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levite · 12-19-2009, 05:13 PM

I forgot about stitches and stuff....

I have a scar on my left ankle from when we were moving, when I was around 6. A kitchen box opened, and the blade from the Cuisinart food processor fell out, and sliced open my ankle. Two stitches.

I have a scar on my left forefinger's knuckle. I got my first pocketknife at 9 years old, but nobody ever instructed me on how to use it safely...or taught me any common sense. I was using it to cut open some sugarcane. Sugarcane that had not been adequately dried off. Cutting backwards. I sliced the knuckle open, down to the bone. Four stitches, done by a first-year med student, so that they came out leaving me with a permanent little Frankenstein scar.

I have a scar on my right little toe, from getting 1 stitch and the toe set when I kicked something metal with my bare foot, in anger. I was 13.

And I have a scar on my right knee, from where I got a long scraping cut from falling off a picnic table where I was having sex with a girl, onto concrete. I thought I heard someone coming-- someone not either of us. I was wrong, but it cost me three stitches. I was 16.

I never had to get stitches for it, but my foot was bound up tightly for two weeks when I was 17, after stepping on a 3.5" nail during set construction for a play I was in.

And I have a small rough scar, not from stitches, but from getting a cyst lanced. A cyst, I found out the hard way, is like a minor abscess, or essentially a giant boil or zit, deeply buried under the skin. In my case, it was a pylonidal cyst, which means it was deeply buried under the skin inside my buttcrack. Not fun. They hurt like fuck-all-get-out, and don't just go away. You have to get them lanced and drained, and then take antibiotics. I honestly don't know which was worse: having to get a doctor to do that for me, or hearing her look at my ass and go, "Oh, gross. That's really a nasty one." The psychological scars from that one might be worse than the actual scar. I was 22.

12-19-2009, 05:13 PM	#32 (permalink)
levite Minion of Joss Location: The Windy City	I forgot about stitches and stuff.... I have a scar on my left ankle from when we were moving, when I was around 6. A kitchen box opened, and the blade from the Cuisinart food processor fell out, and sliced open my ankle. Two stitches. I have a scar on my left forefinger's knuckle. I got my first pocketknife at 9 years old, but nobody ever instructed me on how to use it safely...or taught me any common sense. I was using it to cut open some sugarcane. Sugarcane that had not been adequately dried off. Cutting backwards. I sliced the knuckle open, down to the bone. Four stitches, done by a first-year med student, so that they came out leaving me with a permanent little Frankenstein scar. I have a scar on my right little toe, from getting 1 stitch and the toe set when I kicked something metal with my bare foot, in anger. I was 13. And I have a scar on my right knee, from where I got a long scraping cut from falling off a picnic table where I was having sex with a girl, onto concrete. I thought I heard someone coming-- someone not either of us. I was wrong, but it cost me three stitches. I was 16. I never had to get stitches for it, but my foot was bound up tightly for two weeks when I was 17, after stepping on a 3.5" nail during set construction for a play I was in. And I have a small rough scar, not from stitches, but from getting a cyst lanced. A cyst, I found out the hard way, is like a minor abscess, or essentially a giant boil or zit, deeply buried under the skin. In my case, it was a pylonidal cyst, which means it was deeply buried under the skin inside my buttcrack. Not fun. They hurt like fuck-all-get-out, and don't just go away. You have to get them lanced and drained, and then take antibiotics. I honestly don't know which was worse: having to get a doctor to do that for me, or hearing her look at my ass and go, "Oh, gross. That's really a nasty one." The psychological scars from that one might be worse than the actual scar. I was 22. __________________ Dull sublunary lovers love, Whose soul is sense, cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove That thing which elemented it. (From "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by John Donne)