Scars

The divot on the bridge of my nose has been there since I was ten.   

I’ve got a matching scar on my forehead. They remind me of a week of shared misery at a family-wide “chickenpox party.” Later generations can’t comprehend the impeccable logic of intentionally exposing your children to a highly contagious virus to “get it over with” and accelerate an inevitable rite of passage.  

My right foot and left ankle bear the scars of surgically repaired bones. My chin has been split open many times, once from slipping while carrying a beer in each hand. Didn’t want to spill after all. Priorities. There is a row of stitches on the inside of my upper lip from taking a baseball to the face. My hands carry the necrotizing effects of lionfish venom, a couple of fistfights, kitchen mishaps, and one memorable airbag deployment.  

I once fell out of the back of a moving pickup truck while wearing a toga. My friend Jose Cuervo was there. I’m pretty sure the ER nurse still laughs while telling the story of picking asphalt and gravel out of my rump. A dark spot persists on my shin from banging it on the boat years ago. And my hips, knees, shoulders, and Achilles have all seen better days. Oh, almost forgot about breaking my coccyx while rope swinging into a cenote in the Yucatan – and then again, a few years later at Disney on the “Summit Plummet.”

There are times when a really futile and stupid gesture must be done on somebody's part!

I acquired five new abdominal incisions last month while losing a foot of small intestine (I seem to have lost my belly button in the process as well). It would be better if there were a great story to tell about these scars. Might have to make one up. Maybe I got stabbed multiple times while saving a damsel in distress. Anything is better than recurring complicated diverticulitis. That is definitely not cool and confirms my worst fear - I am old.

Of course, you can’t see all the scars.

There are those I carry on the inside. Lost friends. Lost loves. Bad business decisions. Roads not taken. Words spoken. Words not spoken. Milestones missed. Wasted time. Eating sushi in Nashville.

Regrets, I’ve had a few. But, then again, too few to mention.

A dermatologist recently said that she could fill in the pockmark on my nose. The suggestion caught me off guard.

Why would I want to do that?

My scars are my story.