And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434)

by Spungen, Deborah

  I felt love and protectiveness for that tiny infant. I was a mother—that infant’s mother.

  I gestured to the nurse to unwrap the blanket. I wanted to make sure Nancy had all of her fingers and toes—my mother once told me she had counted mine. The nurse unwrapped the blanket and I duly performed the count. There were indeed ten fingers and ten toes. But each of her heels was covered by several gauze patches held on with tape.

  I nodded to the nurse, and she wrapped Nancy back up in her blanket and closed the nursery curtain. A moment later she came out of the nursery to help me back to my bed.

  “Those patches on her heels,” I said. “What are they?”

  “That’s where we take the blood in a newborn, honey,” she said. “We take it from the heel. She needed a lot of tests, the poor thing.”

  Years later, when Nancy had become a heroin addict and I saw her for the first time with needle marks all over her arms, hands, ankles, and the backs of her knees, I remembered the first time I had seen her in the nursery with the gauze patches on her heels.

  I got back into bed to wait. Frank was on his way, and the doctors had promised they’d come tell me what had happened when the procedure was over.

  I tried to suppress my feelings for Nancy. I still hadn’t touched her or nursed her. It would be more sensible if I didn’t feel a lot for her, I decided, because she might very well die.

  But I couldn’t suppress my feelings. I had seen her. She existed. I was her mother, and I was going to do my best to give her a life of love, a life of quality—even if that life ended in an hour. This commitment meant I would now have to cope with a great deal of pain if I lost her; I knew that. But I still felt better than I had during the night.

  Frank was by my side when the doctors came in at about eight. They were both grinning.

  “That’s some kind of fighter you have,” laughed the hematologist. “She screamed and kicked so much I had to tie her down. First time I’ve ever had to tie a baby down for that procedure.”

  “Is she going to make it?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? If she was a boy I’d say you’ve got the future heavyweight champion of the world on your hands.”

  He laughed. We all laughed, we were so relieved.

  “Can we see her?” Frank asked.

  “You bet.”

  I looked for her through the nursery window. My eyes scanned one infant after another sleeping peacefully in a row. She wasn’t one of them.

  She was lying in a glass-enclosed isolette in the very back of the nursery, naked except for a patch over her navel, where the transfusion had been done. Her mouth was open and she was screaming hysterically. Her yellow body was thrashing about angrily. The fighter description was an apt one—she looked as if she were in the midst of a battle.

  “Is she all right?” I asked the doctor, concerned.

  “She doesn’t feel any physical pain. Not to worry.”

  But I did worry. I felt helpless. I wanted to hold her, which was impossible since they wouldn’t let me in the nursery or her out.

  A nurse removed her from the isolette to feed her and Nancy’s little arms and legs flailed wildly. She kicked at the nurse with her tiny feet and screamed. Her minute fists began to beat on her own face. The nurse tried to calm her down but couldn’t.

  I thought it was a good sign that she was so active. It meant she was alive. But she was in pain. I was sure of it—with a mother’s certainty.

  We never knew for certain what effect Nancy’s traumatic birth—the oxygen deprivation, the ABO incompatibility, the blood exchange—had on her later behavior. There were simply too many unknowns.

  But we do know that children who face great life-threatening traumas at birth share many of the same personality characteristics. They spend much of their lives angry. Their behavior is often violent, much of it self-directed, like Nancy’s was. I have seen some of these other children and talked to their parents. A common thread exists.

  This syndrome is presently acknowledged by the medical community and is being dealt with. This was not so in 1958.

  Her bilirubin stabilized after the first exchange, so no more transfusions were necessary. She was four days old when they finally let me hold her.

  I heard a commotion outside my room in the hall. Then I heard the nice nurse, the one who’d let me see Nancy before the exchange, say, “I hope that poor girl is lying down because she just may faint.”

  Then a gang of six or seven smiling doctors and nurses invaded my room. I saw the bundle in the pink blanket, with a shock of dark hair sticking out, and I gasped with surprise and joy.

  I took her in my arms gingerly, afraid I was holding her wrong, but she seemed comfortable enough. I felt the warmth of her body, smelled the sweet baby smell, touched the silky skin of her cheeks, stroked her glossy hair.

  Her eyes were open and she looked up at me. Her eyes were dark. The iris and pupil were the same color. There was a burning intensity in those eyes. They were like coals.

  She wrapped her little fist around my finger. Her skin was still very yellow, but she was very much alive.

  The nurses showed me how to nurse her. Nancy began to feed hungrily. I was so happy. I felt like a queen on a throne. My princess was at my breast, her entourage fanned about, watching with admiration.

  At last I had my baby.

  On the evening of our eighth day there the hematologist came to tell me we could go home in the morning.

  “When do you want to see her again?” I asked.

  “Don’t need to,” he replied. “We checked her for central nervous system damage—she’s A-one. Reflexes normal. She’s gaining weight. As far as I can see, Nancy’s a normal baby. Take her home and treat her like one.”

  So we did. True, Nancy had had a rough beginning in life, but everything was going to be fine now. The baby we took home next morning was a certified healthy and normal baby girl. Almost pink.

  Chapter 2

  Frank had set up a nursery in one of the upstairs bedrooms—my old bedroom, in fact. There was a crib with pink teddy bears on it, and a pink bathinette. My old chest of drawers was now painted white. The room was bright and spotless and beautiful.

  I carried Nancy upstairs and laid her in her crib. Frank and I stood over her, beaming. She looked so sweet in her knitted bonnet and starched white baby dress. It was the same baby dress my mother had brought me home in when I was born. Nancy’s eyes took in the new surroundings.

  “You’re home, Nancy,” I said. “You’re home.”

  Frank put his arm around me. We hugged. We were so happy. We were a family now. Nancy was the start of a whole new, wonderful life for us.

  “Hello, Nanki-poo,” cooed Frank. He grabbed her tiny fingers one by one. “Look at that little Nanki-poo finger … and that Nanki-poo finger … and that one …”

  I undressed her and put her in a pink nightgown. Then I picked her up carefully and sat down with her in the rocking chair Frank had moved in from our room. I began to nurse her. Frank stayed to watch, so filled with pride and love at seeing our child feed at my breast that tears formed in his eyes.

  I had never taken care of a baby before. As a gift, Mother had paid a baby nurse to help me for the first two weeks. I was thrilled. This gave me a chance to get my energy back, catch up on my schoolwork, and learn how to bathe and diaper Nancy from an expert. Mrs. Taylor, a cheery black woman in her fifties, was indeed an expert. She had worked with babies her whole life. She was unbelievably relaxed around Nancy.

  I wasn’t. Especially when it was time for Mrs. Taylor to take her day off at the end of week one. It meant taking care of Nancy all by myself for the first time. I was terrified.

  As soon as Mrs. Taylor walked out the door, Nancy began to cry. I went to her crib, picked her up carefully, and cradled her.

  “There, there, Nancy. Don’t cry,” I said. She didn’t stop. “Mommy’s here, Nancy. Mommy’s here.”

  That made her start screaming. I got frightened
and called out to Frank downstairs.

  He came up. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why’s she screaming?”

  “She doesn’t like me,” I replied as Nancy squirmed and screamed in my arms.

  “Don’t be silly. Maybe she’s hungry.”

  “I just fed her.”

  “Maybe she’s wet.”

  “Mrs. Taylor diapered her before she left.”

  “Well, something must be bothering her. Babies don’t just cry for no reason. Do they?”

  “She doesn’t like me,” I repeated.

  “Maybe you’re holding her wrong.”

  “This is the way Mrs. Taylor showed me.”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get upset. Here, let me try holding her.”

  He cradled her tentatively, lowered his head to her, and made little kissing noises with his mouth. She kept screaming.

  “Hello, Nanki-poo,” he cooed. “What’s wrong with little Nanki-poo?”

  She screamed louder.

  “What the hell, I must be holding her wrong, too.” He handed her back to me.

  By this time Mother had come in. “Why’s she screaming?” she asked.

  “We don’t know,” Frank and I said in unison.

  “Here, let me try,” she offered. She cradled Nancy and rocked her back and forth. The bawling didn’t let up.

  “Maybe,” Mother ventured, “she doesn’t want to be held.”

  “That’s possible,” Frank said. “Why don’t we put her back in the crib?”

  “She was in the crib when she started,” I said.

  “You may as well try,” Mother said.

  I put Nancy back in her crib. She didn’t stop screaming and crying. She cried the whole day. She cried when I diapered her, bathed her, fed her. She screamed when I came in the room.

  I took it very personally. I prided myself on doing things well. I was a good student. I had taught myself to be a good cook. But I was already a total failure as a mother.

  She was still screaming when Frank and I went to bed. He was able to get to sleep anyway. I wasn’t. I got up, wrapped her in her blanket, and carried her downstairs. I got my papers and books together, poured myself a glass of milk, and went to work on my senior thesis at the dining table, Nancy in one arm.

  The sooner I finished my thesis, the sooner I’d get my diploma and become a full-time mother to my baby—a good mother.

  After a while she stopped squirming and bawling and fell asleep. My arm began to ache, but I didn’t put her down.

  I saw the dawn, still writing, still holding Nancy, who was by now wide-awake and screaming again. She was crying when Mrs. Taylor finally arrived.

  Exhausted and frustrated, I poured out my failure to her before she had her coat off. I think I may have even whined. Mrs. Taylor immediately went into action. Off went the coat and hat. Into her arms went Nancy. She began walking her around the room and humming.

  Nancy magically stopped screaming.

  “I did that,” I complained. “It didn’t work. She hates me.”

  “No, she doesn’t. She’s been this way all week,” Mrs. Taylor said.

  “She has?” I’d been so busy with school I hadn’t noticed.

  “Sure. A lot of babies fuss at first, until they get settled. And her having all that trouble her first day, it’s taking her a little longer. It’s just her way. Don’t you worry.”

  “I thought it was me.”

  “Maybe a little,” she admitted.

  “What am I doing wrong?”

  “You’re not comfortable. She senses that. As soon as you relax with her, she’ll relax with you.”

  “Makes sense.”

  It did make sense. Perfect sense. Unfortunately it never worked out that way.

  I did get my diploma that June. And we did move into our own apartment, a small two-bedroom duplex at the end of a block of row duplexes. It was on the other side of Philadelphia in Mt. Airy. Right across the street was a playground with swings and merry-go-rounds, and a bus stop so Frank could get to work easily.

  But Nancy didn’t stop crying and screaming. She screamed all day and all night. She never slept for more than an hour at a stretch, awakening with a scream. I would go to her, cradle her, walk her around. She would stop bawling and eventually fall back to sleep. But as soon as I put her back in the crib, she would start up again.

  Babies do cry. But Nancy did nothing but cry. She would not be diverted or pacified. Her crying was shrill and constant—twenty-four hours a day. She cried while we ate, talked, watched TV, made love, tried to sleep. We were always aware of Nancy crying. I did everything I could. I checked to see if she needed burping, if she was wet, if a pin was sticking her. I got so frustrated I begged her to tell me what was wrong, willing her to speak. There was nothing I could do to make her stop.

  She began to wear us down, make us irritable.

  I described the situation to her first pediatrician, whose office was around the corner from Mother’s house. He said she was probably crying because I didn’t have enough milk for her. I stopped nursing her and put her on formula. She didn’t stop screaming. He said maybe she was still hungry and suggested I try giving her some solid food. I did. She ate everything and began to put on weight. She didn’t stop screaming, though.

  As soon as we moved into our new apartment, I drove Nancy to a new pediatrician. She loved being in the car and slept peacefully—as long as it was moving. As soon as I stopped for a red light, she awoke screaming. It was as if she had antennae all over her, alert to any slight change in the environment. I was sorely tempted to run every red light in Mt. Airy. It’s a wonder I didn’t.

  The new doctor was young, soft-spoken, and friendly. He examined Nancy, listened to my complaint about her, and said, “First off, you’re overfeeding her.”

  “But the other doctor said—”

  “She’s eating too much food. Way too much. As for this continuous crying, let me ask you something, Mrs. Spungen. What do you do when she cries during the night? Do you go to her, comfort her, sit with her?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s your problem right there.”

  “What is?”

  “You’re spoiling her.”

  “Spoiling her? How?”

  “You’re conditioning her to believe that all she has to do in order to get food and love is to cry. She does it to get your attention, and you reward her by giving it to her.”

  “You mean I should just leave her there in the crib screaming?”

  “Exactly. Ignore her. Let her cry herself out. As soon as she realizes she’s not getting any attention, she’ll stop doing it.”

  His diagnosis fit what I had privately suspected right off—that Nancy’s bawling was my fault. I drove her home and told Frank that night what the doctor had said. We vowed not to go to her when she screamed that night.

  She cried for two hours after I put her to bed. I fought my desire to go to her. It was hard.

  “Maybe she’s in pain,” I fretted.

  “Leave her,” Frank said. “The doctor said to leave her.”

  So I did, and she finally stopped. But she started again when we went to bed—turning off the light switch in our bedroom awakened her. It took her two more hours to cry herself out. Her screaming cut through me like a knife, but I followed doctor’s orders.

  This went on for a week. Since the sound of a light switch was enough to awaken her, we learned to sit in the dark after I’d put her to bed. My friend Janet and her husband lived nearby. They came over to visit one night and sat with us in the darkened living room, afraid to utter a single word or use the bathroom. We tiptoed around in stocking feet. We served them iced tea without ice because we were afraid the noise from cracking ice would awaken her. Janet and Myron accepted all of this as normal business with someone who had a new baby. We were the first people they’d ever known who had one. At first I accepted it, too, though I was beg
inning to wonder if all babies were so sensitive and cried so much, if all parents never went to the movies or out to dinner. I did wonder how anyone survived being a parent.

  After a week of this “don’t spoil her” strategy Frank and I were beginning to snap at each other. He kept complaining that he couldn’t stay alert at work because he was so sleepy from Nancy’s middle-of-the-night, two-hour screaming sessions. In desperation I called the doctor and complained that his strategy wasn’t proving effective. He prescribed liquid phenobarbital to help her sleep.

  I kept a baby book for Nancy, in which I noted all of the important days and events in her life as they occurred. I noted the first time Nancy smiled—it was when she discovered that the toy birds in the mobile over her crib would move if she touched them. I pasted in the book a snapshot of Nancy eating her first ice cream cone—most of which ended up on her nose. I noted her first trip to a restaurant—she and I took Frank to Sunken Gardens for Father’s Day (though we had to leave before finishing the main course because she wouldn’t stop screaming). For Nancy’s first birthday I pasted in a snapshot in which she sat with her proud parents watching, a delighted smile on her face and both her hands in the birthday cake.

  I didn’t note, however, that day in the third month of her life when she took her first drug dose. I should have. It was the most significant occasion of them all.

  This doctor, who gave Nancy a drug to control or mask her problems, was the first in a long line. Actually, I think now he prescribed it to her to shut me up. I don’t think he believed me when I described Nancy’s condition. He probably thought I was a selfish, annoying mother and that the phenobarbital would stop my complaining. Phenobarbital was an easy solution. Unfortunately it also covered up whatever the real problem was.

  From phenobarbital to heroin, the road was not paved with good intentions.

  It was a red liquid that came in a little amber bottle. I gave it to her on her tongue with an eyedropper. She would scream for twenty or thirty minutes, then fall asleep for an hour, sometimes two. Then she would wake up and scream. I would give her more every four hours according to the directions.