Scars! We all have them. Some more than others. Some deep, some superficial, but all of them have a story.
We have scars we can see, like the big one on my left arm. And scars we can’t see, like the heart that’s been broken too many times.
This post is not about the soul scars. There isn’t enough blog space in the world to capture all the scars I have from loves lost, hurt feelings, missing loved ones, etc. I’ll just leave that one alone for today’s posting.
Scars of the other type are interesting little creatures to me. Someone asked me the other day about a scar on my left arm and how I got it. Looking down at the 3 inch scar I was transported into the mid 1980’s when I got the scar. I can tell you what I was doing, where we lived, and how it happened.
Then I started thinking about all my scars. Each one has a story to tell. Some may be only vague because of the alcohol induced experience that resulted in a scar (hypothetically speaking of course). So let’s take a walk down scar lane shall we. It’s close to Halloween, so why not. I promise, no pictures. That would be wrong and gross.
Let’s start with the ankle. On my right inside ankle I have a straight line scar. I have no recollection of this scar, but my mom does. Apparently as an itty bitty baby I wasn’t exactly healthy and almost didn’t make it. The scar was from where they put the IV into me. Or so I’m told. I’ll forever be grateful that I don’t remember that story. I’m sure I would have had the vapors if the doctor had told me where he was going to cut and put the IV.
On my right knee, there’s a little scar from biting it on my bike. When we lived in Landscatter (aka Lancaster) California, we lived by the desert. To put it in perspective, everything was “by the desert” in Landscatter. It was, after all, in the middle of the Mojave desert. Still, as kids we played in the desert All.The. Time. It was safe, relatively. It had bike trails. It had hills on the bike trails. The “hills” screamed for us to ride our bikes fast and attempt to get air. I did too. Once! Thus the scar.
On my left knee there’s a scar from falling off a curb in Squim Washington. The Parental Units decided a family getaway would be fun…in Squim. Mom and I were coming out of a, or rather THE grocery store in Squim and this curb jumped right out in front of me…and I bit it. Tore my favorite jeans too…but thankful it was 1986 and jeans with torn knees were cool. I was finally cool. What wasn’t cool was the blood stain on the jeans…but whatever.
On my left arm there’s that big 3 inch gash from 1980. We were living in Landscatter. The MomUnit, The GrandParentalUnits, my sister and I all lived in a nice, little house (seeing the house years later as an adult I’d say it was more like a matchbook). There were several kids in the neighborhood that I played with. One sunny day us kids were out playing Hide-N-Go-Seek. I found a good hiding place behind this HUGE pine tree that butted up against the brick wall fence. The neighbor’s cat was on top of this brick fence just sitting minding his/her’s own business. What I didn’t know was the neighbor’s dog was behind the fence. He started making a huge ruckus that scared the cat, that then used my left arm to slide down to the ground.
It was a nasty gash too. Gma Spaid cleaned it (that was fun – NOT). She bandaged it. Then she promptly told me I wasn’t going to the movies that afternoon because of the gash(es). I was devastated. I wasn’t able to go to the movies because of a stupid cat.
I should also mention, that the years have been kind to the multiple wounds I had from that cat. There must have been at least 6 little wounds too. If I search and look real hard I can see them.
Still on the topic of my left hand, I have another little itty bitty scar at the base of my pointer finger. This scar is a burn scar. I was cooking Spaghetti-O’s about 5 years ago (What? Don’t all adults still eat Spaghetti-O’s?) that had been cooking in the microwave. As I stirred, some yummy Spaghetti-O juice popped onto my hand and burnt the bejesus out of me.
New to the scar collection on my left hand it my most recent attempt to slice off my thumb while making guacamole. It’s a beauty and it still hurts a little.
Moving over to the right hand. There’s a round-ish scar towards the middle of the back of my hand. Now this one’s a funny story. If only I could remember. I was in college and it was the weekend. I remember that. I remember that we walked down to Circle K to get more cheap beer. I remember reaching into the refrigerator to grab a six pack and somehow one of the bottle caps raked across the top of my hand…cutting a hole in it. Thankfully I didn’t really feel it until the next day.
On the write of my right hand/arm, I have an “L” shaped scar from our old microwave. Blueberry had one of those 4 THOUSAND pound beasts that were among the first ever built. Sturdy thing. And the door latch was sharp. I caught my write on the door latch and scratched up my arm…stupid thing.
The only other scars I know I have that deserve an honorable mention are the hysterectomy scars. They’re small. They’re healed – finally. They remind me all the time that I have my own personal built in heater – every now and then anyhow. Hot flashes are my friend.
So now you know more about me than you EVER wanted to really know.
0 comments:
Post a Comment