Emotional, physical or both- we all have scars.
I was around four when I received my first physical scar. My uncle Ricky had brought his new Chow-Chow dog over for a visit and I made the dreaded mistake of trying to pet him. Before I knew it Boomer had mistaken my face for a pic-a-nic basket, and I was being rushed to the ER with blood gushing out of my chipmunk cheeks.
I remember most of the ride to the hospital in my mother’s white Mercedes with black leather seats. I remember being “secured” with a kid-size Scooby Doo straight jacket. The cartoon novelty was intended to distract me from the fact that large needles would soon be sewing my face back together. I remember the needles, and I hate Scooby Doo.
Boomer left two scars. One forms a straight line between my nose and upper lip, and the other resembles a dimple on my left cheek. In following years, Boomer would attack another child and sever the ear of his beloved owner; my uncle. He should have been put to sleep after my attack but “the good outweighed the bad”. Tell that to my face.
The next physical scar occurred when I was 7 or 8. In a rare occasion, my Father was left to babysit me while my mother was out with my older sisters. He was on a conference call and as luck would have it, one of his office swivel chairs had been placed in my bedroom. I did what any kid of sound mind would do, and laid flat on my belly while using my hands to propel the swivel chair in to spinning tea cup mode. I was mid-whee when the chair spun out of control, and as it landed I felt the bottom of my lip split open with the crashing thud.
I was panicked and bleeding profusely as I knocked on the door of my parent’s bedroom. The door inched open a crack and I saw my father sitting squarely on the bed with phone to ear. He violently waved me away. Undeterred and with no where else to turn, I nudged the door open a smidge further. Finally, I noted the recognition in his eye’s as the color in his perm-a-tan face drained. His panic matched mine as he hurried off of the phone and led me to the kitchen sink. I instantly knew that he had no idea what he was doing as he splashed salt-water over my broken chin, but there was comfort in his effort. Soon enough I’d undergo stitches again. This round would leave me with a sideways z under my lip. I’m no Harry Potter but I touch the scar from time to time and feel linked to a singular moment when my father acted as a father.
I am accident-prone and as such, my forehead is well acquainted with walls (they come out of nowhere). Don’t get me started on the story of where my ring had to be sawed off of my finger.
What’s your scar story?
BTW, this was influenced by a recent post from https://geraintisitt.wordpress.com/