I'm an extremely squeamish person, but in a weird way, I'm proud of my scars. They tell where I've been, what I've been through. And who doesn't love a good scar story?
I actually have two "real" scars, so I'll tell you about both. The first one is on the underside of my right forearm, and I got it in 2003 when I thought I broke my first bone. I had been working working at Baby Gap for five years at that point, and I was a full-time employee. I was in the back room trying to get some merchandise off the top shelf of a rolling rack. Being young and lazy, I didn't want to get the ladder, so I climbed the rack shelves. I managed to get what I needed, but on the way down, as I stepped across to the next rack over to straddle my way down, I misjudged the shelf and fell about five feet into a large box of gift boxes. In my fall, I threw my right arm out against the shelves to try to catch myself, but the cork shelves were lined with stainless steel on the edges. Ouch! Large, gushing cut on my right arm.
Needless to say, I was embarrassed and tried to pretend I was fine, but then I almost passed out. My manager sent me home. I made it there ok, but after an hour, my arm was a beautiful shade of blue, and I was worried. Mom drove to me the emergency room where they took an X-ray of my arm and determined it wasn't broken, just badly bruised. And thank God I didn't need stitches! They cleaned up the wound and sent me on my way.
My second scar is a little more dramatic, at least for me. It is on my upper back, just to the right of my spine. Back in October, I had to have a ruptured cyst removed from this spot on my back. That surgery did require stitches, and the scar is still fresh. I'm hoping it fades just a little bit. It still tingles sometimes, and this experience taught me that I HATE stitches. I was miserable for the entire two weeks I had them in, even though I couldn't even see them.
Here's hoping for no more scars. Two is enough for me.
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