Scars
I’ve always liked being around older folks, trying to learn from them, soak up some knowledge or real wisdom. One thing has always turned me off about them, though, and that is the constant stream of complaints about aches, pains, illnesses, scars and maladies. I never wanted to be in those conversations, and certainly never wanted to start any or to compare notes. Since turning 60, however, I find my contemporaries in those conversations with increasing frequency. It has made me want to propose something: with advancing age in the advancing age of social media, why not put it all on one page, and anyone desiring to commiserate can go there as a reference; anyone not wanting to “go there” won’t have to. It will also serve to identify my corpse if I have no ID on me when found.
Accordingly, here is my life story of physical scars, inside and out. If you’re squeamish, stop here.
Before I could talk, I was a climber, and I had an overbite at the time. I fell off bookcases twice, biting all the way through my lower lip. I thus qualified for a facial “lift” twice before I could shave, which is probably why nothing grows on my chin even to this day. Anyway, several stitches and a scar under the lower lip.
At age two, I had my tonsils and adenoids removed. The scars in my throat apparently weren’t deep enough. The damn things grew back, and had to be removed again at age four. I was already a hospital vet by then, and told the other kids to just be patient, they WOULD be getting ice cream. I can say with authority that the zombie juice they use today is far superior to ether.
At age 12, I was performing household chores in the upstairs gulag to which myself and two younger brothers had been banished. One such chore was to vacuum the dust off the filter on the window unit air conditioner. It was a hot day, so I left the AC on while I was bending over, cleaning the filter. When I stood up, I stood up into the fan. I have a three inch scar on my back from that encounter.
At age 14, I was dispatched by my mother to ride my bike a few blocks down Hardy Street to the grocery store. On the way back, my view obstructed by the stuff in the front basket, the front tire hit a pothole, sending me over the handlebars, and ripping a one-inch hole in my left shin on some variety of hardware on the said handlebars. Another scar.
At age 16, while serving as the news editor of ye-olde Hi-Flashes, I was cutting lead slugs on a diamond saw in the basement of the print shop at USM, when a certain clumsy staff photographer bumped me from behind, sending my right ring finger into the saw, and cutting everything but the bone. Fortunately, there was a micro-surgeon on duty that night at Forrest general. Sixty-eight stitches inside and out later, I had a nice one-incher to add to the collection. It mostly stays covered by my USAFA class ring so I don’t scare small children with it.
At age 30-early-something, a Navy Flight Surgeon claiming to be my brother recommended that I get a septoplasty. They did it at Bethesda, which is supposed to be one of the best Navy hospitals. It remains my chief reason for opposing government medical care until the day I finally need none. They gave me the nose job with no anesthetic (claimed they were out), banging on my cartilage with a bone chisel for half an hour while my arms were strapped down.
I would have killed the guy when they got done, but I blacked out.
At age late 30 something, a nerve in my right foot went nuts. The one between the second and third toes. Something called a neuroma, which is med-speak for “You weigh too damned much, and I’m tired of it.” Had to have that cut out. Woke up on the table, and had to get more zombie juice. A half-inch scar that time.
A couple of years later, got a bone spur on the same foot, base of the big toe. Another foot surgery, another one-inch scar.
Started snow-skiing at age 40. At about 48, took a tumble down a black-rated slope. Several months later when my left arm stopped working, they went in to fix what they thought was a rotator cuff tear, and found I had shattered my collar bone. After rebuilding the AC joint, the cutters left me with a nice 3-1/2 inch landmark to add to my road map. Five years later, one of the bone spurs from the original injury grew back, but they were able to use a scope this time, so add four small round scars to the zipper on the left shoulder.
Age 54 or 55. We visited my father-in-law, who had a Chihuahua. It was sitting in my lap, but decided to get up suddenly, kicking me where it shouldn’t have. I woke up the next morning with substantially more equipment than I had gone to bed with. More zombie juice while they repaired one of the “boys,” something called a spermatocellectomy. I think that’s what they called it, anyway. I called it a few other things. If anyone asked at the time, I could usually quieten them down by saying that I had been standing when the Chihuahua kicked me. I’m told there’s a small scar down there. I’ve never looked for it.
Age 60. After putting up with diverticulitis for 30 years, I got tired of it. More zombie juice. They pulled 14 inches of gut out, and left me with three very dark one-inch-stab wounds, a scope incision right in the middle of the abdomen that looks like I got shot with a 9mm round, and a two-inch slice right through the navel where they pulled the bad gut out. Five days in the hospital, the first overnight stay since I was four. I didn’t enjoy it, and found some really weird stuff was on late night cable. I now know more about the Louisiana swamps and lumberjacks than I ever wanted to.
I could go to prison now, and the other baddies would probably leave me alone. Once they saw me in the shower, they’d think I’d been stabbed at least five times, shot a couple more, and lived through all of it. On the other hand, I’m fortunate enough not to be taking any medicine whatsoever, and the doc says they’ll have to beat my heart to death with a stick when something else kills me. That’s my side of the physical misery tales if you’re interested. I probably won’t be reading yours. I do care, and hope you’re well. If not, Shssssss.
Accordingly, here is my life story of physical scars, inside and out. If you’re squeamish, stop here.
Before I could talk, I was a climber, and I had an overbite at the time. I fell off bookcases twice, biting all the way through my lower lip. I thus qualified for a facial “lift” twice before I could shave, which is probably why nothing grows on my chin even to this day. Anyway, several stitches and a scar under the lower lip.
At age two, I had my tonsils and adenoids removed. The scars in my throat apparently weren’t deep enough. The damn things grew back, and had to be removed again at age four. I was already a hospital vet by then, and told the other kids to just be patient, they WOULD be getting ice cream. I can say with authority that the zombie juice they use today is far superior to ether.
At age 12, I was performing household chores in the upstairs gulag to which myself and two younger brothers had been banished. One such chore was to vacuum the dust off the filter on the window unit air conditioner. It was a hot day, so I left the AC on while I was bending over, cleaning the filter. When I stood up, I stood up into the fan. I have a three inch scar on my back from that encounter.
At age 14, I was dispatched by my mother to ride my bike a few blocks down Hardy Street to the grocery store. On the way back, my view obstructed by the stuff in the front basket, the front tire hit a pothole, sending me over the handlebars, and ripping a one-inch hole in my left shin on some variety of hardware on the said handlebars. Another scar.
At age 16, while serving as the news editor of ye-olde Hi-Flashes, I was cutting lead slugs on a diamond saw in the basement of the print shop at USM, when a certain clumsy staff photographer bumped me from behind, sending my right ring finger into the saw, and cutting everything but the bone. Fortunately, there was a micro-surgeon on duty that night at Forrest general. Sixty-eight stitches inside and out later, I had a nice one-incher to add to the collection. It mostly stays covered by my USAFA class ring so I don’t scare small children with it.
At age 30-early-something, a Navy Flight Surgeon claiming to be my brother recommended that I get a septoplasty. They did it at Bethesda, which is supposed to be one of the best Navy hospitals. It remains my chief reason for opposing government medical care until the day I finally need none. They gave me the nose job with no anesthetic (claimed they were out), banging on my cartilage with a bone chisel for half an hour while my arms were strapped down.
I would have killed the guy when they got done, but I blacked out.
At age late 30 something, a nerve in my right foot went nuts. The one between the second and third toes. Something called a neuroma, which is med-speak for “You weigh too damned much, and I’m tired of it.” Had to have that cut out. Woke up on the table, and had to get more zombie juice. A half-inch scar that time.
A couple of years later, got a bone spur on the same foot, base of the big toe. Another foot surgery, another one-inch scar.
Started snow-skiing at age 40. At about 48, took a tumble down a black-rated slope. Several months later when my left arm stopped working, they went in to fix what they thought was a rotator cuff tear, and found I had shattered my collar bone. After rebuilding the AC joint, the cutters left me with a nice 3-1/2 inch landmark to add to my road map. Five years later, one of the bone spurs from the original injury grew back, but they were able to use a scope this time, so add four small round scars to the zipper on the left shoulder.
Age 54 or 55. We visited my father-in-law, who had a Chihuahua. It was sitting in my lap, but decided to get up suddenly, kicking me where it shouldn’t have. I woke up the next morning with substantially more equipment than I had gone to bed with. More zombie juice while they repaired one of the “boys,” something called a spermatocellectomy. I think that’s what they called it, anyway. I called it a few other things. If anyone asked at the time, I could usually quieten them down by saying that I had been standing when the Chihuahua kicked me. I’m told there’s a small scar down there. I’ve never looked for it.
Age 60. After putting up with diverticulitis for 30 years, I got tired of it. More zombie juice. They pulled 14 inches of gut out, and left me with three very dark one-inch-stab wounds, a scope incision right in the middle of the abdomen that looks like I got shot with a 9mm round, and a two-inch slice right through the navel where they pulled the bad gut out. Five days in the hospital, the first overnight stay since I was four. I didn’t enjoy it, and found some really weird stuff was on late night cable. I now know more about the Louisiana swamps and lumberjacks than I ever wanted to.
I could go to prison now, and the other baddies would probably leave me alone. Once they saw me in the shower, they’d think I’d been stabbed at least five times, shot a couple more, and lived through all of it. On the other hand, I’m fortunate enough not to be taking any medicine whatsoever, and the doc says they’ll have to beat my heart to death with a stick when something else kills me. That’s my side of the physical misery tales if you’re interested. I probably won’t be reading yours. I do care, and hope you’re well. If not, Shssssss.
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