Wednesday, February 28, 2007

The Long Version

Through one of the blogs I stalk, er I mean monitor I found Eschara, a website dedicated to scars and the stories they tell. I have been aching to tell my scar-story ever since. I submitted a contribution, but the 100 word limit for Eschara just wasn't enough to tell the story properly, so here's the long version:

I was an overcurious six year old. I had explored the chicken house many times before, so my grandpa allowed me out of his sight while he collected eggs.

I don't remember much of the incident, or what compelled me to stick my hand in between the gears of that auger, but I remember the cold terror of realizing I was in real trouble. He ran as fast as he could when I screamed, but the machine was closing in on my wrist before he could shut it off.

Tears come to my eyes just trying to imagine the horror he swallowed as he worked my mangled hand back through the auger, replaying the injury in reverse. The surgeons said I would have lost my hand if it had gone 2cm further. Instead, my hand is fully functional. My grandpa saved my hand, but I don't think he ever forgave himself for not watching me closer.

I started 1st grade markedly different from everyone around me. Everyone wanted to see what had overtaken my hand, but - like most 1st graders – they were unable to politely mask their horror when they saw what was left. I sometimes felt like the Phantom of the Opera, sometimes hiding my deformity, other times defiantly thrusting it forward, daring you to be disgusted by it.

When meeting new people, I always silently wonder how long it will be until I hear the familiar “Whoa, what happened to your hand?” and I launch into my well-rehearsed description of what happened. Most people tend to glaze over after “childhood farm accident”. So sometimes I lie first, and tell a story about feeding alligators in the Everglades – I always add the detail that alligators love marshmallows, and that seems to convince people I’m telling the truth. I then tell them the real story, but rarely the whole story.

My hand tells a story of a childhood wrought with injury and recklessness, but also of self-consciousness. My scar is smaller and faded now, and perhaps someday it will be barely visible. Although I will never look at it as a thing of beauty, the idea of losing it makes me strangely sad. I always hoped that somehow it might bring me closer to patients who struggle with their own deformity – making me a better doctor. Then again, maybe it will just scare children.


Sunday, February 11, 2007

The Week Before Exams

I’m in the library like everyone else. It's not unlike spending 12 hour days in a sensory deprivation chamber shoulder to shoulder with 140 other people. You can hear a fart 30 feet away, but since you’ve been looking straight down for the last 4 hours your eyes can’t focus* enough to give you the pleasure of identifying the culprit.

I have “study friends” with whom I exchange nods and smiles, but we haven’t uttered a single word to each other all week. Another 1st year pointed to a picture of my niece on my computer and asked if it was my daughter. I honestly had trouble forming a response – I hadn’t spoken a word in hours, and I was kind of startled by suddenly being thrust into conversation – but I managed to stammer out the word “niece”. I’m not sure I’m ready for the “talking to each other” stage with these guys yet.

Just about any stimulus is enough to drive me nuts**. On a related note, I believe the following should be banned from libraries:

1) Apples – by far the most obnoxious food in the world. *bite*rip*chew*slurp* repeat and I’m already climbing the walls. It’s impossible to eat them quietly, so just don’t bring them!

2) Paper, plastic, or potato chip bags – Are you serious?!

3) Colds – Got the sniffles? Stay home. I spent so much time mentally playing out strategies (some kind, some violent) of getting the girl next to me to blow her nose and shut up, I just had to get up and leave.

That brings me to library real estate. I brought a coat today, not because its cold outside, but so I could hold “dibs” on my sweet table (!). Little did I know, my neighbor brought her pet virus but neglected to bring her tissues *sniff*-pause-*sniff*sniff*-longer pause-*sniff*.

I did a lap around the library looking for hidden nooks to in which to cloister, but it’s evening and this place is packed. The only things left are the carrels, or more appropriately, the study stables. You get about 2 square feet of desk-space bordered on three sides by dividers; if you’re lucky, you get a little fluorescent light and a working outlet!

It’s the day before exams. I have another five days of this nonsense punctuated occasionally by 3-hour exams. I’m praying for stamina and sanity.



*Since “eye focusing” is on tomorrow’s exam, immediately after writing this I had to mentally recount its pathway through the brain and mechanism in the eye. Super-nerd.

**Example: the sound of my typing is enough to piss people off, so out of guilt I moved to the “loud part” of the library near the circulation desk where the employees chat at full volume about their weekend plans.

***First “cloister” usage ever. I feel like a monk just saying it.