I was a pretty independent kid. I can remember quite a lot of my childhood. My first memory being just turned 3 a month prior is of my little brother being born. I remember being led down the hallway by my very enthusiastic and child-at-heart grandma. I ran my fingers along the bleach white tiles, my other little hand in hers. I didn’t understand where I was or why I was there. I believe I remember being told, but my little 3 year old brain didn’t process it that well. I remember the smell. The smell of hospital that always, since I can remember, smelt like safe for me. The smell people recognize as disinfectant, rubber gloves, hand sanitizer, and, as some who felt the need to bring this to attention when I mentioned liking the smell of hospitals, death. I, for one, can not see how a hospital can smell like death. Unless you are speaking metaphorically. I’m pretty sure death would smell pretty horrible. And however long death had lingered, probably pukingly horrid.
I only smelt death once. The summer when I was 22. I was walking along the side of the road in probably 80 degree heat (hot for me, but not hot for most people in southern states) with my boyfriend. I was some late months pregnant and we were going out for a little dinner at some bar and grill. Off the sidewalk, against a curb, was a dead raccoon. It was smoldering in the summer heat and probably dead for a week and a half, it seemed. I refused to look at it, naturally, but the smell was putrid. Nothing I would identify with a hospital.
Anyway, that was long after my 3 year old encounter with my newborn baby brother. Which was a bit odd, if I may go on. I remember two parts of my brother’s birth. The rest was filled in by stories from both my grandma and my mom throughout the course of my life. The first being what I had previously described as being led down the hallway by my grandma, and the second, actually watching the birth of my brother.
I was sitting on the other end of the room with my grandma on a narrow bench. The room was pretty dim, or maybe it seemed that way from the super light that was pointing down at my mom. It must have made everything else look pretty dark. Or maybe that is just how I remember it. Anyway, I just remember this big bulb coming out of my mom. And what do I do? I turn to my grandma and blurt out quite casually, “Grandma, Mommy’s pooping!”
And that is that. That is the very first memory I can recall.
I heard somewhere from someone who quoted someone else or another about how memories are most likely false and lies. That during a passage of times, your memory fades and gets replaced by a lie. I refused to believe this, but somehow I can’t get it out of my head (what if the memory of someone telling me memories are lies is actually a lie?).
If this is true, I would be pretty saddened. My memories are the best thing that I have had. Sure, I have had some screwed up things that have happened to me, but I have also had some good things, not to mention a fairly happy childhood (as odd of a kid I was). I just thought I’d throw this in here. I can’t say much about it as I had casually shrugged it off and only remember a portion of what that person told me (I was annoyed at the time by an unrelated incident having to do with my son not listening to me about something I said no to him about so I tuned most of it out). If you all have anything to add to this subject, feel free to bring it up.