A Persistent Memory

Blood trickled down my face, splattering warm droplets on my neck and shirt. It is one of my earliest memories. I don't remember it hurting, and I do not believe I ever actually saw the blood. It was dangerously close to my eyes, and yet I could not see it. Perhaps that was for the better. I was not in any kind of unbearable pain per say, but I did have the acute feeling that I had done something terribly wrong. The kind of feeling that you get when you have broken one of your grandmother's glass plates. A feeling of guilt and fear, mixed with the fact that things are only going to get worse. And so, gathering the small toys that lay strewn around me, now dyed a bright crimson red, I went to my mother. She was on the phone, talking to someone. I forget the name, If I ever knew it in the first place. I debated what I should say. I knew that I had done something I should not have. Something someone was going to have to fix. Yet, I did not want to worry her. I felt awful when I worried her. I gently tugged on her shirt, and calmly whispered the words, "I think I need to go to the doctor". At first she did not hear me, and I tugged again. She whispered hang on. I don't know if she was talking to me or the other person on the phone, but she soon turned towards me. I saw the fear flash in her eyes. She dropped the phone, and it dangled lifelessly on the line. Then, as if to remedy what I had done, I repeated "I think I need to go to the doctor".

I remember a rag, but, in all honesty, it must have been a paper towel. A rag would not soak up so much blood. She rushed me through the front door, past the large stone fireplace that we had in the house. It was one of those massive fireplaces that one would normally otherwise see only in older houses without electrical heat. It stretched to the top of the arched ceilings, and was made all the larger by my small size. I don't remember if it still held the blood stain from where I had fallen. I don't remember anyone ever cleaning it, but it must have had some trace of my fall, most likely in the shape of a small, dark stain the size of a pre-school aged skull. She hurried me to the car that was waiting outside in the driveway. I may have walked, but it is possible I was carried. Either way, we made it to the car very quickly. She said something to me, but I cant remember what. It was most likely something comforting to ease my nerves, or perhaps something comforting to ease her's. 

I do not remember the ride to the hospital. This could have been the strain of years, or perhaps the blood loss, though which I could never be sure. The true answer might have also lain in the fact that the blood dripped from a wound in my head, a little too close to my brain. I do not remember entering the Emergency Room. It, in all probability, was the same kind of tiled, white-washed empty space that most of those types of rooms are. I do, however, remember a nurse, though her features have long since alluded me. She was young, I think, and she wore a mask, but I do not remember ever having seen her without it. Looking back, the mask may have simply been added after the incident, within my own active imagination.

I remember her telling me to hold still, both pleading and demanding. I would learn later that the opening was less than a full centimeter from my left eye, and that a slip of the hand could mean losing sight in that eye. I did not know this, and thrashed violently against her. She tried to hold me down, still pleading for me to be still, assuring me that it would only hurt a little. Even as young as I was, and in my condition, I knew she was lying. More nurses were brought in. I think they were male, but I do not know this for a fact. I felt warm restraints on my wrists and ankles where they held me. I do not know how many of them there where, because a white sheet was placed over my head. I think that is when I screamed. I could see nothing but her face, and that is what remains the most clear to me. Obscured by the white sheet, I could see only her mask as it loomed above me, and a gloved hand that held a long needle, which she lowered into the side of my eye socket.

This pain, I remember. It felt like a sharp prick, like I had been stung by a wasp. It was followed by the apologetic whispering of a nurse, the female one I think, though I cannot be sure. This is the last I remember of the stitching. Eventually, It ended, though I can not be sure of how long it lasted, and what all it involved. And still I can remember, after the work was done, the nurse telling me how good I had been, and how I didn't even cry. Then, she gave me a sucker, blue I think, or maybe orange. Actually, looking back, I am almost certain the sucker had been red. A deep, crimson red.

I do not remember how many stitches I received, but I do know that they worked well in the end. There was no damage done to my eye, and all that remains of the original incident is a small scar around a centimeter from my left eye, and a persisting hesitancy around any type of needle. Most people do not notice the scar, and if they do, they have never told me. I, for the most part, do not notice it either. It has ceased to be a scar, and has become simply another recognizable feature of my face, much like my hair style or eye color. Now, I think about it only rarely, and through the hazy lens of time. The story, however, has yet to leave me.