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SICKENED(ISBN=9780553381979) 英文原版书籍详细信息
- ISBN：9780553381979
- 作者：暂无作者
- 出版社：暂无出版社
- 出版时间：2004-09
- 页数：暂无页数
- 价格：45.80
- 纸张：胶版纸
- 装帧：平装
- 开本：32开
- 语言：未知
- 丛书：暂无丛书
- TAG：暂无
- 豆瓣评分：暂无豆瓣评分
内容简介：
A young girl is perched on the cold chrome of yet another
doctor’s examining table, missing yet another day of school. Just
twelve, she’s tall, skinny, and weak. It’s four o’clock, and she
hasn’t been allowed to eat anything all day. Her mother, on the
other hand, seems curiously excited. She's about to suggest
open-heart surgery on her child to "get to the bottom of this." She
checks her teeth for lipstick and, as the doctor enters, shoots the
girl a warning glance. This child will not ruin her plans.
Sickened
From early childhood, Julie Gregory was continually X-rayed,
medicated, and operated on—in the vain pursuit of an illness that
was created in her mother’s mind. Munchausen by proxy (MBP) is the
world’s most hidden and dangerous form of child abuse, in which the
caretaker—almost always the mother—invents or induces symptoms in
her child because she craves the attention of medical
professionals. Many MBP children die, but Julie Gregory not only
survived, she escaped the powerful orbit of her mother's madness
and rebuilt her identity as a vibrant, healthy young woman.
Sickened is a remarkable memoir that speaks in an original and
distinctive Midwestern voice, rising to indelible scenes in prose
of scathing beauty and fierce humor. Punctuated with Julie's actual
medical records, it re-creates the bizarre cocoon of her family's
isolated double-wide trailer, their wild shopping sprees and
gun-waving confrontations, the astonishing na?veté of medical
professionals and social workers. It also exposes the twisted bonds
of terror and love that roped Julie's family together—including the
love that made a child willing to sacrifice herself to win her
mother's happiness.
The realization that the sickness lay in her mother, not in
herself, would not come to Julie until adulthood. But when it did,
it would strike like lightning. Through her painful metamorphosis,
she discovered the courage to save her own life—and, ultimately,
the life of the girl her mother had found to replace her. Sickened
takes us to new places in the human heart and spirit. It is an
unforgettable story, unforgettably told.
From the Hardcover edition.
书籍目录：
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作者介绍：
JULIE GREGORY grew up in southern Ohio. She is now an expert
writer and spokesperson on Munchausen by proxy and an
advocate
in MBP cases. A graduate student in psychiatry at Sheffield
University, England, she currently lives in the United
States.
From the Hardcover edition.
出版社信息：
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书籍摘录：
The part I hated most was the shaving.
I mean, if you're a twelve-year-old girl, how much hair can you
have on your chest? But they'd lather me up anyway and run a new
plastic Bic between my barely-there breasts. They needed me smooth
and hairless so the little white pads would stick to those points
constellated around my heart and record my beats. And while they
were preparing, I'd hover above myself, intent on studying the
nubby white ceiling tiles, imagining a room where I lived,
inverted, upon the ceiling, away from the clutter of our trailer,
away from the hospital--just floating in pure, white peace.
The scent of the shaving cream pulls me back down from the
ceiling: It's the same kind Dad used. Every day before dawn, he'd
erupt in violent heaving and crawl off to the toilet trying to peel
the Agent Orange from his lungs. Sometimes the sounds of his
retching would come out the mouths of those elusive figures in my
dreams, the worlds between sleep and wake merging seamlessly for a
few groggy moments. He'd usually shave after he puked.
In an unspoken understanding, the examining room nurse folds a
giant pile of cream from the can onto her palm, so much that as she
smooths an inch-thick trail down my chest, our naked skin never
touches.
Eventually the tide of Agent Orange would ebb and he'd lean dizzy
in the doorway and say, "I'm selling Buicks, Sissy. Get it? Selling
Buicks? Buuicck. Buuuuiiick." Then he'd cackle and brush the back
of his meaty fist across his mouth.
The nurse picks up a new blue-handled blade and runs it neatly
down my sternum, slicing out another clean, pink row.
And what do you do at seven in the morning but laugh with your
big, lumbering father, who's pretending the doorway of the bathroom
is a lamppost and that he, leaning on it like a drunk, is hawking
Buicks in his best barker accent?
And then they're done. The white pads have been spread with a
clear magnetic jelly and pressed on to six different locations.
Their wires run into one larger river of wires that flows from
under my sternum down my abdomen, emerging out the zipper of my
pants like I had some elaborate cable TV pay-per-view setup in
there. The rubber-coated electrodes feed into a tape recorder that
fits snugly into a rectangular leather harness; it looks like a
purse. I wear the strap over my shoulder, and while my
seventh-grade life ticks away, so do the heartbeats that go with
it, right into the box.
For starters, I was a sick kid. Beanpole skinny and as fragile as
a microwave souffle, I bruised easy and wilted in a snap. Kids in
school used to walk straight up to me and ask point-blank if I was
anorexic. But I wasn't; just sick. And Mom bent over backwards
trying to find out what was wrong with me. It wasn't just that I
had a heart problem. It was everything rolled into one, bleeding
together with so many indistinguishable layers that to get to the
root of it was impossible, like peeling off every transparent layer
of an onion, and when I got old enough to peel the onion myself,
every layer made me cry.
I was conceived in the sickly womb of a sickly mother--who
starved herself and in turn starved me. She was highly anemic and
blind with toxemia at the time of my birth--the result, she
explained, of high blood pressure cutting off the circulation to
her eyes. I was pushed into this world premature at three pounds
seven ounces, an embryonic little bird, glowing translucently, and
when they slapped me I didn't even yowl. They thought I was dead.
The doctor, holding my bluish body upside down by the ankles, took
one look at me and said, "My, what big feet she has." And then I
was ushered into an incubator where I lay, as all embryonic
creatures do, waiting to hatch into the real world, outside the
bubble. After that, my health only balanced precariously on the
edge of a "Let's get to the bottom of what's wrong with this kid"
kind of existence.
There were early nose-'n'-throat flare-ups, loud belching that
defied my delicate appearance, pesky and persistent migraines,
swollen tonsils that fluttered a plea for removal whenever I said
"Ahhh," a deviated septum blamed for my mouth hanging open to
breathe, and elusive allergies that forever deprived me of
sustenance from the four basic food groups. As we got closer to
pinning down my mysterious illness in the cardiology department,
Mom moved into micromanaged health care with the logistical vigor
of a drill sergeant.
"Look, dammit, this kid is sick, all right? Just look at her. And
so help me God, if she dies on me because you can't find anything
wrong with her, I'll sue you for every cent you got." Mom's face
was long, her eyes diving into slits, and she had that little white
blob of thick spit that always played on her bottom lip whenever
she got upset. Her voice trailed after any doctor who said no more
tests could be done, stalked him down the corridor, sliced through
the silence of the hallway.
"Jeesus Christ," she hissed, returning to the examining room, "I
cannot believe that incompetent son of a bitch."
"Don't worry, Mom. It's okay. We'll go find another one."
This is how I offered reassurance, by telling her we'd just keep
going.
"Look, I'm trying to help you with this, sacrificing my life to
find out what the hell is wrong with you. So stop fucking it up
when we get in here by acting all normal. Show them how sick you
are and let's get to the bottom of this, okay?"
"Okay."
We lived together day in and day out--me, Mom, Dad, little Danny,
and then later, the foster kids--but Dad never knew I was getting
my chest shaved. He was summoned by Mom with a set of "decent
clothes" and the boxed white loafers only when a demonstration of
fatherly support was paramount at a hospital. Otherwise, he was
left to his back-to-back reruns of M*A*S*H, his red-stained
pistachio fingers and mounds of empty nut carcasses piled high on
his belly.
We lived in a double-wide trailer then, stuck on the dead end of
a dirt road in a backwoods patch of Ohio; a wild, woolly green,
lushed-out part of the country with roller coaster hills that held
their breath in a Deliverance kind of way. I swear you could almost
hear the banjos folded faintly into the breeze.
My parents had hauled their black velvet painting of Jesus
crucified, with the 3-D blood from the crown of thorns blobbing
down the side of his head, all the way from Arizona and then
through the six other places we'd lived until we settled in the
holler of Burns Road.
Our living room was outfitted with an early imitation-wagon-wheel
velour sofa set, and Jesus hung against the burnt-orange velvet
wallpaper, which had been pasted over wood paneling, so that the
grooves showed through as darkened, hollow stripes. Sticky shag (as
if someone had vacuumed up honey) swayed like undulating seaweed
across the floor. Miniature concrete farm animals dotted our yard
in pairs and groups--white baby chicks, mini cows with pink udders,
roosters a-courting hens, a donkey in a sombrero--and when we were
in town for my doctors' appointments, Mom always kept an eagle eye
out for additions to her barnyard collection.
I remember my dad then, manateelike; big, soft, scrubbed clean as
if he'd just been run through a car wash on a La-Z-Boy gurney.
Naked white skin stretched taut over an enormous belly, the pallor
of sick clay. No hearing. No sight. No opinion. The dark living
room of our trailer held nothing---except sporadic uproarious
laughter to the endless hijinks of Hawkeye and Hunnicut.
Once, when I was seven, I lay in bed drifting to sleep when Dad
roared, "Siiissy! Siiisssssy!" I leapt out of bed, thinking "FIRE,"
and tore down the hall in slippery full-footed pajamas.
"Fix me some toast, will ya?" Dad's fingers placidly folded over
his chest, thick calves propped up on the snapping-turtle hinges of
the recliner footrest, he never took his eyes off the set.
Aside from trips to the doctor, we mostly stayed home in that
trailer on the dead end of a dirt road, and there was a great gulf
between how we really were and how we looked when we got out. I
have a photo from when I was about eleven and Danny, my brother,
was just four, when we drove up to Niagara Falls for a vacation.
We're in a fake wooden barrel that looks like it was careening over
the side of the falls, and we each wear a smile that couldn't have
been more plastic than the water swirling around us. I am naturally
blond by Clairol, wearing the latest in JCPenney pastels, and
exuding happiness.
But happiness is relative when you're twelve, sitting in a
chrome-on-steel examination room, goose bumps giving you that
plucked-chicken look, with a nubbly paper sheet tucked into your
clammy armpits. Until now the answers had run like whispers over
the hills just ahead of us. A little intermittent tachycardia here,
some Marfanoid habitus there. Never anything code-red enough to get
me completely, legitimately diagnosed. But they kept looking.
Because Mom was positive that the answer was right there in my
heart. A mother knows these things. She's the one who'd see me go
ashy in the face, she's the one who'd take my skipping pulse, and
she's the one who watched the weight fall right off my bones, all
the while my height skyrocketed. So that's what flamed us onwards,
after the answer. It was right there, just always right there
before us, waiting to be sussed out, and then it would all make
sense. And in some ways, she was right. But time might be running
out for me, so when Mom insisted on another test and they wouldn't
do it, well, that's when we'd get the hell out of there and try to
find somebody who knew what they were doing.
My mother, Sandy Sue Smith, was married off by her mother at the
tender age of seventeen to a man in his fifties named Smokey, who
kept a carnival act on the edge of town. Smokey was a small, tight
man with crisp tabs of sideburns that sliced down from under his
curled black cowboy hat. He had trick riding horses, horses trained
for the carnival ring, and he taught Sandy Sue to do outrageously
dangerous stunts with names like "The Apache Flyaway" and "Lay Over
the Neck." After the stunts, Smokey would strap Sandy to a pegged
wooden wheel, set it spinning, and throw nineteen-inch-long knives
at her. And then there she'd be, having survived the ten sharp
blades that jutted haphazardly from the cracked wood around her,
smiling brightly with one leg cocked, like a model, a dainty hand
flipped above in triumph. This was before she had me but I've seen
the pictures and they are stunning: She stands tall upon the bare
back of a wild, white horse blurring across a field, with a
ruby-tangerine-streaked sky as the backdrop.
In another photo Smokey is snapping a twenty-five-foot braided
leather bullwhip out toward Sandy, who stands pinned to the horse
trailer with an expressionless face, the whip side-winding like a
snake about to coil around her throat. They wear matching outfits
of black-and-white yoked satin shirts with pearl snap buttons,
silver conchs sewn down their trouser seams, and belt buckles the
size of serving platters.
How Sandy ended up with Smokey goes something like this: She has
a mother and a father and an older brother named Lee, who is a
little off, wink, wink. The father ignores the family, keeps his
attention on a gun collection stashed throughout the house. The
mother, Madge, is from a clan of West Virginians who sleep with
their own brothers and sisters and have cross-eyed children to
prove it. Sandy is occasionally left with men that do terrible
things to her in a shadowy basement. The father with the guns is
replaced one day by another gun-toting father--only this time with
a badge. He makes Sandy ride behind him on his motorcycle with his
hand curved around and resting on her bare leg. He takes her to
remote fishing holes with tall grass and the occasional fisherman
who looks the other way. Two years later, Sandy walks in from
school to find this new dad has stuck a gun in his mouth and blown
himself apart right there on the living room sofa.
Madge has a tenth-grade education and has never worked a day in
her life. There is scarcely ever food in the house. Sandy's given
no lunch money and by the time she's fifteen, she's famished.
Sinking in on herself with malnutrition, she collapses on one of
the floors she scrubs with ammonia after school. In the hospital
she lies with pelvic bones poking through thin white sheets, while
they feed her three meals a day. When she's strong enough to be
discharged, Madge gives her to Smokey, a man who lives down the
road with horses and a farm, a man who can take care of her as well
as he does his own cattle. And she climbs into his truck with
going-to-girls'-town enthusiasm, lured by the promise of her very
own horse. Off she goes with a man. It is all she's known.
Years go by with Sandy strapped to the wheel: white leather,
showgirl's smile. Coal black hair separated down the middle into
leather tunnels that lace up the side in Indian squaw fashion,
accentuating the trace of Cherokee blood that gives her the high
cheekbones and blushed full lips. She runs alongside as her gift
horse tumbles into a full gallop, grips its long, flying mane, and
then, clutching the horn, springs into the saddle with a panther's
grace, pushing to balance her way up until she is standing tall
while the spectators cheer. Still running at a breakneck speed, she
plunges under the horse's belly and thrusts her arm out in
performance-style splendor, ta-daaaaa. This is the Russian Death
Drag. She has captured an audience and, for the first time in her
existence, something other than a life, a body full of pain.
From the Hardcover edition.
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媒体评论
“A painful but wonderfully written memoir that should create
greater awareness of a bizarre disorder… Keen self-awareness, a
sharp eye for details, and an original, poetic voice.”
--Kirkus Reviews
“This story of unfathomable child abuse is told with remarkable
wit, compassion, and courage. It’s a work of beauty from a beast of
a childhood.”
--Augusten Burroughs, author of Running with Scissors and
Dry
“Like some Diane Arbus photograph come to life, Julie Gregory's
Sickened offers us a portrait of quintessential American Disturbos
in all their tender, heinous can't-look-and-can't-look-away glory.
A miraculous book by a woman whose very survival is itself a
miracle.”
--Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight
“Set in a southern-culture-on-the-skids world reminiscent of J.T.
Leroy, Sickened is written with a lyrical directness that is both
riveting and horrific. Julie Gregory reminds us that those who find
the courage to slay the dragons of their past and stop the cycle of
abuse are the true heroes of the world.”
--Ann Magnuson, actress, singer, writer
"A stunning account by a courageous woman who journeyed from the
depths of hell to reclaim her own power and worth. Julie Gregory
casts an extraordinary beacon of healing. You will be hearing a lot
about this one.”
--Alan Cohen, author of I Had It All the Time
"A born storyteller with perfect pitch, Julie Gregory guides the
reader through this surreal form of cruelty, in which the ultimate
weapon is the scalpel, with originality, gusto and heart-stopping
courage."
--Sylvia Fraser, author of My Father's House: A Memoir of Incest
and of Healing
"Gripping self-disclosure by a remarkable young woman . . .
Sickened will surely and finally impact the proper diagnosis and
treatment of children caught in the terror of MBP."
--Chris Monaco, Ph.D., Director, Childhelp USA National Child
Abuse Hotline
“This searing and beautiful memoir represents a genuine
triumph
of the human spirit.”
--Marc D. Feldman, M.D.
From the Hardcover edition.
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