Abusive Head Trauma replaced the term ‘shaken baby syndrome’ a decade ago, yet the questionable medical diagnosis is still convicting people
Over 45 years ago, a group of doctors concluded that a triad of medical conditions, bleeding around the brain, retinal hemorrhages, and brain damage, could only be caused by an adult violently shaking a baby. By the 1990s the science was being called into question even as diagnosis and convictions exploded. Today, hundreds of convictions for ‘shaken baby syndrome’ are under review, with court decisions being reversed. What doctors through was a constellation of symptoms that could only happen by shaking an infant or toddler, is now understood to happen due to a variety of medical conditions.
Further research has indicated that not only have hundreds been falsely accused over the past four decades, but parents who are poor, single-parent, ESL, and BIPOC were far more likely to be accused of AHT than wealthy two-parent households. The data indicated that there was no possible explanation beyond bias to account for these differences. This bias prevented early detection of potential abuse, as victims of AHT tend to have had previous visits to an emergency room for less severe injuries, which should have raised red flags. Worse, if doctors, nurses, or social workers made a predetermination of AHT, they would cut off the parents in any medical decision-making, including blocking tests and procedures that would have proven innocence, and helped with better treatment.
If you are overwhelmed as a parent you can text MHA to 741741 to reach the Mental Health America Hotline or text CONNECT to 741741 to reach a specialized crisis counselor for confidential support. Most child abuse advocates recommend one simple step if you’re overwhelmed, step away and catch your breath.
Child abuse is a very real problem, and nonverbal children cannot advocate for themselves. This story discusses child abuse and shows some disturbing content, viewer discretion is advised.
I grew up during a different time, a time of transition. My earliest
memories are from the 1970s, although I am a product of the 80s to the core. My
earliest memory of the news is Richard Nixon saying, “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow,”
and my father cheering upon hearing those words. I had no idea what resign
meant, or why my father was so happy, but by Nixon’s solemn appearance on our
TV I knew to resign wasn’t good, and from my father’s reaction I knew that in
his view, resign was joyous.
To put things in
perspective, I grew up in an era without car seats or mandated seatbelts. As a
child, you begged to sit up front in the middle spot between mom and dad, and
you ate a whole lot of dashboard. I was on the receiving end of more than one
fat lip or bloody nose from flying forward in an unexpected hard stop or two
different car accidents. Vinyl bench seats were not known for providing grip,
although they were perfect for roasting the flesh off of your body on a hot
summer day.
Dad’s code word
for going out to drink my problems away was, “I’m going out for cigarettes.” Occasionally
I would get to go with dad for one of his cigarette runs. I have one vivid
memory of one of these trips, but I can’t in my brain figure out if it was in
1975 or 1977. I know dad had a station wagon, and I want to say this was 1975,
right before dad bought a 1975 Chrysler Newport, apparently, so says mom, drunk
as a skunk when he did it. He also bought my sister a 1975 Plymouth Gold Duster
in dark brown, with a tan interior and a Slant 6. My sister got a vastly better
car.
Sidebar. I hated the Chrysler Newport. Even as a small child I hated that car with every fiber of my being. I have never owned a Chrysler product in my life, and I can’t say that any Chrysler product has held any appeal to me. The memories of that horror of a car burned in my brain. It was a hideous green on the exterior, with an even more hideous green interior, six-passenger seating with vinyl that would likely survive a nuclear war. The Newport had one of the worst electronic ignition systems ever created by man, and the car would be dead if it rained, snowed, was foggy, or sometimes even post carwash.
Growing up in an
era where children were allowed in a bar (as is the case still in several
states) I always felt special when dad would go to the Blue Plate Lounge and
take me. I’m with the men. Manly men who sit quietly, grumble about the world, chain
smoke, glance up at the TV to watch the Red Sox, or the Celtics, or the Bruins,
or the Patriots, and drink.
At the time the
bar was owned by a man named Paul Stacy. Paul was known as Tiny, and you
already know the name is ironic. Tiny was 6’4” tall and weighed 300 pounds, and
he was beloved. At my age, Tiny was like facing The Mountain in the Game of
Thrones, but I remember him being very much like Hagrid of the Harry Potter
novels. Affable, approachable, wise, and kind-hearted. I would sit at the bar
with dad, my legs dangling from the stool, a candy cigarette in one hand and a
rootbeer in the other. I am a man, a manly man pondering worldly problems. As dad
would start to go numb and I would start to get bored, Tiny, ever welcoming, would
entertain me or give me a snack so there I would sit, kicking my legs and
swiveling the bar stool. I remember the smells, the sweetness of the root beer,
the chalky gum flavor of the candy cigarettes, and that it was a cloudy day.
Once dad had
medicated himself enough we climbed into the station wagon, dad driving home
drunk with me in the car sans car seat or seatbelt, and we would always get
home. I can even remember where my dad parked to this day and that he drove
straight home. Come to think of it; I don’t know if he bought any cigarettes. I
still can’t remember as much as I strain if dad had the 1972 Chevrolet or the
1977 Chevrolet station wagon, which would give me a better idea of the when. Dad
somehow never got pulled over, never got in an accident while hammered as best
as I know, and was always patient during these trips. I told you, this was a
different time. These days I wouldn’t be allowed in the bar, dad would be locked
up for child endangerment and drunk driving, mom would be under investigation for
even letting me be with dad, and I would likely be in foster care while the
mess was cleaned up. For that matter dad wouldn’t be able to get a couple of
hours off the grid without a cell phone blowing up with, “where are you,” and, “on
your way home can you stop at the Sentry Super and pick up a gallon of milk.”
I returned to the
Blue Plate Lounge a couple of times through the years and found it almost completely
unchanged. The last time I was there was almost five years ago with my wife, as
I took her through my hometown to show her bits of my childhood. The same
stools, the same bar, the same shelves, the same stage for bands. The TVs had
become more numerous and were now flat panels; there was Keno run by the state
of Massachusetts and more promotional materials from various beers and liquor
brands. The drinks were still cheap, rootbeer was no longer my choice, and of
course, smoking inside is no longer permitted. It enabled me to feel a
remaining connection to dad to sit in those same stools, staring up in the same
direction, and pondering life.
The Blue Plate Lounge
was sold to new owners about a year ago, and last week the building, built in
1933, was torn down. The new owners will be building a new restaurant and bar in
the same location, but it won’t be the same. Another physical piece of my past
gone. A place where I will stand and say, “I remember when,” and almost no one
will understand. I need to get back to my hometown and have one more tuna fish
grinder from Orbit Pizza before that place too disappears into the past.
However, that is another story.
Journalists, activists, and researchers defending the First Amendment
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