Writer's Block: Hello, World!
Jan. 6th, 2012 11:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gothrockrulz[Error: unknown template qotd]
Getting hurt and going to the hospital.
I was three years old. My Mom kept a sun oven out by the back porch of our house, and my little brother and I were playing with it--by jumping on the glass door on top. I'd jump on and off, then he would jump on and off, and we'd rotate back and forth.
Next thing I knew, I had jumped, glass had broken, and I was hurriedly pulling my foot out from inside the sun oven. Blood was seeping out from a big cut just beneath my left ankle. I knew I couldn't walk, so I stood still, looked toward the nearest window, and like most little kids would do, started screaming at the top of my lungs. Mom was inside, and I knew I had to get to get her attention so she could take me inside and make everything better.
I remember seeing her face peeking out at me, and then seeing her jump at the sight of her little girl standing amidst sprinklings of blood.
I don't remember how she got me inside, or what she did after that. I'm pretty sure she was holding me in one arm and calling 911 with her free hand at one point.
What I remember most vividly is lying in a hospital bed with a ton of creepy-looking wires attached to my foot. My Dad had arrived at the hospital, and he was standing next to my Mom, lifting up a synthetic blue blanket and staring at my foot. I remember him say, "Oh, girl . . ." (He did that a lot while I was growing up.)
It wasn't until I was a lot older than I learned what a close shave I had. If the cut had extended just a little further, the tendon by my heel would have been slit, and I would have undergone a series of surgeries to elongate it as I grew up.
I still have the scar. It's pale and shiny, and it used to creep me out a little, but I've gotten used to it.
Getting hurt and going to the hospital.
I was three years old. My Mom kept a sun oven out by the back porch of our house, and my little brother and I were playing with it--by jumping on the glass door on top. I'd jump on and off, then he would jump on and off, and we'd rotate back and forth.
Next thing I knew, I had jumped, glass had broken, and I was hurriedly pulling my foot out from inside the sun oven. Blood was seeping out from a big cut just beneath my left ankle. I knew I couldn't walk, so I stood still, looked toward the nearest window, and like most little kids would do, started screaming at the top of my lungs. Mom was inside, and I knew I had to get to get her attention so she could take me inside and make everything better.
I remember seeing her face peeking out at me, and then seeing her jump at the sight of her little girl standing amidst sprinklings of blood.
I don't remember how she got me inside, or what she did after that. I'm pretty sure she was holding me in one arm and calling 911 with her free hand at one point.
What I remember most vividly is lying in a hospital bed with a ton of creepy-looking wires attached to my foot. My Dad had arrived at the hospital, and he was standing next to my Mom, lifting up a synthetic blue blanket and staring at my foot. I remember him say, "Oh, girl . . ." (He did that a lot while I was growing up.)
It wasn't until I was a lot older than I learned what a close shave I had. If the cut had extended just a little further, the tendon by my heel would have been slit, and I would have undergone a series of surgeries to elongate it as I grew up.
I still have the scar. It's pale and shiny, and it used to creep me out a little, but I've gotten used to it.
