Lauren Trembath-Neuberger

Blizzard, 1990

i.

I am three, yearning for the warmth and comfort of my diaper, perching on my potty chair, and I am unable to let go. I can’t. I’m not to move until I go, and I can’t. It burns. Cold air between my legs, against my skin, against the burning. Fire breaks out inside of me, spears my stomach, and rises up and up until it radiates into my throat. I yell.

ii.

Snow thrashes against my emerald coat as my mother’s hand latches hard on my arm. Yellow streetlights dull the dense, white flakes. I’m fire. I’m flesh. I’m whisked through the jaundiced blizzard without feeling its wailing breath of winter. There is only heat. Doors whir open, and then shut. The hospital.

iii.

A paper-thin dress is wrestled onto my body—I want no clothes, to be bare, to let out the fire. Adults rotate around my supine body, flat and cold against the table. They cast shadows on my body, block out the room’s light. Words soar past my ears; I understand nothing; I only burn. My mother rises above me, forces my hands to my sides, holds my body down, whispers in my ear again and again—I’m sorry.
 
iv.

A man hovers over me, his mouth moves, and he’s gone. A latexed finger pushes inside  me, inside my private parts, piercing the fire. I yell. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry she whispers. My naked back freezes to the metal table, and I’m fire on ice, glowing, invaded, betrayed. Cold seeps inside of me, occupies me, consumes me—the man’s finger slides out, the fire is gone, the burning ceases. It is silent—I am frigid and still.

v.

That didn’t happen.  I was three, it was winter, and I refused to go potty anywhere but my diaper. I developed a urinary tract infection, I couldn’t stop screaming, I was rushed to the hospital in a blizzard, and it was treated with antibiotics. There was no penetration, my mother tells me. No examination. No whispered apologies.  Still, I insist—this is my first memory.

Lauren Trembath-Neuberger is an Iowan lesbian who is overcoming childhood potty issues and a very long last name. At her recent wedding in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, she discovered that nearly every guest from a city with a population greater than 20,000 believed they were to be murdered, due to the brides' persistent warnings that guest cabins had no internet access, phone service, or television. She is proud to announce that not only was no one murdered, the brides were also successfully married.

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