You Must Remember This

It's funny the things you remember. While most of what happens to us is largely forgotten in the humdrum hurly-burly of everyday life, some events make it into the long term memory and remain fresh in the mind as if they happened last Tuesday. The significant moments are obviously things that will be retained; stuff like graduations and weddings. And if you don't remember these events, well, that's why people hire photographers.

But I think that even more impacting on the memory are events that were particularly stressful or exciting. For example, I remember the first time I had an automotive, well, let's call it a mishap. I was driving a '79 Malibu, which was a heavy and rather powerful car, and it was December 31, 1993. I had obtained my driver's licence less than two months previously, so I wasn't exactly an experienced driver. I was working a night shift and I was driving to work, it was around 10 pm, and I was going over a bridge when I hit ice and lost control of the car. I spun sideways and in a moment of pure shock and terror struck the guard rail head on. The car stalled, and thankfully no one else was right behind me or coming to meet me too fast, so I was able to start the car and safely drive away. I pulled into a gas station just off the bridge and checked out the car (this wasn't my car — like I said, I had only been driving a matter of weeks and this was Mom's car). The only thing wrong was the front licence plate holder was slightly bent. That's it. I drove the rest of the way to work somewhat more carefully.

I can remember that like it happened yesterday, even though it was the better part of a decade ago. But it's not the story I wanted to tell today. The next one is.

This story happened when I was ten years old or so, I don't know the exact year. Perhaps I was nine, or maybe eleven, but let's not worry about that. I was at the doctor's office for my annual checkup, a normal enough occurrence in the life of a kid unless you were part of a family that didn't believe in going to the doctor.

I don't really remember most of the checkup, but I assume they did the usual stuff to me, like weighing, measuring, shining bright lights into orifices, the typical stuff. It was the finger prick that I remember. I'm not even sure why they do the finger prick then scrape up a little of your blood into a tube to test. Does anyone out there know? Is it for blood sugar, or cholesterol, or DNA testing to identify alien replicants?

In any case, I was not a fan of needles when I was young. I don't mind them now, I even give blood (well, I used to, and I would still if the blood clinic was open at times when I wasn't at work, they seem bound and determined to only be opened on evenings when I work, and I'm hardly going to rearrange my schedule so I can spend an hour answering questionnaires about having been to sub-Saharan Africa or having malaria-like symptoms before a nice Canadian Blood Services vampire nurse drains a pint of blood from my arm. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't give blood, and now I almost feel guilty for not doing so. But this has turned into a hundred word digression). I didn't like them then. Not at all. And so I decided I wasn't getting stuck with that needle. Keep in mind that I was only ten. What follows is somewhat embarrassing and yet at the same time I'm kinda proud of it. They didn't prick my finger. I wasn't having any of that nonsense. Oh, they tried to make me give in. The doctor tried, the nurse tried, my mother tried, but I was not going to be persuaded. And in the end I was not. Sure, it was silly on my part, but it's not every day a ten year old kid can take on three adults and win. Okay, sure, they could have held me down and taken the three drops of my blood by force, but ultimately they decided it wasn't worth the effort, and so I escaped unscathed.

It's strange how well I remember this relatively insignificant event that happened so long ago. But I do remember it, and I probably always will.