Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Thursday, Feb. 20, 2003 - 12:23 a.m.

When I was a little girl - kindergarten or so, I ate a bunch of my mother's Valium when she left the bottle on the counter one Sunday afternoon. I remember doing it, sitting on the bathroom counter in my little red and white coulot outfit Mom had made, pouring the little pills into my hand, picking each one up between my thumb and index finger, and putting them, one by one, into my mouth. I watched myself do it, swallowing each one as I went. 10 or 12 of 'em. Then my dad called for all of us to go get in the car to go out for Sunday dinner, as was habit in the Doyle household, and I hopped down off of the counter and joined the family in the car. Somewhere in there, I took my shoes off, which irritated my mom, and she scolded me and told me to put them back on. But by then I guess I was pretty high, because I couldn't put them on the right feet, which I thought was the most hilarious thing in the entire world. I remember giggling and showing my brother, who looked at me like I was weird (which I imagine I was, at that point), so I threw my feet up on the back of the car seat and told my mom look. I remember just shrieking with laughter over it. My mother was unamused. She yelled at me to get my feet off the car seat, straighten up, and put my shoes on right and behave. My father said I was behaving strangely and there was something wrong with me. No, my mother said, she just wants attention. Boy, was she pissed. I remember the concern in my father's voice and the anger in my mom's. I remember exactly what they said. I remember crying when my mother slapped me because I wouldn't quit laughing and switch my shoes back properly, and my dad saying don't hit her; there's something wrong with her, and my mom repeating again that I just wanted attention.

We got to the restaurant, and then things start to get hazy. According to my parents, I was pretty hyper and manic. They couldn't get me to focus on anything, and I was dancing around the restaurant, going up to total strangers, talking and giggling to them, and apparently precious little of what I said made a ton of sense. When I couldn't get my food in my mouth (which I vaguely remember), and kept hitting other parts of my face (mostly my cheeks and nose) with it, my dad finally said that's it, there's something wrong with her, and I'm taking her to the hospital. He tossed his wallet at my mom to pay for dinner and follow in a cab, and he and I went out to the car and he took me to the emergency room.

Or tried to.

The first two we went to wouldn't take us, despite the fact my father was driving a brand new Lincoln Continental. He had no wallet and no ID, and that, the hospital said, meant he could be just anyone, might not be financially dependable, they might not get paid, and he would just have to go elsewhere. Back in the day, hospitals did not have to take anyone who showed up, regardless of condition. If you couldn't demonstrate ability to pay, tough luck. I remember on the way to the 3rd hospital saying something to my dad, who by then was driving at a fairly alarming rate of speed, judging from the way dips in the road felt like flying. I remember being scared and saying something, either slow down or I don't feel well, and I remember him calling me Punkin and assuring me everything would be fine, Daddy wouldn't let anything happen to me. The third hospital took us, and the doctor told my dad if it had been 5 minutes later, there would have been nothing they could do for me; I would have died.

On days like today, that 5 minutes haunts me.

Missed it by [] that much.

If only.

Peace out,
Katie

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