I recall being told "if you swallow your gum, it will stick to your ribs" by one of my brothers one day. That night I had a stomach ache and couldn't sleep.
Grandma got out her bakery whole wheat bread, toasted it and slathered it with butter to settle my stomach. While sitting on her lap at the table in the big kitchen, I revealed the bitter truth to my mom across the table: I would probably need gum removal surgery.
The two giggled and asked who told me gum sticks to ribs and I divulged the name.
Relieved I wouldn't need to be sliced open to get the Doublemint Gum out from between my ribs, I sauntered off to bed with a full tummy and nothing but dreams ahead for the night.
"Sweet dreams," Mom would say to me every night before bed.
There were some nights it was just Grande Anne giving me multiple kisses on the neck and ears, sending shivery tingles up and down my spine and making the giggles start up. I'm sure Mom did the same thing, too. I just can't recall that.
There have been many memories that have blurred together and mixed into the stew I call my life.
It was all too soon that Mom, my brothers and I moved into a cute little rambler with a basement apartment. My grandpa was able to work through all the financials so my mom could get her little family on with life on their own.
Austin Avenue was a sweet little neighborhood in the late 60s/early 70s. Adventures were behind every corner. Mom gave us a lot of freedom. She also had to get babysitters from time to time because she had a full-time job not too far from our house. She worked with the health department and very much enjoyed her new-found freedom of bringing home a paycheck.
Not only adventure was behind every corner. And not every babysitter was kind.
At a young age of three, a 14-year-old boy babysitter took away what can never be given back to me: he raped me. My brothers were, at the very least, molested as this boy removed his clothing and told all three of us to touch his private parts.
It happened right there on the couch in the front room of our little home. It was disgusting in that I remember my brothers touching and me feeling so defiled and petrified beyond belief.
It terrorizes me to this day - one of the few memories I remember inside that house.
I weep with sorrow for the loss that little girl endured. The shame is still so strong.
I have kept the secret from my mother until now as I push the "publish post" button on this page.
The need for healing has now surpassed the shame.
