Scarred

The guilty parties

I’m up earlier than I’d like. As usual. When I’d like: 8 am or so. When I am: anywhere from 4:30 to 6:00. If I don’t stop these bad habits, I will never attain my lifetime goal of idle rich. Also, a girl must surely need more beauty sleep as she gets older, not less.

The boys found a new and novel way to get me out of bed today (and more importantly, to get breakfast and then outside into the early morning sunshine). This one involved rolling around on top of my unsuspecting body, clawing and biting each other’s heads with accompanying sound effects.

At least I didn’t get a new bruise to add to my collection. The old one is still there, now turning yellow at the edges while retaining its alarming lumpiness. It’s about 6 inches long and three inches wide, with the power to frighten innocent passers-by and co-workers. At least it doesn’t hurt any more and will eventually vanish into the mists of time, unlike some of the other scars I still have:

  • The triangular one on top of my left hand. I got this one while ironing my father’s shirts when I was home from college. His mother taught me the proper Victorian way to iron his shirts, so when I was home, I’d iron them for him, usually while watching TV. I think it was an episode of “I Dream of Jeannie” which led to my being distracted enough to mistake my hand for his Ben Sherman shirt (which I now have).
  • The long, lumpy one at the base of my left thumb. For someone who’s right-handed, I seem to be unduly hard on my left hand. I broke a goldfish bowl in Megan’s room, again when I was home from college, and rescued the fish. I picked up the broken glass and it slipped. Instead of letting it go, I clutched at it and sliced open my hand to reveal its inner workings (there’s a reason why they hide all that stuff under our skin). I immediately turned into a six year old, yelling, “Mom!” She took me to the ER for several stitches, which surprised me by being black and wiry, and held my hand when they injected novocain into the wound.
  • Above my – yes, you guessed it, left – eye is a small wrinkle which I acquired while Mom in the hospital in the final months of her life. There is no tired like hospital tired. The little line mostly appears when I am tired at a normal level, but I notice it whenever I put on makeup and think of Mom. Accessorizing the line is a scar mostly hidden by my eyebrow, which comes from having a few glasses of wine too many after sharing Christmas dinner with Mom at the hospital and realizing there wouldn’t be any more to come.

    I lost my balance – which I am perfectly capable of doing with no alcohol involved – and hit my head on the open door of Megan’s desk. I was slightly stunned. Megan cleaned me up and called our brother. We still laugh about her calling him late at night and saying, “I’m drunk, but Suzy’s drunker, and she cut her head open.” He sighed and came over, and by his account, “When I opened the door, the smell of vomit wafted out.” In the meantime, Megan had butterflied my eyebrow together really well.

    Not my finest moment, but as usual, I was lucky to have my family there to rescue me. I think I threw up all the next morning. Merry Christmas!

  • The chicken pox scars on my legs. I had mumps twice, and I had chicken pox twice. Both poxes were memorable. The first time, I was 8 and my parents had taken us kids and Mom’s aging parents to England to visit Dad’s parents. On the way home, the flight was delayed at the airport for many hours. But that was the least of our parents’ worries – we had broken out in chicken pox that very morning. Mom was convinced that if the officials found out, we’d be forced to stay in England until we were healthy again. “Don’t you dare get any on your faces!” she said as we approached Customs. We didn’t, and after an overnight stay at Charlie Chaplin’s suite at the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne, we finally went home.

    The second time, I was 15 and spent hours lying in an Aveeno bath, complaining about the utter itchiness. Though I did get out of midterms.

Considering my ability to damage Self in nearly any circumstances, it’s somewhat surprising that I have never had major surgery, broken a limb (though I did break two fingers recently), and still retain my tonsils, appendix, and two of my wisdom teeth. I need all the help I can get.

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4 thoughts on “Scarred

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  2. Wow, I would hate to be close to you, judging from what you wrote, you’re dangerous territory if not for others, for yourself. I heard of bumps and bruises but you certainly had your share.

  3. Wow! and Wow! again…..you are living quite some life, Suzy…. They do say that truth is stranger than fiction…… Take care of yourself, please.

    jxx

  4. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know! 🙂 But keep in mind that all these injuries have taken place over the past 40 years. It’s not so bad when you think of it that way.

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