I’m sure my family can guess what story I plan to tell for this topic. While I’ve had my fair share of “accidents” and stories and scars, there’s one that stands out above them all.
It was the beginning of second grade, the first day of art class to be exact. I had finished breakfast and like any good kid, I went up to the bathroom to brush my teeth before leaving the house. After I was done brushing, I opened the medicine cabinet, put the toothbrush away, and BOOM! …the cabinet door came crashing down. It all happened so quick.
Next thing I knew, my mom was knocking on the door to the bathroom asking me to open it. I did and while I had made no sound, she heard the cabinet door go crashing to the floor, and as the door opened there I was standing there with blood dripping down my face. The cabinet door hit my forehead, making a small slice above my right eye.
She called work that she would be late, call school that I wouldn’t be there, made sure my grandma could watch me and we were off to the doctor. I got 5 stitches and spent the day watching cartoons. And what was I the most upset about? It wasn’t the stitches. It wasn’t the fact that a door came crashing on my head. It was that I missed the first day of art class.
While I do my best to cover up the scar on my forehead, if you look closely, you can see the tiny little bump that remains.
While I have scars on my knee from two surgeries, a scar on my right hand middle finger knuckle from working on my birthday a couple years ago, the stories that go along with those just don’t seem nearly as interesting. Unless you want to hear about me being slid through an emergency exit window on an Amtrak train in Boston one summer, but that will have to wait for another day.