We’ll be doing some exercises in my class regarding memory, so I’ll probably post some of them here. If nothing else, this quarter won’t turn into one where my last post is months ago. Which helps me feel better. 
What kills me about my earliest vivid memory is that I was unconscious for so much of it. I would rail against the idea of sharing this memory in favor of sharing something more complete from my childhood, something a little more coherent, perhaps… but then again, when trying to remember significant moments and events from my early days, I realize that I was unconscious for lots of other long stretches, ones without as valid an excuse. This memory, in its tattered and piecemeal state, will do just as well as anything else.
Here’s what I do remember: I was five years old, and riding my lavender bike without training wheels was the pinnacle of childish achievement – so far. What a thrill – autonomous mobility and sparkly handlebar tassels! This skill conquered, I quickly became dissatisfied with merely riding my bike in circles around La Mesa Court. That, quite frankly, was boring. Completely unimpressive. Any old kid can ride a bike in circles all day.
What I needed was a little finesse.
I attempted a new trick: riding my bike head-on into the curb to get up onto the sidewalk, just like I’d watched all the older and cooler Big Kids do. What my five-year-old, soon-to-be-damaged little brain failed to realize was the significant weight difference between my somewhat spindly self and the Big Kids, god-like in their vast knowledge and mysterious powers and superior size.
When the big moment came and I revealed my new talent to the world, my bike hit the curb and jerked to a sudden halt. I did not. I feel it worth mentioning here that the year was 1985, and bike helmets weren’t exactly all the rage. Not yet, anyway.
I am quite serious in my declaration that I would pay money to have been my neighbor watching through her window when I launched myself over the handlebars of my bike and landed in a head-first heap on the cement. I’d like to think the sight of some kid Superman-ing over the handlebars amused someone, at least. Whether she laughed for a split second or not before realizing I was hurt, I’ll never know, but the kind lady promptly ran out to me, scooped me up, and carried me home. I don’t remember my neighbor, but I remember the sensation of being scooped into her arms and lifted from the warm cement, being carried to my front door. I remember the relief that a Grown Up was near, soon to be joined by my mother.
The last thing I remember is lying on the couch with an ice pack and reminding Mom for the thousandth time that my head hurt. It’s not that she was unfeeling – but my brother and I were more than a little accident-prone and if we went to the doctor’s office for every goose-egg and bloodied knee, we’d never leave the place. A requisite waiting period always needed to be fulfilled before bringing in the professionals.
It turns out that I was actually hurt, knocked-unconscious hurt, and the best parts of this story remain ones I can’t remember – although I was filled in later on all the pertinent details. My mother told me later of her terror, driving to the pediatrician, with me moaning and rambling on in complete gibberish from the backseat, alternately snatching at invisible airborne objects and trying to unlock my door while the car was moving. I was told that as soon as my mom carried me into the doctor’s office, I promptly puked everywhere (or at least I’d like to believe it was everywhere – I might as well enjoy making a big scene here). Gentle Dr. Kramer, the world’s noblest pediatrician, scooped me up herself and carried me back out to the car, with instructions to take me straight to the emergency room. I remember hearing of my mother’s red-headed fury when a hurried and unfeeling young doctor roughly ripped some tape from my forehead after running some tests on my malfunctioning cranium. I have no idea why, but in my mind’s eye the tape in question has always been a thick duct tape. I laugh to myself now, realizing this idea is ridiculous. Duct tape has many uses – but as far as I know the medical field is not one of them.
The next thing I remember is a deeply comforting glimpse of a moment, a still picture that remains fairly clear, even 22 years later: waking up in the hospital bed around ten o’clock the next morning, with Mom and Dad – exhausted and relieved – by my bedside. There was a little television in the corner of the small room, and we watched Gumby. It is strange to me that the thought of the three of us watching a weird cartoon in a hospital room evokes such feelings of warmth and coziness – but it does.
For the moment, all was well. I was content to let Big Kid-hood and all its corresponding coolness wait — at least until I’d been conscious a full 24 hours and definitely not before I had a helmet.
Probably not before I had a helmet. I really don’t remember.
