I wrote this essay for my English 1010 class. Enjoy.
Chris Andrew
USU Moab
Adj. Prof. David Neal
English 1010
October 6, 2009
When I was eight years old, my family moved from crowded St. Louis to beautiful Lee’s Summit, Missouri. I loved to play in the vast backyard of our new house. We had shady, climbable trees; thick, lush grass; and a green and white stilted play house. I spent countless hours out there—alone or with friends—hunting for savage animals, commandeering merchant ships, exploring faraway jungles, and pursuing many other adventures.
Owning our own “jungle” for the first time, we now had to take care of a yard by ourselves, using our own “machetes.” One of the implements my parent bought was a big, shiny shovel. I was captivated by the name “Truper”—whatever that meant—etched into the long, wooden handle. Whenever one of my parents set Truper down, he became an important tool in my expeditions. One day, however, Truper got a new name: “Konker.”
I was a paleontologist digging through the “ancient rock” in my backyard to find dinosaur bones. After a long morning of breathing in the dust thrown by Truper, I took a lunch break. Full and content afterward, I eagerly returned to my labor. Approaching the dinosaur quarry, I wanted to be cool by picking up my shovel without bending over. Stepping down hard on the blade of the shovel, I tried to grab the handle as it flew toward my four foot six inch high head. Too slow, I quickly experienced intense pain in my forehead, right below the hairline. Stunned at first, I really didn’t think I was injured too badly—until blood started gushing from my head. I ran to the backdoor, yelling for Mom. She rushed out and instructed me to lie down on the grass. She rolled out the garden hose and ran its cold water over my head while my little brother Joseph dashed inside to get my dad, a doctor in residency at the time.
Yanked away from his studies, Dad inspected the wound and declared, “I think he needs stitches.”
Mom questioned, “Do you think you can do them? I just don’t want to take Chris to the Emergency Room.”
“Yeah, but I’ll need to pick up some of my supplies at the hospital. I’ll be back soon.”
While I lay there, my friends jumped the fence that separated our yards. Robin informed me that she got stitches all the time. While my head was ringing and I was dying—or so I thought—Robin wouldn’t shut up. “Why don’t you take him to the basement, where there won’t be any distractions?” my dad suggested, as he prepared to leave. We all knew what he meant by “distractions.” He added, “You don’t need to keep running water on him. Just grab a clean rag and hold pressure.” Once again, Joseph was the runner boy, and was assigned to get a towel.
After positioning the rag on my forehead, Mom escorted me downstairs. I laid down while she read me The Arctic Patrol Mystery, one of my favorite books from the series “The Hardy Boys.” After an eternity, Dad returned and began the procedure. Cleaning my forehead with iodine, he then injected syringes of lidocaine into each side of the gash, making my forehead feel warm and tingly. He waited a few minutes for the anesthetic to take effect. As the needle pierced my skin, I felt pain shoot through my head. “Is it supposed to be this painful, Dad?” I gasped, trying to blink back tears. “Just relax, Chris,” he said. “You’re too anxious.” I tried to relax, but it was no use—it still hurt. After I complained some more, Dad checked the expiration date on the lidocaine bottle. It was expired and therefore useless. Lacking any other means of anesthetizing my forehead, he forged ahead, but only put in two more stitches.
The next day, I slowly ran my fingers over the bandaged wound, wondering how long I would have this foreign “attachment.” Two weeks later, Dad finally took out my stitches. I no longer had to keep my head dry during baths, move my head around carefully, and play less rambunctiously. However, I discovered a new ridge of skin on my forehead. Would I have this scar forever? I became aware that I was mortal. I was not indestructible. I still loved to play outside, but I knew I had to be more careful. I didn’t like being poked with needles!
After positioning the rag on my forehead, Mom escorted me downstairs. I laid down while she read me The Arctic Patrol Mystery, one of my favorite books from the series “The Hardy Boys.” After an eternity, Dad returned and began the procedure. Cleaning my forehead with iodine, he then injected syringes of lidocaine into each side of the gash, making my forehead feel warm and tingly. He waited a few minutes for the anesthetic to take effect. As the needle pierced my skin, I felt pain shoot through my head. “Is it supposed to be this painful, Dad?” I gasped, trying to blink back tears. “Just relax, Chris,” he said. “You’re too anxious.” I tried to relax, but it was no use—it still hurt. After I complained some more, Dad checked the expiration date on the lidocaine bottle. It was expired and therefore useless. Lacking any other means of anesthetizing my forehead, he forged ahead, but only put in two more stitches.
The next day, I slowly ran my fingers over the bandaged wound, wondering how long I would have this foreign “attachment.” Two weeks later, Dad finally took out my stitches. I no longer had to keep my head dry during baths, move my head around carefully, and play less rambunctiously. However, I discovered a new ridge of skin on my forehead. Would I have this scar forever? I became aware that I was mortal. I was not indestructible. I still loved to play outside, but I knew I had to be more careful. I didn’t like being poked with needles!
Now at age seventeen, I still have that scar. It has receded from my forehead into my hairline, so it’s not as noticeable now. What is noticeable is my ongoing love of the outdoors. My family has moved to Moab, UT, where our “backyard” is limitless! Whether I’m hiking, biking, or rafting, I carry this scar as a reminder of my mortality. I’ve received many more wounds from these activities, but I haven’t let that deter me from adventure.
