What is this ghastly compulsion that seizes even the modest amongst us, to display our badges of physical suffering? Operation scars, injuries, tenacious rashes…
Just before Christmas I broke my leg whilst stepping back to admire our Beautifully-Adorned Tree. Mercifully, it was a clean break. Nevertheless, it entailed several days in hospital, a four-hour operation to insert a metal plate, and crutches that I’ve only just been allowed to dispense with.
AND I have a ten centimetre scar decorated with the holes of seventeen staples, of which I’m inordinately proud.
I can’t stop myself from writing about it here; I tell everyone I talk to, and yesterday when we were having lunch with friends, I really struggled not to flip down the top of my trousers to dazzle them with its magnificence… (It’s at the outside top of the thigh bone).
Why? It’s a revolting thing to do; akin to that childlike fascination with wormy things and festering scabs on our knees.
Dad used to be plagued by a neighbour along the corridor who would scuttle forth with graphic details of her latest medical procedure whenever he opened his door. If you watch 'Frasier', you’ll know that his dad is always dying to unleash his old bullet wound…
What reaction do we expect from those we inflict our damage upon? A satisfying Gasp of Horror? Praise for stoically bearing up? Sympathy for the life-long stain on our beauty? (The nurse broke it to me very gently). A comforting box of chocolates, perhaps, or a call to the nationals with our astonishing story?
I don't know. (Although chocolates always alleviate a trauma...)
But I've never had a worthwhile scar before, and I can't stop myself from sharing it!
In fact, while I'm on the subject, you should see the Appalling Collection of Bruises I've amassed from daily injections in the stomach!!
Woman's Weekly - the inside story!
1 week ago