The Village: Part 1.1

I lay there motionless. Three years old with both my arms and one leg in splints elevated on slings. Every time I think about it, I can’t help but chuckle as the image of every hospitalized cartoon character comes to mind. I may have even had my head and face bandaged but I don’t recall. The events that led me to that cold somber room weren’t funny, but that is a story for another day. I remember constantly coming in and out of consciousness. Fading from light to darkness, then back to the light again.

Aside from the slings, the rest of my tiny body was in a full body cast. From my armpits to my left knee, and all the way to the toes on my right foot. There was some physical pain during the many flashes of awareness but they were nothing compared to the emotional pain. I was too young to understand what was going on. I felt my skin burning and the sensation of bugs racing up, down, and through my body.

When I think back, my brain tells me there was a great deal of pain, but I don’t remember it. I can’t relive it. Not like other memories that make me wince when I think of them. In fact, I can still feel the pain of the last time I stubbed my toe but not that pain. The pain was there but it wasn’t what tortured me. No, the pain was tolerable when compared to the thirst.

I lay there unable to speak much. My throat was hoarse; my tongue and mouth dry. The thirst would wake me mid dream in tears. When I found the energy to make feeble sounds, I was told I couldn't have anything to eat or drink.

When I think back to those days, I can’t help but empathize with those who die in the desert without a drop of water. I had fluids being fed into my veins and still the dryness in my mouth and throat tormented me. Imagine laying there with most of the bones in your body broken. Your limbs, which were beyond recognition, are put back into place and reshaped and the pain from it is nothing compared to the thirst.

The episodes of light sparring against darkness continued just as the thirst did. I was too tired to feel scared and too young to worry about what was going on. All I knew was that I was thirsty. During one of these episodes I heard two familiar voices speaking in a strange tone I didn’t recognize. I could hear my mother asking my father “what if they’re right? What if he never walks again?” I could hear the tears in her voice. It was such deep sorrow. I couldn’t see her face but I could hear the tears, as if they were also weeping.

I’m sure that if you looked at the scene from the outside, you would see a broken and disheveled woman with tears in her eyes. You would probably see trails of makeup and mascara running down her cheeks. You would then look at the man standing beside her and see a his defeated demeanor, slumped shoulders, and blank stare. I honestly can’t tell you in any detail what you would see since I couldn’t turn my head to look at them. What I can say is that I saw something beautiful and new in the room.

If you studied the room and its inhabitants, you wouldn’t see what I saw because I wasn’t looking through my eyes. With my heart I was able to get a candid look at my parents. They were familiar strangers. It was like looking at two theatrical actors long after the curtain has dropped. It’s who they are when the marquee has come down and they completely drop character. Although I couldn't reach out and touch them, I had never felt closer to them.

I heard her words replay in my head. “What if he never walks again?” I was confused and too naive to grasp the gravity of the situation but not too young to understand the heartache in her voice. I wanted to hold her but I didn’t have the strength to speak. My father the ever calming presence when things look bleak tried to be as calm as possible. Try as he may, I detected a difference in his voice when he answered her. “It’ll all work out,” he said. Then the darkness landed another blow to close the round.