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.