Sacramento: My First Set of Stitches

I would be lying if I said I remembered the accident in its entirety. When I was around four years old, I obtained my first set of stitches from an accident, which involved a glass of orange juice, a vacuum and friendly competition.

I wonder if I do not really remember the event at all -- perhaps after being told the story so many times by my parents, I created my own "memory" of the event; like a schema of sorts.

My family and I were stationed in Sacramento, California. It was around 1980 or 1981 when the accident happened; because I think, I was either three or four years old.

I was at my best friend Matthew Grove's house for the afternoon. My mother was out running errands and she asked Matthew's mom to look after me for a few hours. I probably would have spent time over at the Grove's house anyways as Matthew and his brother Jeremy and I spent most of our free time together -- which when you are not in kindergarten yet is a LOT of time.

The story goes like this: Matt and I were in his family room and his mom shouted from the adjacent kitchen for Matthew to retrieve the dirty glass his father had left on the coffee table the previous night.

In the spirit of friendly competition, one of us challenged each other to race to the glass. Yeah, I know, not that smart.

We tore across the family room rug and before you know it, I tripped over a vacuum cord and put the back of my head squarely into the juice glass and wood coffee table.

Smash!

Legend has it that because my head is rumored to be plated in iron, the oak coffee table cracked from the blow it took from my noggin.

Luckily, Mrs. Grove had been a nurse, so she knew exactly what to do to deal with the bleeding from my head.

I do not remember going to the hospital, who took me (I think it was my mother, but not sure), or if I passed out or not.

I do however remember getting the stitches out. We always went to McClellan Air Force Base for my family's healthcare needs, and the removal of stitches was no exception. I remember being nervous and very concerned that removing the stitches would hurt.

My mother took me to see the doctor and from what I can remember, I did not cry. I remember the blue sterile paper that the doctor's implements were laid on, and him saying that I did just fine. I don't remember his face though; just his conclusion that I did a "good job" and am a "very brave boy."

If you look at the center of the back of my head, you can see a perfectly round scar above a vertical scar. Sometimes when people ask me how I got the scars, I pull their leg and say it was from a time when five muggers with knives jumped me. "I was the lucky one," I'd tell them ...