A memory.
Both at once familiar, and distant.
I have recalled it and spoken of it many times, but not for a long time.
Always before, I gave the details, matter of fact.
But suddenly, this time I vividly recall the shock, the pain.
And I feel myself wanting to cry.
The crippling sciatica of 2 years ago was not my only experience of extreme agony and fear.
11 years old.
Sitting at the dinner table, waiting, I see my sister has a straw for her drink.
I have to have one.
I jump off my chair to run into the kitchen, just as my mother comes through carrying a tray with a pot of freshly boiled tea.
It crashes over my stomach.
I scream.
Panic.
My father rushes me upstairs and starts filling the bath with cold water.
He tells me to lie in it, on my front.
I'm lying on the couch.
My father has given me a pain killer.
The last of a handful that he has kept for years, from some previous illness or condition.
I think it was morphine based.
I think these things are impossible to get hold of because they don't prescribe them any more.
I'm told I'm brave.
My skin is black with large blisters.
Someone says it looks like a moon base.
The doctor puts a dressing on it.
I have some kind of elasticated net vest to hold it in place.
I'm told that if it had been any worse, if my father hadn't acted quickly, then they would have had to take me to hospital in Swansea, which was a long way away.
It's the beginning of the summer holidays.
Trips to the beach have me keeping a shirt on, covered up.
I'm not allowed to go swimming.
For many years my skin has a slight discolouration and scars, but eventually they disappear.
I don't know why I suddenly remembered this so clearly that I momentarily felt the shock and pain.
Nor why I feel the tears now, when I have never felt emotional about it before.
