( continues...) so.
He told me about the drainage tube, but it took seeing it in the mirror for it to sink in. Man, they'd cut up my breast and left me with metal and rubber in it.
It hurt for a long time, physically and psychically, which led to my second nipple scar - the piercing. My nipple, my pain, my terms.
It was a family outing - cousin S, her mother and I went out Thanksgiving of 97. I came home with a breast that hurt because I wanted it to. S came back with a pierced nose, and her mother a pierced navel.
I kept the piercing in for a year. It was … interesting. And then I was done. Breast reclaimed.
Moving further downwards, we hit two failed navel piercings. I don't want to talk about them. I'm still bitter.
University of Reading, I think. 1986? 1985? My stomach hurts the whole time we're there, having the marvels of physics presented to us. A low-grade nasty ache. My mother doesn't want to hear about it when I get home. She gives me ginger tea, and sends me to bed. It doesn't work. I think we only went to the hospital the next day so she didn't have to hear me whine anymore.
The doctors weren't sure, my mother was sceptical, but I knew. Appendicitis, idiots! No, you can take the glove off, just take out the appendix, no need to stick your finger, ow! They did, and better late than never, agreed with my diagnosis. Hmmph.
The pain afterwards was worse than the pain before, and made me grouchy. Grouchy enough to leave the hospital on my own, not filling my antibiotics prescription (uncharacteristically sloppy of my mother not to ask, but I confessed the truth to her over 10 years later), and just catching a cab. They'd gotten Teletext while I was in hospital.
I liked this scar a lot. 6 stitches (again), two inches long. I bought my first bikini, just so I could show it off.
The road rash from the awkward slide I did on the gravel of the netball court, trying to round the corner of the 6th form common room, heading late to chemistry only shows in the right light. It's pretty easy to keep the right light off your ass.
More absent scars, on my left thigh. In 1981, or thereabouts I embarked on a search for acupuncture points. My mother was furious. Mostly about the potential sanitary hazards, I think. But the needle was clean enough to not scar. So there.
Knees, knees, knees. Scars on my knees, like schmutz on a toddler at dinnertime. There are the generic knee scraping scars.
Either my knowledge of geography has gotten better, or growing 2 feet taller has reshaped the one I called Australia. I'm proud of these scars, because I nursed them along. The cuts were my little petrie dishes, and the bathroom my list of ingredients. I packed everything into them - talcum powder, soap, toothpaste.
Less generically, we have another 6-stitch outing. This one is earlier than my memory - a tale of broken glass in the hands of an unattended toddler. It's a big one. I guess they couldn't get me to stay still while it healed. Don't know why not - someone should have just given me a book. But it did give me something to play with. From the right angle, it looks like an eye, and I would pretend my leg was an elephant, my shin and foot the trunk. Not a very mobile elephant, on reflection.
They reassured me that arthroscopic surgery wouldn't scar much. And now that I've seen traditional knee surgery scars on others, I'm glad of it. Just three small and soft raised scars. Which fail to convey the amount of pain I woke up in, and the pain that continued, the tears shed at fruitless rehabilitation sessions, the pain of thinking I'd never be able to go back to what I loved. Which is a blessing, since one good physical therapist made that all go away.
I cut my ankle taking out the trash. Broken glass sliced through plastic, and through stockings, and bled all over my workplace. Because I didn't take the time to go back up to my apartment and bandage it properly. Dedication to the job, what, what. Hrrmph. This cut was fun, because some unidentified white (continued...)