My first memory, and i use this term losely, was in the womb. Its was a fuzzy image of a picture of my mother and some white guy with a calico beard posing for a picture at a prom.
Now that i am older, i know this cant possibly be a memory (details later) but like i said, when i look back to my first experience of what we call memory, that is what i have always seen. And to be honest, its the only first hand thing i can account for in my early years.
From what my mother tells me, i was a "happy baby"
(who wasnt?) I was always smiling and laughing. I rarely cried. And She'd dress me up in this pink jumpsuit which she swore was my favorite. And she'd sing me a special lullaby every night.
I learned how to speek at 6 months and how to walk at 9 months, I skipped the potty went striaght to the toilet, and all in all the general exaggerations of grandure any parent would tell you of their child making them seem perfect.
But i wasnt perfect,
When i was born, i had a MASSIVE birthmark. It stretched, from what i am told, from my upper thigh knee area down to my mid calf. it wrapped around my leg as well. Unlike most birthmarks, this one grew as i grew which caused my family and doctors to worry.
Now there are some details that are up to debate regarding my legs. My Grama Jackie, would later tell me that i was extremely bow legged and that the doctors had to break my legs into place so that i could walk properly.
My Grampa lamb would later tell me that the mole on my leg was cancerous, My aunt Charlene, said that the doctors said that it may become cancerous. my mother cant really attest to any of these stories because, as she claims, she was young and didnt know what was going on.
Well, so i guess all that i can defiantly say was i had a disgusting mole on my leg that may or may not have been cancerous. The doctors decided to do a skin graft to remove the mole with skin from my right leg. This is where my next set of child hood memories come from...
During one of my leg surguries, I woke up from my anesthesia, i began screaming hysterically for my mother. I was still under the knife, and the doctors patted my head and put the mask back on my face and i fell back to sleep. I woke up at some point in time that night, and looked over from my hospital bed and saw my mother. That night, my mother was my hero. I loved her more than anything. I tried to get out of bed to get to her, but couldnt. I guess my struggle to get closer to her made a lot of noise, because my mother woke up and came into bed with me and held me like only a mother could.
Some morning, (i remember the next, bit i know thats not possible with major surgury, so maybe a few days later) I was wheeled into the lobby an older indian or pakistani doctor stood above me smiling. He told me that if i had any more problems with my leg to come right back to him and he'd fix me right up.
Well, he didnt fix my leg. Only half of the birthmark was removed, and i was left with a swastika shaped keloid like scar.
My aunt Pamela claims that i was supposed to go back and have the rest removed but we didnt have the insurance. My aunt charlene says that i was just supposed to go back to have the stitches removed and the reason my scar is as thick and ugly as it is, is because my skin healed over the stitches.
The only thing i am certain of is that, there was supposed to have been a second trip to the hospital whether it was for surgery or stitch removal. Given my current training i have to say the stitch removal story is preposterous, after all, though i spent much MUCH time in double casts, at some point the casts came off and any doctor with half a brain would have removed month (maybe year) old stitches.
