It’s Gonna Leave A Scar

When I was about ten a group of my friends were playing army in my backyard. All such games ended with a battle and lots of fake dying. Some were simple falls, others were more dramatic like you might see on TV or in the movies. Wounds were healed with a flick of a finger and a “fix – fix – fix” chant. On this particular day, we died one by one and fell on top of each other. David Ruff was the last to fall, and when he did, he dropped his gun, because that’s what the guys in the movies did. The dropped gun hit me just above my left eye and broke it open. There was blood everywhere.

I ran into the house and Mom patched me up as best she could, but she thought I might need stitches so we headed to the hospital. After completing an exam, the doctor determined the cut was too close to my eye for stitches, so he just bandaged me up. After I healed, I had a scar hidden under my eyelashes well into my forties. It’s gone now.

A few decades after my scar story, Elizabeth was sledding on our hill that led to the lake. She was about three at the time. She slid into a tree, bumped her head, and broke the skin on the bridge of her nose. It split open like an overripe grape. I took her into the house and fashioned a butterfly bandage to pull the skin together. I didn’t want to have her “stitched up” for fear that she would have a scar. If David, or Michael, had fallen to the same fate, I wouldn’t have worried so much about a scar. Boys are expected to have them. Not girls. She healed scar free.

And there was last Friday. I was walking on some stamped concrete, caught my toe, stumbled, lost my balance, and took a header. My forehead hit the concrete with a thud. I knew I was hurt, but wasn’t sure of the extent of the damage. Luckily, Ruth was with me and was able to summon help. While waiting, I laid on my back taking a personal assessment of my condition. I knew my forehead was cut, but I didn’t know how badly. I moved my hands and feet without any problems. I let my brain scan my body searching for any other damage that might have occurred. I was pretty sure I had just hurt my head.

When help arrived they asked if I had blacked out. I hadn’t. They asked a few memory questions. What day is it? Do you know where you are? Who’s the President? I knew everything. Then they said, “You’re going to need stitches. Do you think you can get to the emergency room on your own?”

“You tell me. I can’t see how badly I’m hurt.”

That’s when a voice rang out, “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

I heard Ruth say, “He’s going in an ambulance.”

The three-person female crew arrived a few minutes later, loaded me into my ride, and took me to the closest emergency room. They examined me, assessed my condition, and sewed me up. I’ll spare you the details. After I was back together, they took a Cat Scan to see if I had fractured my skull or broken my nose. I hadn’t. Once I was cleared to go, Ruth drove me home. I have ten stitches that will form an L shaped scar. It runs down my forehead and across my previously damaged eyebrow. I think that’s ok, because boys are expected to have them.

Ruth thinks the L shape will stand for Lucky, as in “Lucky Bob”. That’s what some of my friends call me. One thing is certain.  It’s gonna leave a scar.