Day 50: (Scars): Physical Scars Have Stories Behind Them

Throughout childhood into early adulthood, I’ve accumulated a series of scars, rather they be physical, emotional or psychological.  They have all made such an impact on my life.  Physical scars have stories behind them.  The first scar I ever acquired is the one displayed on my forehead.  I was left unattended in my parents bedroom, in my walker still learning to walk, because my mother was doing some work in the kitchen.  I was about a year and a half.  There was something wrong with the wheels on the walker, because they weren’t attached properly.  Therefore, I wobbled, lost my balance, and hit my head on the sharp corner of my parents dresser.

My mother came running into the bedroom, because she heard me screaming.  I was a bloody mess.  My dad was across the street at an aunt and uncle’s house on his side of the family.  My mother telephoned him and told him what happened.  He came running across the street, hurried into the front door of the house, grabbed a hold of me, applied pressure to the deep cut on my forehead, and somehow stopped the bleeding permanently.  Therefore, there was no need to take me to the hospital.  He was furious at my mother, because she left me unattended.

She said she had some work to do in the kitchen.  However, he told her she could have brought  me inside the kitchen and put me in the play pen where she could have kept an eye on me while she did her work in the kitchen.

The next scar I acquired in life is the one I have on the left side of my lower lip.  I was 2 ½ years old at the time.  My brother John and I were at my grandmother’s.  This was before my brother Stanley was born.  My parents just brought him home from having surgery at the hospital for hernia.  I shared my toys with him.  He picked up my toy plastic fry pan and struck me on the head with it.  I screamed in pain.  Next, he took my Frisbee, threw it, and hit me in the lip with it.  Although the cut wasn’t deep, it left a scar.

My third scar came along when I was 6 years old.  I was at an elementary school picnic with my mom, my brothers, my aunt and my grandmother.  My brothers and I were playing on the playground with two of my classmates.  As we were running, the one classmate tried to be funny, when he deliberately pushed me.  I fell on top of some stones.  In the stones were some staples.  The one staple got into my knee.  I didn’t noticed anything until the little girl who was a good friend of mine said, “Kiki, your knee.”

I looked down, saw the blood, and screamed in fear.  We ran over to my mom.  My friend told her what happened.  She told my mom the little boy we were playing together with pushed me down.  When my brother John found out, he ran after the little boy, grabbed him by the shirt, and slapped him across the face for pushing me, and making me get hurt.

The gym teacher of the school took me inside to apply medicine and a bandage from the first aid kit.  He was such a nice man.  After treating my injury and calming me down, he took me back outside where my mom waited for me with my brothers, my aunt and my grandmother.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015

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