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.