Is it even possible to experience life void of scars?
I have a jagged scar beneath my bottom lip that I don’t remember getting. The explanation I was given was that it happened when I was a toddler while my sister and I were playing. She was chasing me and I ran into a wall, biting through my lip. This was before my parents bought the house where my own personal memories began. The scar is still pretty noticeable unlike the others I have; it is on my face though.
The first scar I do remember getting is on the left side of my bum (yep, my derrière, dupa, ass). There’s a bit of back story about my father you need to know before I get to the story about my butt scar. My father did his own home improvements but I can’t vouch for his abilities there. All I know is the house was always in various stages of remodeling throughout the six or so years we lived there. If I sit and think about it I might be able to piece together the projects, but that could end up another blog entry … I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, let alone some future blog post, so whatever… I digress.
My father insisted his daughters get their hands dirty and build strong muscles by moving bricks in our backyard every summer. I’m sure he did this to keep us busy while he worked; to me he appeared sadistically enthusiastic whenever he declared it “Moving bricks day!” The bricks were those generic red rectangular pavers and he wanted us to move tons of them (okay, maybe not tons but there were a lot). Every year these bricks were relocated to some new space in the backyard; one year around the cherry tree, another along the garage, and so on. I loathed moving bricks because beneath each one I would find centipedes, millipedes, roly-poly bugs, ants, earwigs, and everything slimy, squirmy and gross. If you’ve been with me from the beginning you might recall me mentioning our house was infested with cockroaches too. I’ll also divulge that I was terrified of bees and allergic to mosquitoes. So, yeah, for me … bugs = NOPE. Lightning bugs were cool though, go figure.
Back to my butt scar…it was a moving brick day and we were taking a break. There was a new cement patio in the back of the house we loved to roller skate on, but this day my sister had the weeble-wobbles and little people play sets out. Up against the house there was a kid sized chair next to a garbage can filled with sharp broken panes of glass. I remember talking to her as I was walking backwards to sit down in the chair and I can still see her face changing from no expression to one of horror as she watched me sit on glass. It didn’t hurt until I stood up, looked and saw blood running down my leg. Needless to say, what should’ve been treated at a medical facility was just drenched in Bactine and covered with gauze and bandages. I’m guessing I was around seven years old at the time. I remember showing kids at school in the bathroom. It was cool to show our wounds and scars when we we’re kids, wasn’t it? This scar, from my perspective, is a good square inch and forms the shape of an upside down tear drop; it’s on the left side of my left side. It’s much faded now from the years of spread, I mean spread of years.
Sibling squabbles resulted in a scar or two. Being the younger sibling naturally makes one the receiver of teasing and torment. Growing up in an abusive home guarantees it. The next scar memory happened when my sister and I were home alone, fighting over who knows what. There was a garbage bag in the kitchen under the phone, which unbeknownst to us had sharp pieces of metal shrapnel in it from another of my father’s home improvement projects. Well, my sister had a hammer and was threatening to hit me with it if I called our mom, which terrified me because that hammer added to her visible rage meant I was in very real danger. I ran to the kitchen to call our mom and I stepped on the garbage bag, slicing my toe on a piece of scrap metal. Her threats stopped and she helped me to the bathroom, stuck my foot under the sink faucet and wrapped it in toilet paper. Then she helped me hop to our neighbor’s house because she was a nurse. Well, of course she called our mother and I got stitches at an urgent care center shortly after. Whatever scar was there is now a nice thick callus from years of high heels. I laugh recalling the irony of it now and consider myself fortunate to have escaped childhood without any broken bones, skull included. I mean it was a fucking hammer after all.
Small scars from cat scratches, bicycle mishaps and careless lit cigarettes left marks too, but those were customary for any child growing up in the 70s and 80s. As were the cuts from climbing fences, running through pricker bushes, and picked scabs. So many of us had scars from childhood illnesses like chicken pox, puberty’s bane of acne, and the self-inflicted markings of our teenage angst; all display our unique identities while recognizing our similarities.
The ugliest scars I have are on my left leg. What is this with my left side I’m just noticing now? It was in early March and it had snowed after a thaw causing a layer of ice beneath the snow. I fell in my driveway and my leg slammed right into the tire of our minivan; I heard my own bones crack and consider myself very fortunate it wasn’t also a compound fracture. They scheduled me for surgery to set the bones and eventually put two plates and ten pins in my leg just above my ankle. I was a cigarette smoker and I remember the surgeon telling me my bones were very brittle and split like wood which made it difficult for them to repair the damage. Fuck people – please try to quit smoking… for real, though…I love you.
I exhibit all the customary scars and markings that accompany pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood, but those are misnomers to me. I’m quite fond and proud of my stretch marks these days. This is a new experience for me since I’ve spent my life despising my naked image. My ears are unevenly pierced, two on my right and three on my left because my sixteen year old Libra self felt I needed some form of permanent imbalance on display. I also have a number of tattoos and since they’re also permanent markings they’re included as well. My first tattoo was an original I had drawn up when I moved to Los Angeles and I went on to get three more by the same artist while I lived there. I added to one of those when I lived in Illinois in my twenties and didn’t get another until I moved to Ohio. It wasn’t until our 15th wedding anniversary that Jim and I got matching sun tattoos. Since then I’ve added three more and am planning a sleeve on my left arm.
I consider scars and markings to be tributes to the trials we’ve faced in life and if we’re still alive, the battles we’ve survived. Scars do not guarantee a person’s moral integrity though. Nor do our own deliberate unique markings prove our sincerity. But isn’t it comforting to see others with scars and markings surviving in this world too? It’s probably a good thing we grow out of showing all of them to each other though. 😉
Try not to cause unnecessary scars on others and avoid getting unwanted ones on yourselves when you’re out there livin’ your lives peeps and I promise to do the same. ❤
Peace & Love
Stef
A Musing Stef 