People report memories of childhood traumas from anywhere as young as two. My little brother can remember vividly the entire day on which he broke his arm. He was five years old, and he broke both of the bones in his forearm. He remembers that we were at the Lincoln Park Zoo Park in Chicago, and that he was wearing my pink sweatshirt because Dad was running back to the car to get his sweatshirt.
My memories of the incident are even more vivid. I remember the nurses asking why he was wearing a pink sweatshirt, and why he was covered in woodchips. They suspected abuse, but sorry…were we supposed to dust him off? I remember going to find a snack with my Dad, and seeing my uncle (an emergency room doctor at the hospital where we were) going down the escalator as we were going up. I remember that since my brother was so young, he had to be transferred to a children’s hospital by ambulance so they could set his arm. Mom rode with him in the ambulance, and Dad, my sister and I headed home to get some sleep. We somehow got stopped in traffic right behind the ambulance Mom and my brother were in and we threw a couple of pennies at the back windows. I can still see my mom’s face bending over my brother, but she couldn’t hear the pennies hitting the window, so she didn’t know we were there.
There is a point I promise.
To be continued.
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