I remember my childhood toy chest. Cylindrically shaped, painted a bright red, and resembling  bass drum, it took up most of the space in my bedroom. When I was getting too old for old for toys and toy chests, Bill Dickerson, a friend who was affectionately known to me as Dickerdog, tried to persuade me to use the top of the chest to slide down the front stairs. Dickerdog didn't have to waste hsi breather because to me it seemed to be a good idea. 

The lid had a cord in the middle that we used to steady ourselves at the crest of the landing. Resembling bronco riders who use one hand to latch on to the horse and one for balance, we gave the circular top a push to begin our adventure. Swish, bang, bump, bump, bump, down the stairs we flew. We reached the bottom of the foyer with a resounding thud. I'm surprised to this day that my parents, who were entertaining guests at the other end of the house, didn't hear us. During the fourth excursion, we lost control of the vehicle. But to tell you the truth, I'm not sure we ever had control. We kept moving to the right and moving to the right. We shifted our weight to the left, but we kept moving to the right. At the bottom of the stairs was a column we had missed on our last three attempts, but on this try, I banged my head against the corner.

Lying on the floor and holding my head with both of my hands, I writhed in pain. I removed one to see it covered with blood. Dickerdog helped me up, and we ran to my parents. I can't say they wer shocked when they learned what had happened. My childhood was a series of semi-unrelated accidents. Falling off a tricycle at two, ingesting a bottle of aspirin at three, imbibing half a bottle of Windex at four. By the time of the toy chest incident, my parents were used to seeing my blood in various places outside my body. To tell the truth, I don't think pain was a very effective teacher with me. The only thing pain taught me was how to endure it.

A friend of my father donated his handkerchief to help soak up the blood. My brother called Baptist Hospital, and she didn't have to repeat our last name. My parents and their friends were also behaving in a cavalier fashion because they didn't want me to overreact. I kept asking, "Am I going to need stitches? How bad is it?" 

And they kept saying, "Oh, it's nothing. They'll probably put a butterfly bandage on it." When they said this, I knew I was in trouble. Throughout my childhood, I never got cut good enough to get a butterfly bandage. I either got a band-aid and a kiss from my mother or I was sent to Baptist to get stitches.

Not trusting the adults in the vicinity, I checked the handkerchief for hard evidence. When I took it from my head and saw this yellow gook mingled with my blood, I lost it. I thought my brains were oozing out with my life source. It took my parents a few minutes to reassure me. But to this day, when I am searching for a word, for an essay or when my ability to recall certain events begins to flounder, I sometime wonder about the lasting effects of the time I bled brains.