12/365: A secret scar.

Posted: January 12, 2011 in Misc.
Tags: , , , , ,

So Scott wants me to share a secret here – a secret I’ve never ever shared with anyone else.

Not gonna happen.

But I will share a secret, just not one that I’ve never told anyone. A few, very few people do know about it.

It’s about the stitches I’ve got. You see, in the rugged rural parts of the country that I come from, stories of broken bones and stitches on body is what defines the bravado of any boy – I never got to boast about either. The gallons of milk that Ma forced me to drink ensured I never broke any bones despite many falls. Stitches I do have – two – but the stories around them were always a bit embarrassing to share with anyone. Nevertheless, here they go.

I got my first set of stitches when I was a 4yo. Back then I use to be a little fella with lots of energy (so jumping around), a wild imagination (lost in my own world) and very quiet (no noise at all). Am still the same ;). Anyway, Ma and Bua (dad’s sister) went to this tailor for some new clothes and I got busy playing. Being the quiet type didn’t help as they soon didn’t know where I was. I, in the meanwhile, had headed out of the shop and found a little open drain. Being the creative type, I decided to get water from the drain, mix it with the soil and get busy with some clay modelling. Also being a plump kid, I lost balance when fetching water and banged my head against the edge of a drain. Not sure why, but I’ve been told, I didn’t cry. Instead, I sat there playing with clay mixing it with drain water oblivious to the little stream of blood flowing from my hair. Yes, mixing dirty drain water with soil to make clay models!

Anyway, I was too young back then to claim credit for the stitches I got. Not so when the next set of stitches came, just too stupid this time.

It happened as I was practicing with a borrowed air-rifle in our backyard. While reloading, some of the flesh on my hand got stuck between the barrel and forearm, ripping apart an inch long hole. This time, I clearly remember being in pain and losing a bit of blood. Not entirely sure of what to do, I put down the rifle, got on my bicycle and rode to dad’s shop. He put my bicycle in the shop, got me on his scooter and drove me to a hospital to get the wound stitched up. The embarrassing part? That hospital is 3 houses down from our home and the Doc who runs it is a family friend. Even better, Doc uncle told me that the initial wound hadn’t been bad enough for stitches but my cycling with it had made it worse.

Yes, I injured my hand being inattentive with a rifle, spoiled the wound further by cycling around thus ensuring I’d need stitches only to be brought back home for medical attention. Yup, I can be clumsy like that.

So there, I’ve shared two tales of my bravado, of earning my stitches, and of legendary stupidity. And with that I’ve kept up with my post-a-day promise. Till tomorrow.



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