I was four, I think. We had one of those ancient top-loading dishwashers, and the top swung down on my little fingers. Wham!
I screamed. I screamed and screamed. My fingers started swelling up and turning purple and my mother was alarmed. She might not have been if I was the kind of child who habitually got hurt. But I didn’t. I habitually sat in a corner and played quietly. I sang to my books and my teddy bears.
So when I wouldn’t shut up, Mom called a cab.
It must haver been the days before car seats, or maybe it just didn’t matter, because I remember sobbing on my mom’s lap in the front seat of the cab. The cabbie gave me a plum from his lunch box. I think that quieted me a bit. I remember the plum.
I don’t remember the hospital, but I do remember the plum in the cab. Weird, huh?
Anyhow, the fingers were not broken, only bruised. That makes sense. I have strong bones and teeth, but I have skin that bruises if you look at it sideways.My fingers were swollen and useless, but not broken.
And I never went near that dishwasher again.