Beyond the Darkness There Is Light: A Memoir of Abuse and Survival

By Patricia Swinney

When I was 18 months old, I lived with my parents in an apartment beside the railroad tracks in Boston. While my father was at work and my mother passed out drunk on the sofa, two live prongs came loose from the connection socket in the wall, possibly because of vibration from the trains. Crawling along the floor in the living room, probably looking for something to eat, I closed my mouth around a plug as if it was a piece of chocolate.

What followed was a struggle with pain, disfigurement and reconstructive surgery, as well as a childhood of poverty, loneliness, and fear.

From the age of 6, I took on the responsibility of running the household and caring for and feeding my younger siblings, two of whom suffered from muscular dystrophy.

I went on to survive an abusive marriage, while doing everything in my power to protect my children.

In my thirties, my life took an unexpected turn for the better.

I hope my story inspires others to be strong and persevere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Swinney
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393349280

Patricia Swinney

Even though parts of her life have been traumatic, Pat Swinney hopes her story can give others strength, inspiration and courage to push on through their own challenges and problems. An avid cook, gardener and outdoor sports enthusiast who finds great tranquility by the ocean, Pat has always wanted to help others any way she can.  Pat's family is her life. She lives in Massachusetts with her beloved husband David and Cavadoodle pup Cargho.

Book preview

Chapter One – The Burn

I’m writing this memoir because I lived it and survived. If you are determined enough, focused enough, and strong enough, you can endure pretty much anything life dishes out. I hope this inspires others to discover their own strength and courage.

My story began when I was born to an alcoholic mother who could barely take care of herself, much less a child. How did I eat? Did my mother change my diapers? Bathe me? I have no idea.

Some background: I entered the world on May 9, 1941, the first child of William H. Patch, Jr. and Dorothy Eileen Connolly when my mother was in her mid-twenties and my father a few years younger. My father worked as a driver for a fur company called R.J. Fox in Boston. Before her marriage, my mother had been a secretary in Mayor Curley’s office. I don’t know how my parents met or have any idea of what brought them together.

Only two of my mother’s eleven siblings didn’t drink.

My paternal grandparents, Mary J. Fox and William H. Patch, Sr. were teetotalers, cultured and proper, though by no means wealthy. My grandfather worked as a clock winder for 50 years at a company on the outskirts of Boston. My father had one sibling, a sister.

When I was 18 months old, I lived with my parents in an apartment beside the railroad tracks in Boston. While my father was at work and my mother passed out drunk on the sofa, two live prongs came loose from the connection socket in the wall, possibly because of vibration from the trains. Crawling along the floor in the living room, probably looking for something to eat, I closed my mouth around a plug as if it was a piece of chocolate.

The voltage charged into my mouth. I must have screamed. Our upstairs neighbor ran down to our apartment, found me unconscious and called for help. I was taken to Massachusetts General Hospital while my mother remained passed out on the sofa, a gallon of wine on the floor beside her.

They somehow managed to notify my dad and tell him I was near death. He rushed to the hospital. Whoever treated me in the emergency room removed the badly damaged nail from my right index finger. (I assume once the electrical current went through my body, my instinct told me to pull out the plug.)

DR. KASAJIAN, THE PLASTIC surgeon who treated me at the time of the accident, followed my case throughout my childhood and adolescence. My family didn’t have health insurance, but he took care of me for no charge.

My front teeth (second teeth) never came in. All the nerve endings had been burnt. My top lip resembled a harelip. Excruciating skin grafts had to be paced over time as my face grew and developed.

My earliest operations must have been the worst, not that I remember them. My father later told me he paced back and forth with me in his arms all night after one of the surgeries, trying to comfort me as I screamed. Was my mother ever at my side during any of my surgeries or hospitalizations? Not that I can remember.

I understood much later that Dr. K cared for a lot of banged-up soldiers after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. You boys think you have a problem? he asked, sitting me on a table in front of them. Just look at this, look at what this little girl has ahead of her.

With snowy white hair and round glasses with little rims, Dr. K stood a few inches over five feet. By the time I reached six or seven, old enough to understand his explanations, he’d ask at every appointment if I had questions.

I always had questions.

Closing his eyes, Dr. K would consider each question before responding. He always found a way to tell me the truth about my treatment in a calm, gentle manner. Okay, Patricia, this is what we are going to talk about. These are our next steps.

Invariably, I’d hit him with another question. What will I look like? What about my nose? How will it be fixed? But how? But why? I might ask but why? 50 times or pose the same question in another way to trick him into giving a different answer. He never did, nor did he become frustrated or impatient. He always made sure to give me the time I needed.

If he sensed my anxiety before a surgery, he’d take my hand. Liebling, not to worry. Not to worry.

Dr. K could have told me the sky would start out red in the morning and then turn chartreuse and I would have believed him. After our appointments, I’d go home knowing he would do the best for me and the very best, and at the end of the day he would make it okay.

I had no one else to trust. My father perhaps, but I knew he shaded the truth to spare me worry.

I cried at night, but not because I feared the surgeries. I cried because of my appearance. I cried because I was a freak.

IN THE EARLY ELEMENTARY grades, other children noticed my appearance but found it more a curiosity than anything else. Patsy, what happened to you? Did you fall down?

One day in first grade, while I was fiddling with my hands by the window, a classmate came up to me. What happened to your mouth? Did you get burnt?

I got burnt, I replied.

With fire?

No, with a plug.

Oh. She sharpened her pencil and walked away.

That was it. Not a big deal. The children accepted me the same way they’d accept a child with a cast.

That acceptance disappeared by the time I entered junior high. I was continually teased and bullied because of my appearance. Despite the usual macho posturing of middle school boys, I had fewer problems with them than with the girls.

My teacher Miss Johnson, a former Marine sergeant who wouldn’t put up with crap of any kind, once found me in the rear of the classroom wiping my eyes. Patty Patch, come here. Why are you crying?

Something in my eyes, I mumbled.

Miss Johnson was no fool. Who said what to you?

She made sure the kids who taunted me paid for it by staying after school or banishment to the principal’s office.

The day came when I finally had enough.

Oh, there’s Rubberlips, some boys in school laughed when they noticed me by the water cooler.

I ran out of the school.

My dad happened to be home, because during his lunch break he checked on my brothers, both homebound due to muscular dystrophy. As I tore through the door, he exclaimed, Patsy, what’s the matter?

I’m never going back to school again, I screamed and escaped to my room.

He gave me a minute and then followed me. I don’t know what this is about. I need to go back to work. Why are you not in school?

Bawling, I explained what happened. I don’t bother people. I don’t care as long as they leave me alone.

Back in the kitchen, my brother Billy, at the table in his wheelchair, tried to comfort me. Patsy, it’s just talk. I know it’s hurtful. Don’t let it get under your skin.

Billy’s wheelchair was made of wood, with a cane back that eventually frayed. Just sad. Poor kid, I remember thinking, the last thing he needs is to worry about me having a temper tantrum.

Sitting down, I folded my arms in front of me. I’m not going to school.

Okay. We’ll see, my father said. I have to make a call. Hold on.

He returned five minutes later. We’re going to Boston to see Dr. Kasajian.

For what? I demanded.

We’ll have to go and see.

After my father called, Dr. K blocked out the rest of his afternoon schedule. As we drove to Boston, I huddled in the passenger seat and didn’t say a word. It was awful. Even today, I can feel the gut-wrenching anger, the fear and humiliation.

I’m a freak, I gritted out when we got to the hospital.

You’re not, my father insisted. Children can be cruel.

Dr. K asked how I was doing. I said I was very angry. I told him I was going to quit school.

I don’t know how many times I said I was going to quit school myself, liebling. Listen, he said to my dad, you must have something to do in the city. Give me some time. My liebling and I are going to have a talk.

After my dad left, Dr. K took out a thick binder, placed it on his desk, and pulled up a chair. I want you to sit here. We’re going to look at this book.

No.

Listen, this is a special book.

He showed me a photo on the first page that resembled a big blob. What does this look like? he asked.

It looks like a baby piglet.

That’s a good description. Then he flipped to pictures of the same small creature swathed in bandages with holes for the eyes and mouth.

After about ten pictures I realized this was an individual who had been badly hurt. Perhaps Dr. K was trying to show me that there was someone worse off than me.

About halfway through the book, I began to suspect these photos could be me. Finally, I recognized myself in one picture. It was very confusing and upsetting, as I had no memory of the ordeal the previous photos demonstrated. I was shocked and terrified at how bad my condition had been and what I went through. I said to myself, Thank God I don’t remember that.

When Dr. K realized that I understood these were pictures of me, he patted my hand and said, Are you ready to go on?

Yes.

When we get to the end of this book, you’re going to tell me how beautiful you are.

Ha.

Next came a still-horrific image of a scarred toddler with what resembled a harelip.

We turned one page after another. My appearance improved by the time I reached the age of five and had endured multiple major surgeries.

That looks like a little girl, doesn’t it? Dr. K asked.

I nodded. Did fixing all this hurt?

You don’t remember the pain. You cried, you screamed, you couldn’t sleep. There’s a god upstairs who took away your memories of that awful time. His voice remained steady, reassuring.

The picture of my right hand came up next. I was very upset they extracted that nail, Dr. K said, because I do believe I could have saved it. However, that’s done and it’s minor now.

The next picture showed me at the age of about 12 or 13. Here is where Phillip made a bridge for you. Phillip, one of Dr. K’s two sons who were dentists at Mass General, had made a mouthpiece of solid plastic and put it in my mouth on the upper jaw like a bite whip mold in preparation for my next surgery. My second teeth never came in because all the nerves were destroyed, so they wanted to mold the next surgery around the mouthpiece like a prosthesis. My first set of dentures. They looked pretty good. It had taken me only a week to adjust to them.

Dr. K flipped to a photo taken six months later, showing me being wheeled into the operating room. I remember him saying to me at the time, This is a big one. You’re going to be fine. I’ll see you on the other end.

I want to watch, I’d insisted.

Dr. K shook his head. Before I knew it, a needle pierced my skin. The world around me disappeared.

The doctors took a piece of skin from behind my left ear to graft onto my lip. (Originally, they planned to take it from my mother’s back, but the texture of the skin wasn’t what Dr. K wanted.) The prosthesis was left in for the surgery. Afterwards, I no longer looked like I had a harelip.

We continued going through the album. At the end of two hours, Dr. K said, When I turn this page, I’m going to ask you a question. You’re going to answer it truthfully. He cupped my chin. Do you understand? I want the truth.

He showed me a picture taken prior to my last skin graft. Before the surgery, my grandmother Mary Patch took me to a beauty salon to have my hair cut and groomed, and she bought me a lavender blouse to wear when the bandages came off.

Wrapped up like a mummy, I’d arrived at the hospital to get the bandages removed.

The room was dark, so Dr. K ordered the curtains opened. Two nurses were present, plus myself, my father and my grandmother. When the bandages came off, my father heaved a great sigh. My grandmother cried. Terrified that something had gone wrong, I was afraid to look in the big overhead mirror.

The doctor cleaned me up with gauze. Now liebling, remember there’s a little bit of swelling and a little bit of discoloration. That is all going away. Not to worry.

Thinking that this is what it’s going to be, I looked.

In a matter of seconds, everything I’d endured to get to this moment flashed through my mind—how terrible I’d looked, the cruelty and the teasing, all the different surgeries as far back as I could remember.

What do you think? Dr. K asked.

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I tried to appear elated, but I’m sure I didn’t succeed. Holding back tears, I responded, You said it’s going to get better, right?

He smiled. Every day. The swelling and redness will go away. The scar will fade. (Dr. K had pioneered the use of dissolving sutures.) Call if you need me.

By the time I returned to see him six weeks later, his predictions had come true. I was very happy.

LOOK. DR. K‘S VOICE returned me to the present. He flipped the next page to the photo taken after the last surgery. I looked the same as I did today. You’re fixed.

I can’t believe it. Is that really me?

Yes, liebling, that’s you. What do you think?

I guess I’m kind of pretty. You did that. You made my face.

I made your face, but you did the hardest work. You are one of the bravest little girls I ever treated. What you endured, what you have become right now is astonishing. So, I don’t want to hear about not going to school. You thumb your nose at all of them. They have no idea who you are, Patricia. You are kind, caring, and courageous. They can’t hold a candle to you.

That ended my complaining. My dad returned to pick me up. He never saw those photos—they were doctor files only.

I went to school the next day with a whole new outlook. For the first time, I understood the extent of what I’d survived.

After my face matured, Dr. K planned another surgery to form my mouth into a cupid’s bow. It never happened. Dr. K got sick. His assistant, who wanted to perform the surgery in Dr. K’s place, was a good-natured man, but I didn’t have the same confidence in him. Unlike Dr. K, this assistant talked about me, not to me.

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings but had to tell him I was satisfied the way I was and didn’t want the surgery.

My father, in the office with me, hadn’t been aware of what I was going to say.

The assistant became perturbed. I’ll do exactly what Dr. K was going to do.

But you’re not him, I blurted

He walked away. That was it. Done and done.

YEARS LATER, IN MY sixties, I was referred to a Dr. Joel Noe to treat a basal cell carcinoma on the side of my nose.

Dr. Noe was intrigued by Dr. K’s reconstructive surgery on my mouth.  "Dr.