Slice of Life

When I was about four years old I stepped on… something sharp… under the water at a lake in northern Wisconsin. Sliced my foot open right good. I screamed like a banshee until Mom or Dad (don’t quite remember) came and got me — I was only about ten feet from shore.

I’m now 35 years old. I still vividly remember the pain. I remember Mom (or Dad?) washing my foot off, hands soaked in red. I remember the drive to the only hospital in the area, which was on an Indian reservation.

I remember getting the novocain shot (seemingly) directly into the gash that almost severed my pinkie toe, and I remember the feeling of the sewing needle going in and out as they put in the stitches.

And I remember not being scared. Mom and Dad were right there.

(Inspired by this post.)

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