Stitched Up

Yesterday morning, Tim and I were waking up. He looked at me and asked, "Where did you get that scar on your arm?"

I was surprised that he did not already know the answer. I wish that I had a story of sandbox building gone amuck or some run in with a ferocious cat, but instead, it was a discolored mole that I had removed when I was a child.

As a child, you hear stories about stitches and broken arms and some part of me wanted stitches and broken bones like everyone else seemed to have. They'd have stories of falling off jungle gyms or broken glass. I had two little stitches for a lousy mole. I told him the story and he nodded and that was the end of the conversation.

What was wrong with me that I coveted stitches and broken bones. They seemed so glamorous to me. The rush to the hospital. The doctor. The cast. The crutches...ohhh...the crutches were my favorite. The classmates' names on the cast. The cut off cast to display in your bedroom for years to come. I had none of that. I was able to survive childhood without a single broken bone and only a few stitches.

The one piece of medical fuss happened in my friend Shelly's front yard. I was lying on the ground for some reason. All the kids from the neighborhood were in her front yard playing a favorite game, CHASE. I am not quite sure why I would be laying down, but I am sure it was for theatrical effect. Unfortunately, Robbie, a neighbor boy, knocked a bike down on top of my little head. It wasn't long until the blood was rushing from my head. I don't remember if I walked home alone or if a friend brought me, but I remember my mom and her two sisters crowding around me trying to see the wound. There was a lot of blood so they agreed that I was to go to the Emergency Room.

This was my chance. My dramatic medical story that I could share for years to come.

I remember two things from my time in the emergency room. The doctor could guess my favorite food of the time...macaroni and cheese. I thought this man was a genius. I couldn't believe it. Now, in my old age, I see that every eight year old's favorite food is macaroni and cheese. I also remember the disappointment I felt when I heard that I would only be receiving two stitches.

Two stitches.

It hardly seemed worth it. I wanted to return to the neighborhood with a story to tell about my 41 stitches. Maybe one of those bags with clear liquid.

As an adult, I am thankful for my unbroken bones and unstitched skin. I like to think that it is because of my graceful nature and common sense that I made it through childhood in one piece.