When I was about three years old, I had a double hernia operation.
I have snippets of memory. Vignettes.
I remember the doctor coming and taking off the bandages.
I remember having scrambled eggs for breakfast one day.
They were a little runny.
I remember Auntie Rose and Uncle Moe came to visit me.
They brought me a toy.
It was a monkey hanging from a wire.
Push the buttons and the monkey flipped over the wire.
I remember the blue cart I pedalled around.
I remember the boy in the room next door.
His leg was in a cast.
It was suspended from a triangle in the ceiling.
I visited him and sang to him and kept him company.
What I don't remember, but what my mother will tell you, is that I didn't want to leave the hospital. In fact, I made such a fuss when it came time to go home that the nurses said it was no problem to leave me there another day or so. I was a joy to have around; they were more than happy to let me stay.
Isn't that just nauseating?
So I got to stay in the hospital a couple more days.
Play with new toys.
Make new friends.
(Thanks to One-Minute Writer for today's inspiration!)