My earliest memory, when I was 2, is of being in a sanatorium. An endless hall with iron cots resolving finally into a small garden. Everyday for an entire year I was consigned to a small bed with nothing to do. There were of course clown visitations and cheery decorations, but not really any movement unless you count lifting your tush for a bedpan. 3 times a day I was given handfuls of big white pills and I became quite adept at swallowing. Finally one one sunny day I was allowed to go outside into the garden where two other little girls were playing. Very quickly there was a tussle, maybe a doll wasn’t shared, I don’t recall the particulars, but I bit one of the girls. I made her cry. For punishment I was put in a straight jacket and strapped back into my bed. That was until my grandmother arrived furious. The one who rented an apartment to be close to me, moving from Wisconsin to California just to sit with me afternoons. My grandmother, who bought 100’s of Macdonald’s milkshakes for the other children in the ward, screamed at the barbarians to untether me immediately. It wasn’t long after that that I was released
CICCI 