I am not William.

That seems obvious to everyone now, but as my parents rushed to the hospital after my seven-months pregnant mother had fallen down the basement stairs, it was not obvious at all. In fact, they had not selected a girl's name at all - why bother? I was William.

William was the name of my mother's father and my father's grandfather. It was an obvious choice. So William it was. End of discussion.

Of course, the Universe has a way of reopening these ended discussions.

I was a girl.

My mother was in a coma.

My father had to come up with a girl's name for the birth certificate.

He knew my mother liked the name Elizabeth... but he hated Elizabeth. He knew she liked Victoria... but he hated Victoria. He compromised with Vikki. Not Victoria. VIKKI. Two "k"s, two "i"s, one "v", no "c"s, "e"s, "or "y"s. I would spend hours of my life explaining this to skeptical people. ("Vickie is a NICKNAME. Short for Victoria. Your full name is...?") I would finally just say, "Blame my parents." That seemed to work.

But... I was not William. Strike one.

But, that was OK... they could have another child... the Universe would not pull another fast one...

But... the Universe did. Complications from the fall that brought me into the world early meant my parents would not be able to personally bring William into the world.

Strike two.

But... that was OK... they could adopt that all-important boy.

Except...

Well, I was broken in several other ways than just the lack of a "y" chromosome. My parents didn't know, but I had an inner ear problem. This was back in the late 1950s, and even doctors (GPs - pediatricians were not common) didn't routinely diagnose hearing problems.

I remember everything sounded like how voices sound when you are underwater in a swimming pool. Of course, when I spoke, I mimicked what I was hearing. My garbled speech made my father angry. "You sound like Popeye!" he yelled referencing a popular TV cartoon character. (My father yelled a lot...) He forbade me to watch cartoons. "Deefy!" he would call me. Being just a kid, I thought this was a variation of "Daffy," another of those cartoon characters I was no longer allowed to watch. It wasn't until I was in my early thirties that a work colleague clarified for me that he meant "Deaf-ey," not a cartoon character. (Yes, I've always been a little slow about some things...)

I wonder if my father ever felt a little, just a tad bit of regret that he had called his little deaf child "deaf-ey?" I'm thinkin' probably not. He never had any regrets that I knew about.

But just being deaf might not have prevented the adoption of William. But... it was an inner ear problem. Which meant that not only could I not hear clearly but that I also had a diminished sense of balance, a reduced ability to tell which way is UP.

And, I'm a dancer. Turn on music and I have to MOVE! But, without a sense of balance, I would eventually fall over. But, then I wouldn't KNOW I was no longer upright, so I would continue dancing lying on the floor.

To my horrified parents, it looked like I was having a seizure. It looked that way to the folks from the adoption agency, too. And I doubt they would have allowed the adoption of even a GIRL into a family with a child that had seizures.

Strike three? And again, because of me?

But my parents were unwilling to admit defeat.

My mom was a child psychiatrist - a medical doctor. But, of course, doctors don't treat their own children. But, she had a colleague who agreed to do an assessment to see if I was, as they called it at that time "retarded."

I would have been three years old at the time, and I actually remember this episode. You'll see why in a bit.

I was in the doctor's office. My parents were in another room. The doctor handed me a black and white line drawing picture of a house with a family outside: dad, mom, boy, girl, a dog, a couple of trees, a bird flying in the sky, a cloud or two.

The doctor said, "Tell me something you see in the picture."

I said, "Chih Caw Go!"

I imagine the doctor was thinking, "OK, I see the problem," but he said: "OK. Point to Chih Caw Go on the picture for me?"

I proudly pointed to the bottom right edge where it said: Printed in...

"CHICAGO!" shouted the doctor. He really did shout. "Chicago!"

And this is why I remember the incident. You see, nobody knew I could read, and I knew it was really something special that I could. And I wanted to show off in front of this doctor. Everybody thought I was really stupid, but I COULD read.

But I, with my usual luck, to demonstrate this ability picked one of the words that are not pronounced phonetically.

I was mortified.

But the doctor was impressed and passed the information on that not only was I not "retarded," I actually was reading already. Maybe I was "gifted." (I don't remember this part of the story - my parents told this to their friends and I learned it by eavesdropping.)

But, here's the thing... while the adoption agency was unlikely to place a child with a family with a child who has seizures... in the late 1950s they absolutely WOULD NOT place a male child into a family with a "gifted" female child; they felt it would be too much competition, too demoralizing.

So... a final strike three on William. And once again it's all because of me.

To finish off that story line, I had an operation when I was 6 that removed growths that were pressing on my inner ears, and suddenly I could hear! I could dance without falling over!

But I have another memory from that earlier, three-years-old time.

Mom's in the kitchen doing Mom-In-The-Kitchen things, and I'm in a kids' chair reading out loud to her from one of my books "My Toys." I get to the end of the book (and am mentally patting myself on the back), and mom says, "Read it again."

I say, "I want to read another book."

Mom leans 'way down (she always joked she was 5 foot twelve) her face in my face and says, "You'll read this one until you get it all right."

I think I remember this incident because it was the first time, probably, that I felt rebellious.

So I read "My Toys" again. And again. I probably never got it all right. My reading ability probably declined as my frustration grew. I remember hating having to do it. But doing it because mom made me.

And, after 35 years of therapy, I have to think... my mom was a child psychiatrist. A CHILD psychiatrist. She had to know how making me read something again and again that I did not want to read had a good chance of putting me off reading altogether. And as a (very) well-educated person herself, she also had to know that reading would be necessary to succeed in academic life.

Was she, in some sort of passive-aggressive way (35 years of therapy, remember?) trying to get vengeance on me, on my future success in life, for her not being able to have William in her life?

After 35 years of therapy, I don't know. I only know it didn't work; I love to read...