When I was in the third grade, my appendix decided it was time to come out, so it got infected, which resulted in nine-year-old me getting surgery. I remember being terrified, it was all so sudden, a simple coughing test and that was how they determined that I needed to have surgery right then. I was put into a gown, taken up to an OR, and asked to count backward by a nice lady in a mask.
My first memory after that is waking up in some room and removing sticky things off my body, followed by someone telling me I’d be seeing my parents soon. I was then moved to my room where I did see my parents. From my stay I remember very little, people coming and going to visit, I remember my dad bringing me burger king meals and juice because I hated the liver meals they provided at the hospital (spoiled, I know…), and of course I remember my mother getting into bed with me and telling me stories, making up games to help me pass time.
When I went home I spent a lot of time in bed, but I also remember getting get-well letters from my classmates. I remember slowly getting up and going outside to play with my brother. Then I also remember having my wound get infected, in fact, it felt so traumatic that I can still the syringe they used to remove the liquid that had lodged there. I remember the doctor saying that he had decided on giving me a particular type so that when I wore a bikini you wouldn’t able to see it. Nine-year-old me couldn’t have cared less about bikinis, and little did the doctor know that I’d be wearing low hip bikini bottoms, rendering his consideration completely useless.
Twenty-two years later that scar still graces my body and though at times I’ve resented it, I’ve mostly learned to love it as it reminds me of a simpler time, one I was being taken care of by those who loved me best. I have tons of other scars, both visible and invisible, most are proof of how clumsy I am and others of how strong I’ve been. I am sure I’m not done falling, just as I am certain that I will keep getting back up.
