Watching Tippy: How a Three-Year-Old Goes from Dog Watching to Pain
The injury symbolized an early affront to my relationship with my mother, which could never and did never repair
On a summer day in 1954, as a three-year-old inquisitive toddler, I wanted to find a new way to explore my backyard at our three-bedroom house on Jeffrey Drive in Pleasant Hill, CA.
Mama kept my older brother Donnie, age six, and I outside of the house so she could keep it clean, so I had time to explore. That’s when I heard Tippy, the neighbor’s grey-haired terrier, scampering and barking in the backyard next door.
Since I was so short, I found a tin pail which Papa used for watering, and I turned it over next to the slotted fence and clumsily hoisted myself onto it. This made me more than a foot taller, and I could see Tippy better.
Tippy barked excitedly at me. I watched her intensely, moving my head from left to right as she darted back and forth along the fence. As I jumped to see better, the pail slipped out from beneath me. I fell on the overturned pail, hitting my chin. I cried out in pain and put my fingers on my wounded chin. Blood covered my hand — I had never seen blood before.
Afraid and hurting, I opened the screen door, which led to the kitchen. Dots of my blood sprinkled the white tile floor — looking like the red Tiddlywinks that my brother, Donnie, and I played with.
I looked up to Mama, hoping for comfort and a reassuring hug. Instead, she frowned and scolded me for soiling her clean floors. Mama promptly cleaned the floor before attending to my wound. Afterwards, clearly annoyed, Mama grimaced while she placed a warm, wet washcloth on my chin and later applied a band-aid.
My brother, Junee, at just one year old, occupied most of my mother’s time. Her main goal was to keep him clean, fed, and quiet; which meant there was no room for me.
I retreated to my bedroom, wondering what I had done wrong, how my chin would get fixed, and when Papa would come home to comfort me. I covered myself in a light green blankie which made me feel more secure, and I remember laying stiffly on the bed.
I was afraid of turning and messing up the bed sheets or staining my pillowcase with blood. I fell asleep and the warm wash-cloth eventually became cold. As I dozed, it slipped from my face, and later, I found it rumpled on my chest. The hours dragged by until Papa came home from work and discovered me.
Papa came into the room with gentle consolation, touching me on my head and worriedly gazed at my injury. I wondered if my dad was going to fix this, much like he did with other chores around the house.
Instead of fixing me himself, he reassured me by saying, “I’m taking you to the Emergency Room so the doctors can fix your chin.” He placed a new warm, wet washcloth to hold against my chin, which was so soothing. With that, he positioned me in the front seat of our early 1950’s brown and white Ford Sedan without a seatbelt or a car seat.
When we arrived at the Kaiser Emergency Room, Papa cradled me in his arms as he took me inside. He then placed me gently on a gurney before they took me back to be examined.
While Papa left for the waiting room, the nurses and doctors attended to me by placing a paper drape over my upper chest area, and I heard it rustle as the doctor moved back and forth to examine me.
I shook at the abrupt application of the cool antiseptic and the pain of sutures being sewn onto my lacerated chin. Leaving the ER, I felt as if I had been a broken China doll repaired with special adhesive.
Papa carried me into the house when we got home, and I sat at the table while Mama prepared me some cream of mushroom soup, which became one of my favorites. I showed Mama and my brother, Donnie, the stitches on my chin and they looked rather indifferent. Neither of them offered me much comfort or sympathy.
After brushing my teeth, I stepped down the hall into my room and changed into my white flannel nightgown. As a dutiful little girl, I bent on my knees and mumbled good night to everyone and asked God to let me sleep without pain. As I hoisted myself into bed, I settled off to sleep, sadly remembering what happened today and hoping my chin would heal soon.
About a week later, my dad, instead of returning to the hospital for suture removal, took them out himself. It felt strange to sense the thick threads moving out of place in my chin and into the garbage.
Then, Papa took a warm washcloth and wiped me down. My chin remained closed, and Papa was my hero once again. I suffered no ill effects of his at-home doctoring, and I realize that moments like these created an idealized version of who my father was that my siblings did not share.
Though I showed minimal physical scarring, emotional scars lingered. Seemingly impenetrable walls provided a barrier between Mama and her children, and even amongst the siblings themselves.
I never received satisfying answers from my mother on why she couldn’t love me or my siblings even though that was her job. Now looking in my mind’s eye, years later, watching Tippy and getting injured symbolized an early affront to our mother/daughter relationship, which could never, and did never, repair.
