A Childhood in Pieces

My Mexican Doctor



I am amazed at writers that can write memoirs with the clarity of yesterday. I often wonder how much of what they capture is really the truth or some muddled herky-jerky version of it.  I am not sure I could write a memoir. I find it difficult enough to have clear thoughts about the day before yesterday.

Nonetheless, there are things that stick. Things that surface through association. 

So once in a while, without too much structured effort I will attempt to remember what happened in my life, just for the sake of the exercise.  It is a bright blue windy day. I have had days like this before where I looked out the rattling window to think of what was.

It was just such a blue day after I had my tonsils out. I remember the ice-cream, and spitting in a cup to avoid swallowing. It was the first time I can remember being a "patient " and having everyone's attention on mostly me. I had priviledge. I could go outside in my pajamas. I could look like I hadn't brushed my hair or teeth in a week. It was the 4th of July, and despite the fact that I was on my death bed, I was allowed to watch the fireworks -- in case it was my last time.

Another time, I was playing in the back yard with my 5 year junior brother. I am not entirely sure how old he was -- likely 2-3, and I was swinging my baseball bat around and around in a circle like a dervish. The little tyke was riding on one of those little bikes that you scoot around with your feet.
He had hair the color of an albino, white as pure snow and he and his hair were thin as a wisp. That kid was almost translucent.  I hit him in the head with the bat. Again, memories are like this, so I don't know exactly how hard I hit him. I guess it must have been hard. Because his fore-head had a baseball sized lump on it. I still remember the feeling of panic. My parents were inside, and I skulled their little kid. What was I going to tell them?  I did the obvious. I lied. I felt stupid. I have never been, and still am not a good liar, I am as transparent, as my brother's skin was translucent. Somehow I carried it, all the way through the ride to the hospital, the doctor's inquiries -- the whole crappy experience. The smell of alcohol. The exam table, the bile-green color of the walls. Doctors offices are the halls of memory.

My brother did not say a word about what really happened. It was our little secret. Up until about 10 years ago, when I finally came clean and admitted to my parents that he did not really "fall off his bike".  At that point they didn't care too much. The memory is a liar anyway. And that was a long time ago and it likely didn't have anything to do with my brother's later station in life. I don't think so anyway.

I remember having chicken pox on our family vacation in Acapulco. What stinks about that is that you can't go out in the sun with chicken pox. So I spent the lion's share of our vacation in the sun, holed up in our dark hotel room, like Howard Hughes. I remember peering lovingly out through a small crack in the blinds at the pool -- and even managed to go there once or twice. I don't actually remember being taken to a Mexican doctor, which I am sure would have been something cool to write about if I remembered it with some ferocity. I am sure it was scarier than some of those early Robert Rodriguez mariachi style movies. I am pretty sure the Mexican doctor had an eyepatch and a gattling gun instead of an arm.

I am trying to keep my memories in check. There will be more.