I must have been somewhere between the ages of seven and nine when I got my first scar. It is barely noticeable anymore, but I sometimes find myself staring at it. Do you ever just stare at your imperfections long enough until it blends in with the rest of your body, and then you’re reminded that it is essentially a part of you? Not just as a part of your body, but a part of who you are?
Well, if my first scar said anything about me, it was probably that I was reckless. And that’s saying something, since I’m usually the one that analyzes everything, and tries to stay in between the lines. Recklessness doesn’t fit me well. It never did.
I was wearing a dress and stockings, and I was playing hide and seek at home with Brianna. Possibly even Caitlyn, too, but I don’t remember if she was too young or not at the time to play with us. But I digress.
During one round of the game, I decided to hide in the kitchen, basically right behind the refrigerator. I thought that it was the best place to hide, particularly because none of us thought about that as a hiding spot before. So I crouch down, fold my legs underneath my body, and wait.
You know, until I felt something stab me.
This is why I say I’d be considered reckless. I wouldn’t have thought about whether or not there was anything back there to hurt me; I didn’t think at all. I just wanted a good hiding spot.
Instead, I waited until Brianna gave up looking for me, and yelled ollie-ollie-oxen-free, before crawling out, turning on the light, and seeing the blood. I got a piece of glass stuck on the top of my foot, basically in between my fourth and pinky toe on my right foot.
It didn’t hurt so much that I was crying or screaming, but I remember feeling the sting in my foot. And my mother screaming when I showed her.
My mom was in the living room at the time, and I remember just kind of calling her into the kitchen to show her, and to put it nicely, she freaked out. You see, my mom can’t deal with bodily fluids like vomit or blood. It freaks her out.
So she made me sit on the toilet in the bathroom, helped me take off my stockings, and tried to stop the bleeding with (I think) paper towels. I just remember her yelling at Brianna to stay away from the bathroom, and screaming for Rick to come downstairs.
She wasn’t sure what to do, but she knew she had to get me somewhere, because she couldn’t handle it. After she took out what glass she could, and stopped as much bleeding as she could, she had me put on slippers and get in the car.
If there was one thing I distinctly remember besides my mom’s screams that night, it was that it was raining.
Mom got me in the car, and the first stop we made was to Oma’s house. I don’t really remember why, but I think it was because Mom wanted to ask her if she thought we’d have to go to the hospital or not. Oma said that was our best bet, and we were off again. Thankfully, she asked (in a panicked manner, of course) Rick to watch the younger siblings. Because we weren’t coming home for another couple of hours.
When we got to the emergency room, my mom immediately signed me in, and we sat down. I don’t remember how long we sat there, but I didn’t think it was too long. I do remember sitting near a boy who had a broken arm, though, for some weird reason.
After our however-long wait, I was escorted to a bed, and fixed right up. A nurse washed away any blood that came back, took out the remainder of the glass, and informed my mom that, thankfully, I wouldn’t need stiches. Like a piece of paper, all I needed was a little bit of glue.
Yep, you heard me right. Glue.
Apparently, there was this kind of glue made especially for skin, and that’s what I was getting. I thought it was weird, but I was so thankful that I was not getting stitches. And I’m pretty sure my mom was, too.
Over a decade later, and here we are: that little game of hide and seek is stuck with me for the rest of my life. I have the tiniest white scar on my right foot, and an emotionally scarred mother. It was a lot of blood for a little puncture, I’ll tell you that much. I think it’s kind of cool to have these little stories attached to the marks on our bodies—it’s a great conversation starter.
Prompt: Talk about a scar you have.