Wherein the birthing process is described and old dogs are cranky.
After the accident, I lay in traction at the hospital. A broken leg, a few broken ribs, and a concussion. I was told I was lucky to be alive. I felt lucky I didn’t wake up brain damaged and drooling – I’d find that worse than death. The concussion made things interesting for a week, then I came to my senses.
Living in a full body cast isn’t much fun. Between nurse visits and crappy TV, there wasn’t much to do. I took this time to reflect on my life, or at least my life how I choose to remember it.
* * *
I was born on a Monday the color of wet newspaper. As people sloshed through puddles outside, my mother was in labor. After ten long hours, it was time. At 6:46pm, I popped out of my mother, slipping out of the doctor’s hands and skidding across the floor. The doctor and nurse leaned down to grab me, but bumped their heads together instead.
As they rubbed their heads, I stood up of my own accord, finding unexpected strength in my baby legs. I stood tall, my oddly-shaped baby head held high, hands defiantly on my hips.
“Nothing is true; everything is permitted,” I bellowed in a voice far deeper than it should be.
The more astute among you might think this signifies me as some tulku-assassin. You people think too much.
The doctor, the nurse, and my father looked on in stunned silence. My mother, exhausted and not able to see me on the floor, asked, “Who said that?”
I basked in my moment, but a moment was all it was. Seconds later, my face grew dull and my legs became weak. I fell down onto my bottom, surprised, but unhurt.
The doctor stared at me, hoping for further declarations. Instead, I made goo-goo-ga-ga sounds typical of any baby. Dismayed, he frowned, which made me cry. The nurse stepped in, scooping me up, and the well-oiled post-birthing process resumed.
The incident forgotten, my parents were happy to have a bouncing baby boy. The doctor, however, couldn’t get the experience out of his head. He kept me a week in the hospital, under as much observation as possible until my parents pleaded to take me home. Reluctantly he agreed; though he had hours of surveillance footage, I had not spoken again.
On that day they brought me home to a childhood about as good as any other. My brothers greeted me in their own childlike way. My parents’ dog, an ornery fifteen year old canine that was here before all my siblings, came over and sniffed me bitterly. The sniff said what words could not. “What the hell? You got another one of these goddamn things? All they do is just scream all day. I have better hearing that you, you have no idea the headaches I get. The last one just finally stopped screaming! Jesus Christ people, what the hell? I’m gonna go chew on something you like. Those new shoes you got? Gone. I hope you like gnawed strips of leather.”
The old bastard waddled off to cause some vindictive mayhem. I’ll never forget that furry snout sniffing at my face, an old bitter soul reluctantly welcoming me to the world.
His breath smelled like Milkbones.
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