When I awoke in the hospital ward, I could tell by the gradient of light coming through nearby windows that it was a little past mid-afternoon. About 4pm. Yellow, yet crisp, the light suited the seaside town’s aspect.

Ascertaining that I was surrounded by elderly people in various states of consciousness, which did not surprise me, and that my mother was temporarily absent, which did not alarm me, my next immediate thought was that I badly needed to go to the toilet.

The toilet was to my right, but I could not get out of the bed on that side because the safety rail was still up. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, because the IV drip had been inserted into my left hand. As I am left-handed, this irritated me no end and taught me since, in the few other times I’ve needed IV drips, to always request the needle in my right.

So I grabbed the wheeled IV rod and together we made it around the bed, into the bathroom, and only just in time to do my wee.

Never, ever since in my life have I experienced such searing, stinging pain. Not even the crowning of my two baby’s heads in birth. The feeble amount of urine I was able to produce only made the sensation worse. As I sat there on the toilet, I remember feeling so maligned, so betrayed; not by what had been done to me in surgery, but by my body’s incompetencies to make the procedure necessary in the first place. I wiped; I got up; I opened the door, walked back to my bed, and hopped in. This is where the memory ends.

I was four years old.

My long-term memory has always been one of my strong points. Don’t ask me to remember names or pythagorean laws, it just doesn’t happen. In fact, don’t ask me anything maths related unless it’s the times tables because I still have those down. But if I watch an ad on television which sparks a sense of deja vu or smell a smell as I walk in a nearby park which triggers something in my memory? Why I could stare off into space for minutes, lots of minutes, until I figure the damn riddle of why? out.

This is not my first memory. The claimant to that honour is one I have from back when I was a near newborn, if you can believe it, which I might share another day.

I mention this particular one today because I was four then, as my daughter is now. Luckily my daughter has not yet displayed any of the kidney failings I had as a child, and for that I am most grateful. But I do wonder instead if she has had her ‘first memory’ yet? Or, what will she look back on in later years as perhaps not her ‘first memory’, but the one which helped shape and formulate her sense of self and foundation in life? Will it be a happy one? Will it be a sad one? Will it be like mine, somewhere in the middle? (Because in mine, although I am in pain, I was also very proud of the fact I was able to go to the toilet ALL ON MY OWN. NO NURSES.)

Do you ever wonder about your child’s first memories in life? What were yours? Have they influenced or contributed to your perspective in life since?