When I was
about four years old, my dad got his hand caught in a circle saw.
I didn’t
really understand what was going on at the time. I’d
just arrived home after building a snow fort with my other friends from
kindergarten. Too busy dragging myself out of my wet clothes and splashing snow
all over the hallway, I didn’t pay much mind to the sudden commotion outside
our door. I think my dad was screaming but I don’t remember for sure if the voice
in my head from that time was really his or one I’d made up. As I’m
writing this it just occurred to me that I told my mother I had thought it was
the neighbour’s dad screaming. When I realised it was my own dad I didn’t know
how to react.
I think a
part of my 4-year old self hearing about this trauma thought it was cool at first.
Like when someone was getting a lot of attention, even from an injury. I probably perceived it like a child having a broken arm proudly
adorned with signatures from friends. And then there was a was of shame, as I’d been
wrong in my first assumption, and my mother's expression seemed scolding.
My mother
cried the whole afternoon. I put on Basil the Great Mouse Detective and told her
to “come along, this’ll make you feel better”. My memories grow a bit hazy
here. I can’t remember my mother responding, so I just assume she stayed in the
kitchen, looking out the window.
I didn’t
see my dad injuring himself, or even see him at all until he was finally admitted
from the hospital. Even so I still vividly remember the images I conjured inside
my own mind after I was retold how it had happened. Those memories haven’t
changed since then, so evidently, on some level, they shook me quite a bit.
Like a memory of a retelling, 17 years ago.