I fall. At this point I don’t even know what’s happening. Blood rushes down my head and shards of glass on the floor. My dad rushes to me as if I am about to drown. He puts his hand on my head to stop the flow of the red sea. I cried.
The nurses rush me to an emergency room. I lie and wait. The doctor walks through the door ready to sew a chunk of my head back on. I cried.
The doctor pulls the needle from his pocket. I panic. But I know it was the only way for me to get better. I watch the doctor carefully start placing each stitch in my head. One. Two. Three. Then four, five and six. As I think to myself, I want this to end, stitche numbers seven, eight, and nine come.
It’s over. Click. Twelve staples plunged in my head like a stone crushing the surface of an ice covered lake. All I am thinking about what is going to happen next. I’m fine. I’m fine.
It’s over. No more stitches, no more staples. Now I wait for next time to return; so I can get these stitches and staples out of my head.
Today, the C shaped scar on my head will not only recognize who I am. But will forever be a part of me. It will remind me of that day when I was 3 years old, climbing that glass table and tipping it. My scar.