30 Day Photography Challenge - Day 21

Faceless Self Portrait
It was the first day of summer vacation. I was eight years old. It was June of 1986. It was the first summer my mom was back to work after having my sister and I. We lived just down the street from Thompson Lake and the beach there was small, roped off, perfect for Michigan summers. We had a babysitter for the first time, a long-term babysitter who would surprisingly be our babysitter for many years to come though if I had been her I might have run after this first day. Kim was a teenager, the daughter of two of my mom's high school friends. It was her first day with us. 

We headed to the beach for the afternoon and immediately Angela and I found the water. The was a dock jutting out from the beach that we jumped off of time and time again. Dozens of kids standing in line on the dock, jumping off, swimming around the dock for a minute, standing and watching your friends, swimming back to the sand, getting back on the dock. It wasn't as exciting as a water slide but it's all there was. There was also a big square floating dock in the "deep end" of the roped off swim area. I honestly can say I never got on that dock. Not that summer, not any summer after. I took swimming lessons in that lake for many years but not once did I get on the dock again. On any dock. 

I remember it being very warm, Michigan in June usually is, and I remember taking my turn and jumping off. Then walking back up to the sand and instead of getting in line again, heading to where our towels were, to where Kim was sunbathing with her friends. I remember no pain, nothing out of the ordinary. I remember looking for my towel and then seeing the stricken look on Kim's face. And then her scream. I still didn't understand. And then I did. Then I looked down and saw the blood and the meaty flesh where skin had been and knowing in an instant that I didn't understand what was happening or what was about to happen. 

Somehow I got to the lifeguard's shack, that little brick building where we begged our moms to buy us fireballs and chips. (I only ever licked the fireballs once or twice and then always chased those licks with lake water. Yum.) I don't know if someone carried me or led me there or what. But I was there. In a folding chair in the back. Something could have been wrapped around my leg by that point but I don't remember. I do remember my Grandma MacDonald coming to the rescue in that big old red pickup truck with the vinyl seats that were always so hot. I remember getting somehow to Doctor Earl's office in downtown Howell. I remember sitting on the paper on the exam table in the far back exam room. That table was different and in all my years going to Doctor Earl I rarely was back in that exam room that I later learned was a procedure room. I remember my mom being there with grandma but have no recollection of Angela or Kim. Thinking back now I assume they went home though I still don't know.

My mom and grandma held my leg still as Doctor Earl looked to see if a tendon was cut. Somehow, mercifully, that hadn't happened though my leg had been sliced so deep it needed at least three layers of sutures. I can still remember what the inside of my leg looked like and I shiver when I think about it. I remember asking where my dad was when they got ready to give me shots in my leg and my mom telling me he was coming. He'd get there eventually, to take us all home in our car. 

I remember the stitches. The layer upon layer of stitches that would literally mark my first day of summer. Those stitches that would be the bane of my little eight year old existence all summer long. There would be no swimming for me, no running, not much playing that required physical activity. I remember the doctor saying it was a good thing I had fat legs or I might have lost the leg. To this day whenever I wish I was thinner I try to remember that being a fat little kid saved my life. 

You see, when I jumped off that dock in the water on that beach there was a spike, no not a little nail but a big old spike, poking through the dock the wrong way. When someone, I suppose someone who worked for the city, put the dock together that spring, they put the spikes in the wrong way -- sticking out instead of sticking in. And when I jumped off the dock, a little too close to the dock, my leg hit the spike and tore right through it. 

However, that summer gave me two things. It gave me the chance to become a pretty convincing storyteller. I remember telling Mom #2, Marilyn, that yes, I was allowed to go in the water at the lake if I had my leg wrapped up in bandages. I told her the doctor had said it was okay. She believed me. Or maybe I just wore her down. Either way, I got in the water, and water got in me. And the result? Some new stitches. The same thing happened at a picnic I went too. Of course I could run and play a little if I was careful. But when you're eight, you don't really play carefully. More torn stitches. Stitches that took way too long to heal. Layer upon layer that needed to heal and took all summer long. 

That summer I also got a scar.

A scar that is still with me all these years later. A scar that for years after the fact was much more pronounced and much more visible. A scar that the attorney of the city of Howell offered to have the city pay to have removed when I turned 18. Yes, that was the only compensation my parents could get the city to provide because they did not want to accrue thousands of dollars in legal fees fighting the city. I don't even have any idea if they fixed the dock that year or years later, no one in my family every went near it again. 

I remember being confused as to the though that I might want the scar removed. I wasn't ever going to be a leg model so I knew that it wouldn't be necessary. And frankly, it's a part of me. It's who I am. I am my scars and my bruises and my wounds, visible and invisible. I am my pieces and my whole.

This scar doesn't hurt. Once it healed, it never bothered me again. The only thing is the skin is much thinner where the injury didn't heal properly. There is a deep indentation on my left leg right through the scar. But I only notice if I rub it. I've been able to walk and run and play college sports and do anything I ever wanted despite it. I have been fortunate. 

Some scars are hidden but cause so much damage. But this one? This one tells a story. A story of a day I'll never forget even if it fades. A story that has since become family lore. This is my faceless self portrait. This is me.

Post Script from Mom: 
"What happened to the dock, we went for a walk in the winter, the city had let the water down so people could work on the shore or beaches. We walked on the ice and saw the nails still there. Your dad went home got the camera told the city to fix it or we would sue. The dock was removed."