The beginning

As I begin to understand the real impact of my kitchen table, I see that its beginning was not just 2017, when I started writing this blog. It began with the first significant version of me and how that tiny child and her experience shaped all of who I am today. And who I am still becoming.

Say hello to Karen1.

At first, there were simple local pediatric visits, until a specialist became necessary. Within days paralysis set in and walking was out. The diagnosis was polyneuritis, or as it’s now known, Guillain-Barre. A virus that attacks the nervous system and for which there is no treatment. I’ve always described it as being a little like polio.

Then came the big trip to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in NYC. The one that ended, or more accurately began, with my admission to the children’s ward.

We lived in NJ so it was a hike, usually a train ride, for my parents to visit. In those days no parent was allowed any more than normal visiting hours. Certainly not allowed to sleep there. So, I was left in a curtained slot in a ward with all the other sick children.

It still amazes me how much I remember about this experience. It’s spotty for sure but there are definitely moments that could have happened this morning.

Here’s what I remember:

• Confusion
• Fear
• Loneliness
• A lot of stuffed animals and cards my mother put in a scrap book that I still have today
• My grandfather stitting with me for hours, reading books and holding my hand
• A particularly mean nurse ripping a bandaid off my butt only to give me yet another shot. Which, by the way, was what seemed to me to be a shark spear
• The endless stream of doctors
• Voices from the other side of my curtain. Especially one conversation in particular when I heard a doctor tell my parents that “there is nothing we can do but wait and hope that the virus dissipates on its own. But I have to tell you that it’s reached her lungs and one side of her face and if it doesn’t subside she may die.” Yes. Right on the other side of my cheap thin curtain. This was when I could only smile on one side. This I will never forget.

Then there was the unfortunate fact that it was winter and one day there was a big snow storm. My mom wanted to train in anyway, but my dad refused. “ It’s too dangerous” he said. The storm may have been a blizzard that lasted for days – this I cannot remember. But I do remember endless days of solitude.

By some miracle, my tiny body began to win the fight and the virus lessened bit by bit. Within about a month, I was discharged home to extensive home physical therapy and to heal.

Eventually, I returned to the school bus and here I am today.

The point of this story is this.

Prior to this experience I am told that I was an outgoing, feisty, funny, vivacious child. After, as my mother put it, I became her “shrinking violet”. Quiet, solitary, shy, uninterested, hesitant to make friends, or do anything.

I now understand the impact that this experience had on me. Each version of me around the kitchen table is, one way or another, a reaction or response to it. Like the “Karen bitch” who pushes people away. Or the “shy Karen” always hiding so as not to be seen. The “Karen” that can only be alone for a limited time before spiraling into an anxious puddle. The “defensive Karen” who stubbornly gets immediately offended when told that she is wrong. And certainly “anxious Karen”, who fears everything and everyone, trusting no one. She smacks right into “runner Karen”. The runner is always moving because, of course, you can’t hit a moving target. She turns and runs from everything that is unknown or maybe even known. Either way, whatever is threatening triggers the starting gun. She runs partly to escape fear and uncertainty and partly because she can.

As I said, my mother always told me that after that I was never the same.

In many ways all of the identities that sit around my kitchen table are an unintentional way of dealing with that 4 1/2 year old reality.

Some might meet this story with horror – especially moms. Some with doubt that an experience like that would have such a lifelong impact. And some with sadness. But I have met this with something extraordinary. First, that I’m fucking lucky to be here today and second that there is NO TIME TO WASTE.

The many versions of me serve to protect me from the fear and loneliness that polyneuritis left behind.

So, when you look around your table try to understand that each of your many selves serve a purpose. They are vivid examples of your own individual history. And they are to be embraced. Embraced as life savers and also as what makes you unique.

I will admit that the Karens just keep coming.

• Some are unintentional.
• Some are fueled by the underlying need, whether I know it or not, to be who I was before.
• Some are somewhat “deliberate” in that they are trying to overcome what polyneuritis left behind – like the one writing this.
• Some are just triggered by a current event.

But all are part of the tapestry of who I am.