Unfrozen ADAM MATSON
I was born frozen, and did not thaw out until my twenties. Born to unfrozen parents, I was a mystery and a tragedy. I had no control over my body. I could not speak, could not even breathe on my own. I had a tracheotomy tube sticking out of my throat. My arms and legs bent at odd angles, like collapsed branches of a tree. My mouth gaped open, drooling. My eyes wandered without focus, like marbles in my heavy head. I remember someone asking my parents when I was a child, “Does Tom know what’s going on?” “No,” my mother replied. “Thank God.” My condition had been studied and the consensus among doctors was that frozen people like me were not cognizant. I was a prisoner in my body. But I heard everything people said. I learned to comprehend language like any child, and spent years listening—without choice—to everything from idle chatter to heartfelt confessions. *** Ellen was frozen also. I had known her since childhood. We were together in school, and by together I mean together. There were two kids in our class every year— Ellen, and me. We had the same teachers, nurses, physical therapists—professionals who spent all day trying to build our muscular reflexes and teaching us basic things about music, colors, and animals, while standing guard to 152
Lisa M. Jenkins
Berkeley Fiction Review
153
