The Dumb One By Cher Finver

The Dumb One

By Cher Finver

I have childhood trauma. I think a lot of us do. My trauma stems from the relationship I have with my biological mother. She kidnapped me as a child, took me across the country to keep me from my father, and then proceeded to lie to me about it my entire life. I know, right?! And that was just the unstable foundation on which our relationship is built on. 

I did not learn about the full truths of my young life until I was in my early 40s. In therapy now, I work on becoming a better parent myself, learning the tools needed to work through my past, anger, and resentment. I open up to my therapist and then to my neurologist concerning the increasing memory issues I am experiencing, and worse yet that my husband and daughter are noticing. Both of my trusted medical professionals have the same suggestion: psychological testing. I need to find out if my forgetfulness is related to the multiple sclerosis I was diagnosed with in 2000, at the age of twenty-five, or is this something else?

 

I arrive a good twenty minutes early to the testing center to complete any required paperwork. I already feel at ease with the psychiatrist assigned to me when he calls out “Finver” at my exact appointment time. I like people who are on time. I am always on time. He shakes my hand as we did in the pre-COVID-19 world and has me sit across from him in matching leather high-back chairs. I remember thinking that the chairs belong at the Beast’s dining table from Beauty and the Beast. I try to get “Be Our Guest” out of my head as the doctor starts explaining the testing process. 

Doc is a short Hispanic man who is trying unsuccessfully to hide the fact that he is balding. He explains I will take a few tests over two appointments. Each appointment is an hour, and then I will come back a third time for the results. I suddenly wish I had paid more attention to the clinic’s address on my referral. I lived across town. Whatever, I was here. I wanted answers. Let’s do this. Looking down while organizing papers on his desk, Doc interrupts my thoughts with words I am not prepared to hear.

“We are going to start with the IQ test.” 

 

I grew up in a toxic stew of sweeping any-and-all issues under the rug, not one, not two, but three stepdads, three half-siblings, drug, and alcohol abuse. My siblings and I all had labels assigned to us. They were given over time by our mother, stepdad at that time, or by each other. Labels likely based on actions or words we may take back if we could. Like the grown baby of the family who is still too close with our mother. The bad egg with such promise. The golden child who turned out not to be so golden. One of my labels? The dumb one.  

 

Am I going to be asked to join Mensa anytime soon? No. Do I sometimes say something without really thinking? Yes. Here are just two examples. 

1. I was given salt and pepper shakers as a Christmas gift shortly after renting my first apartment. I learn something new that day when I am told that the salt shaker usually has fewer holes on the top than the pepper. I asked, “How am I supposed to know which is which then?” Both shakers were clear. 
2. While discussing that year's Easter plans, I pull up the calendar on my phone and ask, “What day of the week does Easter fall on this year?” 

 

I am a creative, right-brained individual who is extremely bad at math. Has math made you cry? No? Just me? My grandfather, my Pop-Pop, had the best of intentions when he gave me a times table chart that he made himself on a tiny piece of cardboard. Sorry, Pop-Pop, but I used it to cheat, not learn. Then as my fourth-grade class was about to attempt long division, I am kidnapped.

 

My mother waited for weeks to enroll us in our new school in Las Vegas. Looking back, I assume she wanted to make sure no one was trailing her before she set down roots. When I finally did start at my new school, that class was already studying fractions. I was lost and never recovered. I did not bother to ask for a tutor because I knew we could never have afforded one. I also grew up in a home with parental figures than eager to help with homework. 

 

Being the only senior in my high school remedial math class did not help boost my academic self-esteem either. If I could go back in time and tell my younger self something, it would be that I will do just fine in life with a calculator. Also, I will cry again, trying to help my kid with their junior high school math assignments.

 

I like to say that I hate technology. This is just because I am a slow learner when it comes to computers, cell phones, etc. I eventually learn by doing and with repetition, but let’s add “technology” to the list of stuff a ten-year-old can do better than me. 

 

I do have MS. That should give me a “pass” to some degree, right?! I am going to forget words or use the wrong word while searching for the right one. Even my husband and daughter take the teasing too far now and then when I do or say something stupid. They know about my past. I have asked them not to be so harsh, more than once. The two of them love me and look out for me more than anyone. They say they are “just kidding.” I have a wicked sense of humor, and I can and do make fun of myself often. Their words still sting sometimes. Am I being too sensitive? My mother always said I was. 

 

Being labeled the dumb one, the teasing, the forgetting, and all the things I suck at. Growing up getting picked on at every family function I have ever attended. I did not want to take this IQ test. What would I do if the analysis confirmed what everyone – including me - thought?

 

“Is the IQ test really that necessary? What does it have to do with my memory issues?” Doc looks at me as if he has never had this request.

 

            He goes on to explain that it is necessary because the IQ test is just one part of the many tests that he would be performing to better understand me and my mind and, therefore, give me more accurate, detailed results. This makes sense, so I reluctantly concede. He starts the IQ test. Puzzles?! Shit. I also suck at puzzles.

 

As I relive the last hour in my car, I am upset at myself for how many times I said, “I don’t know.” A week later, I go back to the testing center for additional tests, questions, and oh, great, more puzzles. I have now returned for my third and final visit with Doc. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Finver. Are you ready?”

“Sure.” I am not ready.

 

The tempo in Doc’s speech picks up as I listen to a lot of medical jargon. He points to and holds up charts, graphs, and summaries that are all put together based on his findings. He then shows me my IQ test.

“As you can see here, you are of average intelligence.” 

 

I do not hear much after this. I am staring at the dot on the IQ test graph. The dot is much closer to the “barely average intelligence” line than the “high intelligence” line. In fact, the dot is almost on the line. I am not stupid, but I am barely not stupid?! As Doc continues, I snap back to reality. 

“And in conclusion, Mrs. Finver, your recent memory issues are not due to your MS, but due to childhood trauma. From what you have learned about your past lately, I’m not at all surprised.” I hardly notice he has reached over his desk and has his hand on top of mine. I thank him and just make it to my car before the tears start. 

 

I was hoping my increasing memory issues were due to my MS. That would be easier for me to compartmentalize. But childhood trauma terrible enough to be affecting my memory? I look up, curse my mother, shove the results in my purse and head home.

 

My husband and daughter are sympathetic. They tell me that intelligence is not based solely on an IQ test. They go over a timeline of a few accomplishments in my life: being a well-reviewed author, traveling the country to speak to others about my book, disabilities, and maintaining a positive attitude through it all. My therapist and neurologist pretty much give me the same speech. 

 

 A few days later, as I stand over my shredder, I remind myself that I am more than any IQ test and that this test does not define me. Or, maybe I will destroy it because I do not want any record in my possession. Probably a little of both. But here I am, telling the world that I am not the smartest person in the room. And that’s okay! 

 

This is the brain I was given. The brain that fights to find the right words. The brain that earned me a high school diploma. I had to pass certain math requirements to obtain that symbolic piece of paper and on the third and final try, I did just that! The brain that has helped land me just about every job I have ever applied for. The brain that battles multiple sclerosis. The brain that wrote a book. The brain that crafts and memorizes speeches and essays. And I never give up when it takes longer than it used to. 

Maybe we let labels define us when we shouldn’t. Maybe we should be thankful for the talents and gifts we do possess. Perhaps take advantage of the incredible opportunity most of us have to continue learning, nourishing our minds and hearts with knowledge and life experiences.