I was born in 1961 - the "bad old days" supposedly.I was blessed,gifted, whatever you want to call it - I was just lucky. Today, 36 years later, I'm left with a faint scar on my lip, a bridge that covers the remnants of my hard palate cleft (between my left front tooth and what would have been my left incisor), and a slightly mis-shapen nose. Oh, and when I'm very tired and have taken my bridge out, I lisp.

What are my memories? As far as being a cleft child, my earliest memories are of being the center of attention! My folks didn't have insurance, and were rated as "poor", so I qualified for the best surgeon in Indianapolis, Dr. Bennett who taught at IUPUI, James Whitcomb Riley Memorial Hospital. I don't remember my first 2 surgeries - I was 6 weeks and 18 months. My mother remembers them, they were hell on her. My 3rd surgery, to correct the front part of my cleft hard palate, I remember - as an adventure! I went to sleep for awhile, I woke up and everyone gave me presents! I loved it! I got games and toys and a new dress! And my first real book - Mom gave me The Bobbsey Twins in Lakeport. Before that, I'd only had Dr. Suess. (I think I was 6 - it was before 1st grade.)

I guess I really didn't know what what scar meant, and what my hospital visits meant, until I was in 4th grade. Mom and I were at Riley for my annunual visit, and someone left the file in the room with us. I started paging through it, and found my pre-op pictures - very graphic, not like the pictures Mom had taken of me when I was a baby. That lip - or lack therof - was right there. "Oh, Mommy," I asked her, "How could you love me? I was so ugly!" Mom looked me straight in the eye and said, "I have always loved you." I didn't believe her - I had just seen the pictures. Dr. Shanks (my speech therapist/audiologist) took me into another room with the pictures, and we went throught them. He pointed out to me what the surgeons had done for me, he pointed out to me how pretty my eyes were, he pointed out to me how little had changed. He told me that if I were a big girl, I would see the truth; if I weren't a big girl, then the pictures wouldn't help. He was a very wise man.

The summer before I entered Junior High, my girlfriend Judy and I hung out at an overpass by out neighborhood; this was where the kids raced mini-bikes, this is where we went to get away. Judy and I were sitting under the bridge when a guy in a VW Van pulled up and asked us if we knew where there was a Catalpa Tree - he wanted the seed pods for fishing. Judy knew where one tree was, and I knew where another was - but they were in different directions. As we gave him our garbled directions, he interrupted us and asked me, "Who's your surgeon?"

"What?" I asked, covering my lip.

"No, don't do that, my daughter Ramona was born with a cleft lip, who's your surgeon?"

I took my hand away from my mouth. "Dr. Bennett at Riley," I said.

"My daughter was born with a harelip, too," he said, waving his wallet at me, showing a picture of a dark haired girl. "Are you girls here every day?

"Sometimes, usually," Judy said grudgingly.

"I'll be here next Thursday," the man said, "My name is Bill, and I wanna bring Ramona here." He pointed at me, " I want her to see how beautiful she'll be when she grows up."

I had never had anyone outside my family call me beautiful: I told Mom about it, and she told Gramma. Judy and I went back to the bridge, but Bill never showed.

But you know, if anyone here knows someone name Ramona whose Dad's name is Bill - he made a difference in my life. (And her baby pictures were gorgeous!) And I thank him.

I don't know, maybe it's different for me...my era, or whatever...but there are worse things that could have happened to me. My cousin Brian was profoundly retarded. My cousin Tommy was severely brain-damaged. We were all born within a few years of each other. I live, I love my husband, I enjoy life. I have been blessed, and I know it. My mom is always there for me, as was my Gramma. I still have my Mom, I lost my Gramma last year.

I don't think about the cleft very often these days, and when I do mention it, or when someone asks me about the scar, I tend to joke about it. A co-worker asked me about it once, and I went into my song-and-dance routine, explaining the defect, the surgeries, everything. She listened sympathetically, saying, "That must have been very difficult, all those operations."

"Well, you know what the worst thing was? When I was little, our phone number was 787-7667. Do you know how hard it is to say that when you lisp?" I said.

"I can imagine," she clucked, "but it was all taken care of, right?"

"Oh yes," I assured her. "We moved when I was 8 and got a different phone number." (Rim-shot, please!)

Sometimes I'm reminded in the most bizarre ways that I was born with a cleft palate. It was a complete cleft, and I still have an opening in my palate. When I had the first bridge built, to replace the malformed front tooth that had been pulled when I was 10 or so, the dentist didn't study my X-rays carefully enough; when he gave me a novacaine injection, the needle hit boney tissue at the base of my nose. ("That shouldn't have been there!" he said at the time, like I had deliberately shifted my bone structure at the moment of injection.) I felt like an idiot as my nose hurt for the next week. I didn't like shots before having the bridge built, and this experience sure didn't change my mind.

Five years after the first bridge was built (you didn't think this was an engineering page, did you?), I needed a root canal on my left incisor, which was part of the bridge. I had a new dentist by then, Andy. He was really excited about doing this root canal, because it meant my old bridge wouldn't fit and he'd get to design a new one. (I think Andy's an artist at heart and dentistry just pays the bills.) We studied my X-Rays carefully as I told him about my previous experience. He carefully poked around my mouth to map out where the injections would be placed. He also prescribed a mild sedative to take before the appointment ("the better to keep you off the ceiling, my dear," he explained), so we were both confident that this would be a simple procedure.

I arrived for my appointment, slightly happy from the Valium, and opened my mouth (and closed my eyes) obediently as he stabbed me with the needle. "You'll feel a pinch," he said soothingly. I did. "Another pinch," he said, moving the needle. Yep, another pinch...and something new: a terrible, acrid liquid was now pouring down the back of my throat.

"Aaagh," I said, raising my index finger to get his attention. My eyes were now wide open. "Aaaaggh, ah ease." (Which, as any dentist will tell you, means "Stop, please.")

He withdrew the needle and I sat up, coughing and spitting. "You hit the cleft," I gagged, "You're shooting that stuff down my throat! My tonsils are numb!"

He stared at me in disbelief. "I can't believe you were so calm about that!"

"You had a needle aimed at my brain!" I spit, "What was I supposed to do?" We both had to go have a cigarette before continuing; when he told me he had to inject me again (since I'd swallowed most of the first dose), I pointed out that he was shaking as badly as I was. "You're not coming near me with that thing until we both calm down!"

We laugh about it now. Well, I laugh about it. He probably doesn't like me telling this story, much less publishing it on the Web. He still seems a little embarrassed when I tease him about it. (But if you live in the Northwest Chicago Suburbs and want a fantastic dentist, email me for his name and number. He's still the only person I'll let near my teeth!)

I know I'm practicing selective memory here; I've chosen to remember the good things, like Dr. Shanks and Bill, while discarding the more painful memories. It's a conscious choice. I'm not saying that bad things didn't happen to me, I've just chosen not to give them as much importance as the good things. (Although there are times when I fantasize about running into the jerk I went to high school with who tormented me; in that fantasy, he's some incredible loser who is just in awe of my scintillating personality and phenomenal intelligence while I generously forgive him for the torment in the most patronizing manner possible.)

This is just my story. I've included a link below for a great Web Site, called "Wide Smiles". I especially recommend reading the story about Thumper, the Cleft-Affected Bunny.

©1997 Lisa Stalnaker Hellwig

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