Crossing a bridge...

I have lots of small scars here and there. I have a pretty big one on my belly which it is a direct result of cutting my appendix. But since this would be a pretty boring story (well I slept through the whole operationJ), I decided to choose the one I have on my knee (yes in deed this round, hairy object that you on the picture in my knee, not my head:). And here comes the story.

I love ocean, I love walking on the beach, being at the pier, staring at the waves. It was on my trips to the ocean, and went there with sister Dagmara, my best friend Chris and my mum. One day Dagmara, Chris and I went for a walk to the ocean and when we were coming back it was already dark night. We were tired after the whole day of walking so to help us to get home faster I thought about shortcut… I wasn’t sure whether it would work, but I was sure that the previous day I saw a little bridge that would allowed us to cross a canal much faster, without walking to the right, big bridge. Dagmara was against my idea… I don’t remember Chris’es opinion on that, but I don’t think he was against. Definitely I manage to convince both of them and we went to look for my bridge … 5 minutes walking and there it was … an old wooden bridge, hidden in dark… on the other side of it, we could see a well-known part of a harbor next to which we lived. It wasn’t a long bridge, maybe 30 feet long. I don’t remember who went first… was it me or Chris… I think it was Chris… I went a as second one… Suddenly I fell down… my leg got stuck in a huge hall. Chris helped me get it out, stand up and we moved back to the part we came from. There was a whole in my jeans and I couldn’t walk well so Chris helped me to walk. After few minutes my pants were covered with blood… We were walking home and it was a pretty long walk. Once we got there I took off pants and it tuner out that there must have been a nail in the whole which not only ripped my jeans, but also drove in to my muscle. Well 5 stitches were enough, but there was not much walking for the next week or so. So yeah … here is my story.

And you know what it is always good to have a friend on the side to support you in crossing dark and unknown bridges J This happened maybe 7 years ago and 3 years after that event I went to the same place just to cross this bridge… well by then they managed to replace it with a new one but still it was a nice feeling to cross it…

I was Ten, he had a Flat Top

Between the middle and ring fingers, right above the red little scratches I got this weekend playing some ball...you see...

I'm not sure that it's my favorite scar but one that I certainly didn't think I would have this long.

So, this is how it happened; Adams Elementary (we were the Tigers), 5th Grade, afternoon recess... I was playing 5 on 5 basketball on the upper court with other kids, including my best friend Matt Jordan and my not so best friend Garrett Tadlock. We were on the same team.

Garrett was blonde.

Garrett had a flat top and was a ball hog. 

But we were on the same team that afternoon so I was trying to make it work. We were playing, and I wasn't the best ball player then, but the team concept was something I sorta believed in, so after a few times of watching Garrett shoot the ball without passing it to anyone else Matt and I began to feel some frustration and approached Garrett, we probably yelled at him to pass the ball, but with reason. Our suggestions were taken as encouragement for him to not pass and he continued his ways purposely for a bit longer...until, I said something to him that made him throw the ball at me and walk up to me in a confrontational way. I don't know what I said, I imagine it was bad but I said it and he was upset. Now this is where it gets either hazy, or over a period of time I just convinced myself of the story that I ended up relaying to my mother. As I recall, Garrett pushed me, and then I threw a jab at him. Connecting in the upper portion of his mouth, where his lip and the left side of his top teeth meet. I was a bit shocked I threw a punch, Garrett flew back and fell to the ground, ok he didn't, he just wobbled a bit. My friend Matt stared at us not knowing what to say and we just sorta walked away from each other. I'm not sure where Garrett went, but I needed to pee. It was in the bathroom when I was washing my hands that I noticed the gash in between my knuckles that would require five stitches, of which I wasn't too excited about. Garrett got a chipped tooth and a bloody lip, but my stitches were cooler.

Mrs Dearman, our principle, drove me to my auntie's home before getting stitched up, she was surprisingly sweet. I was frightened of her, but all the way home she was nice and said the stitches were probably punishment enough so no suspension would be needed. I like my scar, when my OCD was a bit more noticeable I would rub it if meeting new people or when nervous.

I think the story changes a little every-time I tell it, but the scar remains.

The tickle spot scar

This is a scar under my arm. My favorite part about it are the little dot scars around it where the stitches were. You can't see them very well in the photo, but they make the scar look like a flower, sort of.

When I was little, I was ticklish. Not just a little bit either. I was ticklish to the point of writhing on the floor practically crying. And this was because I had a tickle spot. A mole under my left arm that I swear attracted people's fingers to it. My sisters can vouch for this-- someone would just wiggle a finger at me and eye my left armpit and I would be done for. It was just as bad as actually tickling me because my tickle spot was so sensitive to even the suggestion of touch. Then it started to grow. It got bigger and bigger, and I got more and more ticklish. Who knows what would have happened if there hadn't been an intervention, but I am pretty sure that it would have soon overtaken my entire body and I would've died an early death from excessive laughter. But, as it was, my father was a cancer researcher, and one day when torturing my tickle spot, he noticed that it had grown, and sent me to the doctor. I can not even begin to describe the agony of sitting in the doctor's office, with the doctor prodding my tickle spot with his cold fingers. Have you ever tried to hold in a cough in a silent auditorium? You know that it won't stay in and eventually you end up choking with tears running down your face. it was kind of like that. But it was nothing to the pin prick of the needle when they put local anesthesia around the mole to remove it. No, scratch that. The worst part about it was the anticipation of the needle, 10 inches away. My tickle spot knew that there was something pointed at it, and oh, it couldn't stand it! The needle moved slowly, closer, closer, and the tickle spot was yelling to all of my nerves "MOVE NOW! IT IS COMING CLOSER! YOU MUST SQUIRM WITH ALL OF YOUR MIGHT! LAUGH! I DEMAND YOU LAUGH!"

I don't remember much of what happened after the pin prick of the needle. A strange tugging sensation, the smell of burning skin, and bandages that made my left arm lie awkwardly against my side. The tickle spot was gone, and with that the magic of it. Oh sure, you poke me now and I still squirm, but wiggling the finger at me suggestively no longer incites uncontrollable giggles. Maybe it is a part of growing up. Maybe it was the surgery that took away my tickle spot. All that remains is a scar. But sometimes, if my older sister looks at me slyly and wiggles her finger at just about 10 inches away, I can feel a phantom tickling sensation.

Knucklehead

Good idea! Here's mine:

On the center knuckle of the middle finger of my right hand I've got a horseshoe-shaped scar, the physiological residue of a thing that happened and the day that followed.

It was a school morning and time was running short. The minute hand on the kitchen clock told me that the schoolbus was already barreling its way down the street to my house, but the dog was frantic for breakfast and my mom had just started a shower and wouldn't be down for at least another half-hour. There wasn't much time to spare. I was only a small Second Grader, but with my shoes tied, jacket and backpack on, I was prepared. I could feed the dog and still make it outside in time for the bus. I knew I could. This was the culmination of all of my training. All the hours spent practicing the morning routine in the First Grade had readied me for just this kind of challenge in the Second. My time had come to shine.

I threw open the cabinet where the dogfood tupperware was kept and thrust in my hand, catching my knuckle squarely on one of the very sharp kitchen knives stored on the inside of the cabinet door. Blood gushed, the dog's food-panic went into hyperdrive, the sink ran, the paper towels wadded around my hand, the dog got her breakfast, I checked the clock and raced upstairs to bang on the door of the bathroom where Mom was showering.

"Mom!"
"What?"
"I cut my finger!"
"Put a bandaid on it."

I looked down at my hand wrapped with a bowling ball sized wad of paper towels and noticed that blood had already soaked all the way through.

"Okay, Mom."

I put three bandaids on it, took a few more for the road, and ended up making the bus. Piece of cake.

Over the course of the day the finger continued to bleed silently through reading, through snacktime, through math, and when my teacher asked if I was okay I said yes, that I had a cut but I had put a bandaid on it. Well, I had put six bandaids around it at that point but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. And wouldn't keep me out of recess.

When I got home that afternoon my mom noticed the bloody stack of bandaids around my finger and asked to see the cut.

"Don't worry, Mom, everything is under control. I have plenty more bandaids where these came from."

She asked again to see the cut, and when I showed her she saw not only the flaming pink flap of finger skin that the knife had lifted, but also the shockingly white finger bone that the knife had uncovered.

As I recall, my mom began to cry and question her merit as a mother, and I assured her it would be fine, I could just put another bandaid on it. (More crying.) A call to the doctor confirmed it was too late for stitches, which was a great relief to me. Who wanted needles poking around such a sore spot on top of everything else. And after all, I tried to reassure my mom, it was only bleeding a little bit now. Another eight hours or so and it was bound to stop altogether.

Twenty years later I have a small scar. It has faded, and it blends pretty well with the other creases in my knuckle. I'd be sad if it disappeared and even find myself checking to make sure it's still there at all...because it brings back fond memories for me now. The smell of my mom's shower soap. My dog, Bonnie, who died many years ago. The sound when my parents sharpened the kitchen knives against the whet stone. The faith I had in my mom's advice and in the power of a bandaid.

A scar is like a photograph in that way. A flash, and then time, and then memories.

good choice :)

Well I was warring we would start with #1 , and I was wandering how I am suppose to make this baby outfit ... so good choice ... plus I really don't like pink ... so a week and a half I suppose to write?