Matthew+Brown's+Memoir

__This Little Piggy Went to the Hospital__ By Matthew Brown Being a seven-year-old on a rainy day in April, it is not very difficult to become bored. Ironically, being seven years old on a rainy day also makes you hyper because all of your energy (fueled by many sugary sweets) is released inside among furniture and other valuable objects rather than the outside world. My good friend Charles (who makes many appearances in my life’s story) came over to join me in my state of boredom. Unlike other kids my age, I was not in possession of any kind of video game home console such as Nintendo 64 or Sony’s Playstation; my mom always said I would never stop playing if we got one although she finally gave in a few years later. Eventually in the midst of scavenging for entertainment, we came upon Better Blocks, which are basically Lego rip-offs. As such, they were sometimes a pain in the ass to put together. “Where are all the glow in the dark pieces?” asked Charles as he buried his hand into the big red bucket. “They’re probably buried at the bottom,” I said as I walked over to join him. “Hey Mom! Can we dump the Better Blocks bucket?” My mom was sitting in the kitchen with our neighbor, Tessa, who lived across the street with her husband and two daughters. “Sure, just be make remember to clean up all of the pieces when you’re done.” We dumped the big bucket and assembled many objects that are typical of boys our age: swords, guns, and abstract buildings that could only be associated with Picasso. The entertainment was short-lived however and we soon grew bored again. Of course there was still the matter of cleaning up the many little multicolored pieces that lay strewn about the room. “Clean up time,” I grumbled to Charles. All I got in return was an annoyed grunt. We got to work on disassembling our works of art and tossing the blocks back into the bucket. We soon discovered that a few pieces were stuck under the couch and, though our hands were small, we could not squeeze them under the couch to retrieve them. “One of us is going to have to pick up the couch,” I said, “that way one of us can grab the blocks.” Charles looked from me to the couch with a look that made me think of Chuckie from //Rugrats// (“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Tommy.”) “Neither of us can hold up that couch for long.” Unfortunately, he was right. * * * The day before Charles and I sat down contemplating a strategy to clean up the Better Blocks, I took up working out. By that, I mean I took up running around a lot, doing jumping jacks, and lifting things over my head as if I was Atlas carrying to world. By the end of the day, I felt strong enough to rip a tree out from the root (although I neglected to try). I was oblivious to my limitations but, hey, I was seven. It’s just in my nature as a young boy to think I can accomplish anything and everything. Besides, a false sense of strength is found in most males even when they reach middle age. * * * “Alright, stand back,” I said to Charles as I rolled up my invisible sleeves and rubbed my hands together. It was time to show off a bit of the strength I had gained. I stuck my fingers under the rim of the couch. I crouched down a bit then mustered my strength and pulled it up to about the same height as my bellybutton. //Geez, it’s a little heavier than I thought.// “Go on, grab the blocks,” I said through gritted teeth. But Charles was having none of it; the simple thought that he could end up short one hand intimidated him too much. “Nuh-uh. I’m not putting my hand under there.” //Well that worked.// I finally gave up and began trying to let the couch down slowly but the strain was too much. My fingers slipped and the couch dropped onto the floor with a //THUD!// The only problem was that my right toe was between the couch’s leg and the carpet. I screamed, of course. Somehow in my panicked state, I managed to lift the couch up just enough to get my toe back. I hopped around somewhat comically, clutching my toe with both hands. “Mrs. Brown…” Charles called weakly as he sat recoiled in horror. Naturally, my call was louder. “MOM! MOOOOOOOM!” As I hopped about, I finally let my foot down to regain my balance and uncoiled my hand. Now, while all kids are unique, they will freak out over many of the same things. They may freak out with the cable cuts out during their favorite show. They may freak out when they have a bad dream in the middle of the night. As for me, I freaked out when I was greeted with a sight of scarlet smeared all over my hand. //I’m gonna die.// I was halfway to the kitchen when my mom and Tessa got to me. “What happened sweetie?!” my mom asked franticly. “MY TOE! MY TOE!” I spat out incomplete sentences. “THE COUCH! BLOCKS! MY TOOOOE!” My mom sat me down at the kitchen table as Charles shuffled into the room. She observed the damage. My whole toe was covered in blood. Underneath all of the red, the nail was turning dark, darker than any bruise I ever had. “Oh god,” said my mom, “Did you get blood on the carpet?” “NO!” I yelled. It was nice to know that the only thing more important than the safety and well being of my toe was the cleanliness of the living room carpet. I still make fun of her asking that to this day. Tessa, who worked as a nurse, took my poor foot into her hands and gave the verdict. “He’s going to need stitches.” “STICHES?!” I had alarm in my voice but truthfully I had no idea what the hell stitches were. But I did know that it meant I didn’t need a cast. Even so, my toe looked like it had been broken several times. “Charles, honey, you can go home,” said my mom. Charles didn’t need telling twice. Without a word he zoomed out of the house and into the rain. In the ten or so years I have known him that was probably the fastest I had ever seen Charles run. Within minutes, I was on my way to Princeton Hospital. My mom, Charles’ mom, and Tessa all helped me into Tessa’s big purple van. She drove through the rain as my mom sat with me in the back seat with a pillow under my foot and a rag over my toe. My mom was surprisingly calm although she was probably scared to death on the inside. Its just the way moms are. Upon arrival, I was pushed around in a wheel chair for the first time. I probably would have enjoyed it more if I were being catered around for fun instead of being taken to a hospital bed. I looked around trying to catch a glimpse of other patients. Some curtains were open and others were closed with a slit where you could barely make out anything. I saw many sickly people. Some people may have been on the brink of losing their life. It’s funny to think that as I sat in my wheelchair with my bloody toe, feeling like I was in a nightmare, people around me were having some of the worst luck of their lives. Even more worse than mine. Eventually I made it to a bed and let me tell you I have never been so delirious in my life as I was at that point. Lights and doctors everywhere. My eyes started to hurt as much as my toe, which was administered a shot so painful I screamed like a teenage girl in a cheesy 80’s horror movie. “MOOOOOOM!” It’s amazing how many times I screamed for my mother and still kept enough air in my lungs for random screams. * * * Before I knew it, it was over. The doctors were gone, my toe was stitched and wrapped up, and my dad was standing over me alongside my mom. “I guess all of that working out paid off, eh?” said my dad with a smile. //Yeah, yeah, yeah…// Then, as if my ordeal wasn’t enough, Tessa received a phone call from her husband. “Hello? What? How did she get to it? Oh jeez, I’ll be right there.” She shut her phone and blew out a sigh. “Daniela got to a bottle of hairspray and swallowed it,” she groaned, “I have to go. I’m glad I could help. Feel better, Matthew.” A two-year-old swallowing hairspray. Wow, what next? It was as if the thin line of sanity had been broken around the whole world that day. Its days like that that conceives stories, which are told years and years after the events conclude. When Daniela reaches her teen years, she might be sitting and styling her hair whilst her mother prattles on about how she once swallowed hairspray. Case in point, I mentioned that I still poke fun at my mom about getting blood on the carpet. After all, its not everyday your living room couch makes a threat against your life.