My two earliest memories both involve hospitals. Perhaps that is why I am so traumatized by them now.
The first memory is not unpleasant. I was not yet two, and Mom had to go to the hospital so that *surprise!* my sister could be born. {I tease my sister now that her birth ruined my life as an only child... which is true. My life as an only child ceased to exist, but my sister definitely is worth it.}
After J was born, my grandparents brought me to the hospital to meet her. Exciting! Apparently I was learning human anatomy at this point in my life, because instead of ooh-ing and aww-ing over my first sibling, I pointed to her face and said "nose." And repeat about forty times. One track mind.
My family has a picture of my grandparents holding the swaddled baby J...and I'm standing on the couch pointing in her face. Totes presh.
My second memory is quite horrifying, actually. This memory is more like an out-of-body memory, probably because the PTSD doesn't allow me to relive those moments.
My cousins were visiting; our parents were on the back porch drinking iced tea and the kids were playing in the toy room. I distinctly remember sitting on one of those scooters for toddlers, and then I was standing on the bed looking out the window at the adults. Then my mind's eye removes itself and I watch myself jump on the bed a couple times, lose my balance, and fall backwards into the mirrors on our closet doors.
I only know what happened next through my parents' retelling and through the scars on my body. The mirror broke on top of me and almost cut off my nose. My parents rushed me to the hospital where the nurses could not tell who was injured because of all the blood. I was wrapped in a sheet so I couldn't fight the doctors and they stitched me up.
I have a scar around my nose and three scars on my left hand from this little adventure. Oh, and I also have an inexplicable dislike of hospitals.
**linking up with Victoria's 31 Days of Writing. Join us here!**
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