My father was a doctor, a GP and surgeon, back in the days when doctors made house calls and carried a little black bag. We kids never did go to a pediatrician. I don’t think they existed when I was a kid. At any rate, we never saw a doctor, except my dad, growing up. I was 27 and in shock and at the emergency room when I saw my first doctor. But that’s another story.
I must have been six or seven years old and dad was giving all the kids a shot. I don’t know what the shot was for but I was not going to be a willing participant. I ran into my parent’s bedroom and crawled behind their headboard. It was one of those huge things with an enclosed shelf above the bed, and shelves, cubby holes and cabinets on both sides. It’s these side pieces that allowed for a hollow space behind the monstrosity. I could hear my parents and siblings going around the house, including this bedroom, searching for me and calling my name. After a time they all gave up. I hid in this space for hours.
That’s the end of the memory. I’m sure I got a beating AND the shot when I came out of hiding. I never did tell them where I had been. This space was a treasure, at least while I remained little enough to get back there. And, then, the piece was gone. They most likely wised up and realized how ugly it was and purchased something more respectable.
My Sensitive Life 