My Life: #7 The Bubble Boy.
When I entered into this world, I was plagued with allergies to the point of being allergic to all forms of milk/foods, human touch, textures and even the air itself.
With my Dad’s writings, you never have to fear lukewarm teachings. You will receive a bold message of your inadequacy apart from Christ. No matter the subject, he clearly spells out co-crucifixion is the pathway to freedom from living in bondage to our crucified old man. What blessed assurance that as an indwelt believer we don’t have to strive, but allow His Spirit to release His work in and through us.
Jess Phinney, Kansas
MY LIFE AS A BUBBLE BOY
The Lord brought me into this world on June 13, 1955. Born in San Antonio, Texas into a family of three additional siblings; my eldest sister Sheila and my twin brothers, Patrick & Michael. My parents were stationed at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, TX at the time of my birth. When I entered into this world, I was plagued with allergies to the point of being allergic to all forms of milk/foods, human touch, textures and even the air itself. This is why I was placed in a “bubble” (oxygen tent) off and on for the first five years of my life. My first memories were seeing condensation on the inside of my “bubble” and as told by my mother, holding me through latex gloves that were attached to the walls of this tent. As I began to grow through the nurturing of soy milk, I have vivid memories of, what seems to be endless, prodding & probing of doctors and nurses. The remaining memories I have of this time were closely related to seeing open festering wounds on my entire body, which I get to this very day. Due to the ramifications of starting life with such profound weaknesses, I have countless memories of rejection. From my perspective, growing up, I was born rejected by life itself.
In 1957 we moved from Texas to Wethersfield, England, which is where I learned to speak – with a British accent, I might add, being able to speak that accent until I was 13 years of age. While in England, I developed fond memories of the sounds of fighter jets that I treasure today. My parents were popular socialites, hosting parties for friends and military acquaintances. Our home was filled with live music, alcohol, and drunken laughter. Most of my memories of England are positive, even associating the parties as being fun and exciting.
In 1960 my father was transferred to Forbes Air Force Base in Topeka, Kansas. It was during this time that I began to have rejective experiences I would rather forget. One memory is that my brothers and I climbed on top of a factory roof, with instructions from them to go to the other side and look over the edge, which I did, turned around, and no brothers to be found. I returned to the ladder to discover they had removed the ladder and taken off. I remember crying out for help until someone came to take me from the roof. There was another time when my brothers and I came up with this plan to rob a candy truck. With brothers inside keeping the store attendant busy, I am rampaging the candy truck and, of course, got caught. I remember crying and telling the truck driver a lie that our family was poor and without food. With that, he gave me several bags of candy and told me to scoot.
Probably the most hurtful memory I have of Topeka was being rejected by a teacher while in Kindergarten. I remember being checked in and sitting at the little table, and the teacher came and had me removed from the class, saying I was not ready for school. A humiliating moment for sure. It was this moment that started my rejection pattern connected with education.
Richland, Kansas
I am not sure why my father decided to move us out of Topeka, but we soon found ourselves living in Richland, Ks (now under Clinton Lake). It was in Richland that I have memories of being in Kindergarten, but with this memory comes a trauma that has stayed with me. I remember walking to school one day, and the next thing I knew, I was drawn into the woods to discover a teenager or adult there in the woods. I’m unsure what happened to me in the woods that day since the trauma forced me into a blackout. The next memory I have is walking home alone. This event troubled my soul for years – not being able to file it away in my mind. I asked my brothers if they remembered this event, but to no avail – they had no memories of such an event. Needless to say, this was a memory that I had to put in the hands of my Savior.
My father was soon transferred to Dow Air Force Base in Bangor, Maine. My memories of Bangor are mixed but mostly disturbing. I recall living in two homes, one being in base housing and the other being in a house on a hill. The first home comes with my first memories of my father being out of control when he got drunk. This outburst resulted in MPs at our home to calm my father down. Since I had never seen my dad act in such a way, I was perplexed as to what was going on. This evening started a long habit of my father having these post-traumatic war episodes after becoming intoxicated.
Children have unique ways of acting out trauma, and one of the ways I attempted to deal with what I saw was by becoming bound by fear – I am talking about unfounded fears, which others learned to take advantage of. While in Bangor, one night, my mother was off babysitting in the neighborhood, at which time some neighbor kids made a dummy, stuck a knife in its chest, poured catchup around the knife, and placed it in the field across the road. Then they came to me and said they found a “dead man” in the field – at which time we all went to see this body. When I saw the “bloody” mess, I took off into the community, screaming for help, a reaction I don’t think they expected. As I was running through the community calling out, the boys quickly took the dummy and hid it. Once the MPs were called, mother now present, no “body” was to be found. The conclusion of the evening was my parents had a child that “cried wolf” – the syndrome begins. I was disciplined by my father, which I can assure you was not pleasant, and life went on.
Another time that marked my life in Bangor was when I was playing with my best friend next door. The house across the street was the home of another friend. We were playing “store” in his garage. I sent my best friend over to his house to get some “eggs.” With the driveways being steep, off he goes on his trike down one drive into his drive. Both his mother and I saw at the same time a car coming toward him. I ran out into the street to stop this horrific event, but by the time I got to my friend, the car ran over him and “popped” his head right in front of me. With my friend’s blood all over me, I sat there in the street holding one of his tennis shoes – in a state of shock. The grief I saw unfold with his father and mother has marked my mind to this day. I recall a fireman picking me up off the street and putting me on the side of the road to sit on the curb. While sitting there, I can remember vividly saying to myself – I killed my best friend. I still believe I was responsible for his death, but the Lord used this experience to teach me many life lessons through the years. One is when I was a teenager in art class. I painted a single tennis shoe – that actually won awards. My art teacher asked me what “inspired” me to do such a unique picture. With that, I told her the story and wept as she used the picture to help me resolve my grief and guilt. Before my art teacher passed, she told me this was her favorite moment in her teaching career. Her family has this painting as a part of her teaching memorabilia.
Art became my primary way of communicating. Since my high school art classes and the influence of this teacher, I went on to craft hundreds of pastels that hang in the homes of family, friends, celebrities, and dignitaries. Today, it is one of my favorite things to do. I have always said that art is a series of mistakes, don’t erase them - work with them.
