About five years ago I started writing a memoir. I kept at it for a little while, writing about 1,000 words a day for a few weeks. I hadn’t yet been to therapy and there were many things I didn’t really understand about my life, but I still find the unfinished memoir to be a fascinating look into my own past. I’ve decided to post it in installments here, with only a few redactions. You can find the other sections by clicking the Memoir category.
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10.
The Hagyard Building was also the site of my first serious injury.
We were having a big family dinner, and my Irish Catholic family was coloring outside the culinary lines and having spaghetti. My grandmother had a tall pot of sauce simmering on the stove, and she picked it up to pour it into a serving container.
At that exact moment, I was running through the kitchen. I can’t remember why – maybe chasing one of my cousins? In any case, my grandmother tripped over me and up-ended the pot of sauce onto me. I was probably four years old. My mom and my adoptive father were on the scene, and they said my flesh just peeled off me where the sauce hit. My dad had the presence of mind to yank off my clothes and throw me into a cold bath to help stop the burning. Then they rushed me to the emergency room, where my second-degree burns were bandaged up and I was sent home.
Actually, Dad threw you into the tub of cold water with your clothes on, which the doctor said was probably the reason you had no scarring at all because he got you in there so quickly without taking the time to remove your clothes. The rest of your memory served you well. You came home looking like a mummy, but not one scar to show for it today, thank heavens!
Ah-hah! Thanks, Dad!
Unfortuately, this is one of the pitfalls of having a vivid memory. I remember this like it was yesterday and it’s the reason I don’t like the kids to be in the kitchen when I’m cooking.