When I was little girl around 5 or 6, I broke my arm. I remember trying to climb up a bunk bed and my brother who was on the top bunk took my hands off the ladder. I fell backwards and banged my arm on my dad's drum kit breaking my ulna (forearm bone).
At least that's what I remember, although I know some childhood memories can be mistaken and mis-remembered. Why my younger brother would do that I don't know? Why my dad had his drum kit in our bedroom I don't know?
What I do remember quite clearly though, is going to the hospital to have my arm fixed. There were x-rays taken, plaster and bandages. And most of all the smiling friendly sweet nurse. She was young and kind and nice and I remember at that tender age... wishing I could go home with her instead of my mum.
My mum was there being her usual bossy self, telling me off, quietly under her breath, for this mild slight or that, always so hyper vigilant to any small thing that might embarrass her in public, always maintaining that I be stoic and keep a stiff upper lip. Not wanting me to cry or complain or show any sign of pain. All the while the nurse was friendly and smiling and lovely.
Isn't it interesting, though, to know at that age that I didn't want to go home and live with my family. Instead I wanted this kind nurse to let me go home with her because, in that short amount of time I was with her, she showed me more caring and warmth and thoughtfulness about my feelings, than my mum had shown me in the 5 or 6 years I'd been with her.
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