look around. He stuck his elbow below his desk and spoke in a goofy voice, with his lips moving all over the place, mouthing those fateful words, “My name is Ollie. How are you today?”