Play & Book Excerpts
drummer girl
(Koehler Books)
© Sally Dukes
As a child, I traveled where many have trodden, yet very few have returned. Those who have tell of similar experiences. Intellectually, these accounts hold true. Words are spoken from our shared vocabulary: clear light, dark tunnel. These utterances make sense to the listener, and the speaker has captured the moment in time and space; however, the actual experience shakes one’s equilibrium to the core, as there really is no time or space in this other-worldly, sacred moment. On the cusp of age three, with language still in its formative stage, there is no common vocabulary for a life event that transcends life itself, near death. Left with only a felt sense of home as an energy, a shimmer of love and acceptance, there remains an embedded nostalgia, a homesickness, a distant threshold, a longing to return.
The narrative that runs through my days, shadows my past, and clouds my tomorrow is a story woven so deeply within my psyche that I can no longer separate truth from fiction. The tension from both the outer and the inner is so great, so difficult to contain, that the struggle must be forfeited; yet it is not and has not. Instead, it remains as fueled friction that rubs itself into every waking moment, and when sleep embraces consciousness, questions live as unanswered dreams.
This is my story, the story of drummer girl. I am drummer girl; drummer girl is me.
--
Drummer girl was born into a world not easily understood. It was post-World War II, and high hopes were laced with an underlying Cold War fear. At home, a premature baby was born blue. As she grew, she could see her veins snake through her semitranslucent skin and hear the thunderous drumbeat of her heart; others could hear it too. When entering a room, the drumming was footsteps ahead of her actual presence. “Here comes drummer girl,” friends and family would whisper to one another. Drummer girl’s resounding heartbeat was followed by a swirling, gurgling, gushing sound: beat, swirl, gurgle, gush. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. It was this quiet unease that was ever so palpable in drummer girl’s life and rode her with every intake of breath and throb of her heart. Tired resignation silhouetted her mother’s eyes; frustration gripped her father’s jaw. For drummer girl, from the earliest stages of life, fear and love were interwoven as one.
One early morning, drummer girl felt a change. Before long, the neighbors arrived. Many brought food: homemade cookies and brightly colored candies in shiny, clear cellophane wrappers. The lady on the corner, with the long, dark hair, gave drummer girl a stuffed green dog with a squeaker hidden in its chest. The dog looked sleepy, so drummer girl held him close to her heart, and every once in a while, she would hug so hard that the little dog would yelp.
Drummer girl watched and waited. She saw her father reach for his hat and her mother place her handbag over her forearm. Drummer girl could feel the fast beat of her heart; she could hear the rapid beat, swirl, gurgle, gush, and because this frightened her, she pulled the soft, green dog even closer. Emptiness filled her tiny chest. The neighbors stood watching and whispering, their faces tense.
First came her mother’s insistent voice, and then her father’s; it was time to go.
The streets were congested; nothing looked or smelled like home. The buildings were tall, extremely tall, and there were no flower beds or green grass, just concrete and people. In fact, there was very little sunlight; drummer girl had stepped into a world of shadows. Car horns honked relentlessly. This new world was determined to wake her. Drummer girl could hardly keep up with her parents’ quick pace. Their anxiety was now displaced into their bodies, and as her mother’s hand clutched her own, she felt a slight charge. No longer did her touch feel soft and nurturing; her mother was on a mission, and drummer girl was being dragged in her wake.
The doors were framed in gold. If she did not know better, drummer girl could believe that they were entering a castle. And, instead of simply walking through the magnificent doorway, there was a turnstile with multiple revolving doors. This became her favorite part of the journey so far.
The lights shone down from high on the ceiling, and their radiance bounced off the waxed shine on the floor, making a pattern of shades. Clinging tightly to both her mother’s moist palm and her soft, stuffed dog, drummer girl found little comfort.
Before she knew it, drummer girl’s parents, with glistening eyes, were bent over, whispering goodbye. Shaken, she was taken down another hallway. She could see nothing reflected on the patterned floor. Her vision blurred as silent tears fell steadily onto Green Dog’s fur. Sad and alone, she clutched Green Dog with all her might. Who was this person dressed in white? Where was she going? Too young to understand, drummer girl only knew that her heart was breaking, crumbling, piece by piece, step by step: beat, swirl, gurgle, gush, crack.
At the end of the long hallway, she was led into a room where a single bed was pushed tight to the wall. The room was painted a flat gray; a single light cast a soft yellow from the ceiling. There was one window, and drummer girl knew that if she could just get to the window, she could wave to her parents. Once they saw her, they would surely come and take her home. In her mind’s eye, she could envision them getting into their car, and she raced across the room expectantly. When drummer girl reached the glass, she was startled to find that she was up so high, the cars and streets below were very, very small. There was no way to signal her parents; they would not see her, for the sun had set a long time ago. Little drummer girl was to sleep in a strange bed in a strange room. For the very first time in her life, there was no one to tuck her in, rub her back, or read her a story. The night became her enemy; sadness became her stalker.
Drummer girl had been born with a congenital heart malformation, common among premature babies. While in the womb, blood bypasses the lungs and enters the fetus’s aorta via the ducts. In a normal-term baby, the ductus closes shortly after birth. In a premature baby, the ductus may not fully close, sending blood into the pulmonary artery and then into the lungs. Congestive heart failure is only a matter of time. For drummer girl to live, surgery was the only option.
The narrative that runs through my days, shadows my past, and clouds my tomorrow is a story woven so deeply within my psyche that I can no longer separate truth from fiction. The tension from both the outer and the inner is so great, so difficult to contain, that the struggle must be forfeited; yet it is not and has not. Instead, it remains as fueled friction that rubs itself into every waking moment, and when sleep embraces consciousness, questions live as unanswered dreams.
This is my story, the story of drummer girl. I am drummer girl; drummer girl is me.
--
Drummer girl was born into a world not easily understood. It was post-World War II, and high hopes were laced with an underlying Cold War fear. At home, a premature baby was born blue. As she grew, she could see her veins snake through her semitranslucent skin and hear the thunderous drumbeat of her heart; others could hear it too. When entering a room, the drumming was footsteps ahead of her actual presence. “Here comes drummer girl,” friends and family would whisper to one another. Drummer girl’s resounding heartbeat was followed by a swirling, gurgling, gushing sound: beat, swirl, gurgle, gush. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. It was this quiet unease that was ever so palpable in drummer girl’s life and rode her with every intake of breath and throb of her heart. Tired resignation silhouetted her mother’s eyes; frustration gripped her father’s jaw. For drummer girl, from the earliest stages of life, fear and love were interwoven as one.
One early morning, drummer girl felt a change. Before long, the neighbors arrived. Many brought food: homemade cookies and brightly colored candies in shiny, clear cellophane wrappers. The lady on the corner, with the long, dark hair, gave drummer girl a stuffed green dog with a squeaker hidden in its chest. The dog looked sleepy, so drummer girl held him close to her heart, and every once in a while, she would hug so hard that the little dog would yelp.
Drummer girl watched and waited. She saw her father reach for his hat and her mother place her handbag over her forearm. Drummer girl could feel the fast beat of her heart; she could hear the rapid beat, swirl, gurgle, gush, and because this frightened her, she pulled the soft, green dog even closer. Emptiness filled her tiny chest. The neighbors stood watching and whispering, their faces tense.
First came her mother’s insistent voice, and then her father’s; it was time to go.
The streets were congested; nothing looked or smelled like home. The buildings were tall, extremely tall, and there were no flower beds or green grass, just concrete and people. In fact, there was very little sunlight; drummer girl had stepped into a world of shadows. Car horns honked relentlessly. This new world was determined to wake her. Drummer girl could hardly keep up with her parents’ quick pace. Their anxiety was now displaced into their bodies, and as her mother’s hand clutched her own, she felt a slight charge. No longer did her touch feel soft and nurturing; her mother was on a mission, and drummer girl was being dragged in her wake.
The doors were framed in gold. If she did not know better, drummer girl could believe that they were entering a castle. And, instead of simply walking through the magnificent doorway, there was a turnstile with multiple revolving doors. This became her favorite part of the journey so far.
The lights shone down from high on the ceiling, and their radiance bounced off the waxed shine on the floor, making a pattern of shades. Clinging tightly to both her mother’s moist palm and her soft, stuffed dog, drummer girl found little comfort.
Before she knew it, drummer girl’s parents, with glistening eyes, were bent over, whispering goodbye. Shaken, she was taken down another hallway. She could see nothing reflected on the patterned floor. Her vision blurred as silent tears fell steadily onto Green Dog’s fur. Sad and alone, she clutched Green Dog with all her might. Who was this person dressed in white? Where was she going? Too young to understand, drummer girl only knew that her heart was breaking, crumbling, piece by piece, step by step: beat, swirl, gurgle, gush, crack.
At the end of the long hallway, she was led into a room where a single bed was pushed tight to the wall. The room was painted a flat gray; a single light cast a soft yellow from the ceiling. There was one window, and drummer girl knew that if she could just get to the window, she could wave to her parents. Once they saw her, they would surely come and take her home. In her mind’s eye, she could envision them getting into their car, and she raced across the room expectantly. When drummer girl reached the glass, she was startled to find that she was up so high, the cars and streets below were very, very small. There was no way to signal her parents; they would not see her, for the sun had set a long time ago. Little drummer girl was to sleep in a strange bed in a strange room. For the very first time in her life, there was no one to tuck her in, rub her back, or read her a story. The night became her enemy; sadness became her stalker.
Drummer girl had been born with a congenital heart malformation, common among premature babies. While in the womb, blood bypasses the lungs and enters the fetus’s aorta via the ducts. In a normal-term baby, the ductus closes shortly after birth. In a premature baby, the ductus may not fully close, sending blood into the pulmonary artery and then into the lungs. Congestive heart failure is only a matter of time. For drummer girl to live, surgery was the only option.
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Sally Dukes is published in the Journal of Sandplay Therapy (volumes II, III, IX) and has spoken nationally as an educator and psychotherapist. A successful business owner and committed healer, Sally expanded her career through academic pursuits in psychology and contemplative practice. Her studies deepened her understanding of the mythos that can unconsciously shadow one’s persona.
As a psychotherapist, she paid careful attention to her client’s narrative, witnessing their pain, their joy and, in turn, became their unbiased mirror. As an educator, she taught middle school students to give voice to their emerging selves. As an independent editor, she helped writers to better align their messaging with their heart. True healing does not come in a pill or a prescription. It comes when our stories are heard, and our humanity recognized and honored. Sally Dukes believes in the power of narrative as medicine. drummer girl is her narrative, her truth. |
Sally Dukes
Photo Courtesy: Sally Dukes |
