It was an odd thing growing up protected, yet totally vulnerable. I was vulnerable. No one knew why I bled so much. Even the smallest cut would never clot. The slightest bump would leave me looking like I’d been beaten. And no matter how much blood was dripped into my veins, it would pour right back out. I was different. To my siblings, I was Bruiser.
I lived up to my name. I drew horrified stares more often than I care to remember. My first memory of this was sitting in a shopping cart as my mom unloaded the groceries. I was very young, happily swinging my bruised little legs. I distinctly remember the glare of the woman to my left. Her dark angry eyes stared at me, counting each bruise. Then her eyes turned on my mother. I scowled at her. My mother dismissed her. Then my mom folded her palm over my tiny hand and ran her fingers through my hair. It was the first of many such scenes, not unlike scenes I would later experience as a mother.
I was protected. No one knew why I bled so much. One thing both of my parents knew was that I needed more tending to than my siblings. I needed protection. While they never hovered, my mother had a sixth sense about where I was and what I was doing. When she was busy, my older siblings were charged with looking after me.
My sisters took the job seriously. They were little mothers in waiting. My brothers, on the other hand, often took these moments to ensure I lived up to my name. One winter, early in my life, my dad built a sled for me by nailing a fruit crate onto an old wooden sled, creating a protective box. My brothers viewed this as a challenge, promptly figuring out how to “accidentally” dump me. The problem was they always got caught. For as soon as I hit the ground, even with winter padding, a whole new pattern of bruises would erupt.
I learned to live with a body covered in bruises, enduring the judgmental stares of strangers and the affectionate taunts of my siblings. While being called Bruiser often brought me to tears, and despite “accidental” dumpings, I always knew we were family. I was protected.
My childhood provided a visceral understanding from which to make sense of what I would later experience as the mother of children with von Willebrand disease. I had to learn to be tough—albeit bruised—on the outside and strive for tranquility on the inside. I was protected, yet totally vulnerable, and so, too, would be my children.