I think I was perhaps seven, maybe eight. (Mom and Dad might remember.) It was dinner time, but we were told we had to put our laundry away first. “And don’t use the back stairs, the door sticks.” Said mom.
So I grabbed my stack, and as the rest of the kids went to use the front stairs, I headed to the back of the house. I knew a secret way to open the door.
Into the back sun porch, up the steep narrow stairs and I was in the upstairs sun porch. The sun porch filled the whole back side of the house and the three walls were covered with windows. The floor was a sealed blue Linoleum and there were little drain holes at the corners. I suppose in case you left the windows open. Mom said that originally, there were no windows.
There was a double-hung window in the fourth wall and it led to my bedroom. Between the window and the door to the stairs, was the sticking door. A regular door with glass panes. I knew that if I ran at the door, my arm out front, and hit the wood side of the door with my palm; I could pop the door open. I had done it before and I felt clever. So I put my laundry down, backed up and ran at the door, hitting it with my palm.
And my palm went right through the glass!
I don’t remember screaming, but mom and dad we there in seconds. Nor do I recall the blood pouring from my sliced up arm. But I suppose I must have bled like a stuck pig. Mom disappeared and then reappeared, wrapping my arm in a white towel. Then my dad carried me down the front stairs and outside to the van for the drive to the doctor’s office. It was an English Thames, with a metal cover on the engine, between the driver and passenger seats. I remember mom placing the backing sheet with fishsticks on the engine cover.
So as we drove to the doctors, at least the four other kids could eat dinner. I don’t think I ate, I was probably being held safely on my mom’s lap, as dad drove.
I do recall my older brother telling me that I would get a lollipop for each stitch the doctor had to do.
I wonder if there were emergency rooms back in 1964? Today, that is where you go. But back then, we were driving across town to Dr Payne’s office. I guess dad called ahead, because there was a doctor waiting. Not Dr. Payne, I guess she had the night off.
It’s funny how people talk of how traumatized kids can get by some disaster. But I think that kids can be very resilient and over time, an incident can just become a footnote in a persons life.
So I sat there, as the doctor washed the blood off my arm. It didn’t look too bad, a small slice in my thumb, two parallel cuts over my wrist. An interesting group of gouges close to my elbow, they looked like a thin leaf and a wide leaf, joined together. Unlike leaves, these were bright red. Oh, and one little cut at my elbow.
The needle injects the Novocain around the leaves and the doc begins to stitch things up. I don’t remember seeing the stitching, so I am sure I wasn’t allowed to watch. Then some butterfly bandages and wrap my right arm in gauze and stuff.
We piled back into the van and started the drive home. “There are some fishsticks left, if your hungry.” Mom said. “But your little sister ate all the ends off. That’s the only part she likes.” So I munched on lukewarm fishsticks as we drove home.
Oh course, I had to explain why I did what I did. And yes, a good example of why you should listen to your mother. And yes, perhaps the lesson didn’t sink in that well.
I do remember that my older brother and I thought it was real neat that the blood on the floor was still wet after three hours. Good thing it was linoleum, for it made it easier for my mom to mop up. I don’t remember if she had trouble cleaning up the trail of blood that lead to the front door. Dad carefully removed the broken glass from the door and later replaced it with a board.
Dad said that if I had not pulled my hand out quickly, but done it slowly and carefully, I might not have been cut as badly.
Years later, mom told me that if the two parallel cuts were much deeper, then it would have slice my tendons and would have lost the use of my right hand.
Oh, and there were seven little stitches. And no lollipops! My older brother was telling fibs!
Postscript- My brothers and sisters could not add much detail, neither could my mom and dad. But oldest sisters said that mom forgot the ketchup for the fishsticks!
