Elaine Abery - Remembrance

Remembrance

“I’ll send that straight to my forgettery, as my mother likes to call it.”

Laughs.

Everyone always laughs when I say that. I’m not sure why.

Some thoughts are destined for the forgettery. Some for the memory. Sometimes, a random memory comes from nowhere and surprises me. Somehow, it surfaces unbidden from the forgettery, like rainwater from a storm upriver overrunning, flooding out onto the roads, while the sun still shines here.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of administering first aid to a gentleman. I first noticed him as I was talking to some friends at Newcastle Beach. What we were talking about is firmly entrenched in my forgettery. I’m pretty sure it will stay there, unlike the random floodwater on sunny roads.

He was riding a bike along the bike path adjoining the beach, shaking a little, with tissue paper floating around blood on his shins.

“Did you see that guy?” I asked my friends. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Soon enough, he was heading back in our direction.

“Are you okay mate?”

He slowed down and nodded.

“Would you like us to have a look at your leg?”

“Here. Let me help you.” They cleared a path for him to ride to the surfclub as I walked ahead and prepared a chair for him to sit on.

“Can someone please find the first aid kit for me?”

“Here. Have a seat. I’ll put your bike over here, against the wall.”

“Thank you.” I can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks.

His left shin is encased in some sort of plastic. A third of his right shin is bloody, with bits of tissue paper stuck to it.

“That must hurt.”

“Oh it’s okay. My own fault. I parked at Honeysuckle and as I was lifting the bike out of the car, it hit my shin.” One half of his mouth doesn’t move as he speaks. The other side tilts down. He speaks slowly and carefully.

“Ouch! We’ve all done that. Let’s have a look at your chain. It’s always a good idea to have enough oil on it.”

A voice chimes in from behind me “There are 2 schools of thought on chains for the beach – oily so the sand drips off them, or dry so nothing touches them.”

“This may sting a little.” I start pulling off the tissue and wipe the blood from his leg.

“All good. It’s my own fault.” Gratitude comes from this man in waves.

“Oh I can see you’re in good hands there,” another voice chimes in, walking past.

“There you go.” I apply some antiseptic cream and two large patches up his shin. “This will help stop any infection from stuff getting in the wound.”

“Those shin grazes are always so painful,” someone else walks up to see what is going on.

I gather all the bits in my hands and stand up.

“Thank you very much.” The gentleman reaches for the wall to steady himself as he walks towards his bicycle.

I kick myself and rush to grab the bike for him. I turn it in the right direction.

“You’ll be on your way as good as new.”

“Thank you again.” He heads on his way.

“All good?” The patrol captain heads my way for a debrief. For his paperwork. Before it’s relegated to his forgettery.

“He scraped his shin with his bike unloading. It looks like he is recovering from a past stroke. I patched him up.”

“All good. He obviously enjoyed all the attention.”