It's Not About the Accident

This is a story about a wound. And a scar. And a memory. But it’s not really a story about the accident. That is secondary.

Oddly enough, most stories are more about the wound. And the scar. And the memory. The accident is almost incidental. What really happened takes back seat to what is chosen to be remembered. Either intentionally or unintentionally. Broken limbs or broken hearts; it all sorts out the same way.

My wound takes me back to about age 8 or 9. It must have been summer, since my knees were bare. As you might guess, it was a knee wound. But not just any knee wound. And certainly not your average knee wound. As unexpected as snow in July, my stumble in the back hallway of my childhood home, where my right knee slammed into the wall as it met the floor (cushioned lusciously by the recently installed gold carpet to coordinate with the new wallpaper) produced a gash the size of a walnut in my knee.

Sitting back on my butt to recover from my stumble, I didn’t take in what had happened. After all, what was there to injure me? An unnoteworthy fall, by a healthy grade schooler, who went down, as I recall, unencumbered, in an empty, well-maintained hallway. There was no need to think otherwise. Yet there it was. And as I caught my breath (and no doubt my cool), rocking there in the hallway, a warm goo appeared on my knee. Accompanied by an incredibly large hole from an incredibly mundane fall.

Somehow my dad appeared on the scene, either having sensed the drama unfolding, or maybe I called to him. He surveyed the situation, no doubt making a comment intended to cheer and distract me. He fetched his first aid kit to clean the wound (he was, he’d informed me at a much younger age, an Army medic and was therefore highly trained to address any circumstances requiring first aid. I later figured out this was just a tale, but it worked its charm for many years.) Despite the intensity of this injury, he was up to the challenge and went to work. The gouge that most likely would have benefitted from a real doctor’s stitches was handily butterflied with two standard Band-aids. Dad pulled the skin as tight as he could from one side of the cut to the other, bringing the two jagged edges together in a satisfactory close. As he leaned back on his heels to admire his work, I remember wondering even then, “Was this too big a deal for two of J&J’s standard issues?” But who was I to question the medic? Who was I to doubt my Dad?

We did a search of the accident scene, for evidence of the offender, but nothing turned up. And despite the primitive care my Grand Canyon cut received, it healed reasonably, leaving me with only an impressive, now fading 1 ½” scar, just below my knee cap.

The scar (well earned, I think) and the unsolved mystery still oddly comfort me. Perhaps just transporting me back to my youth. Perhaps giving me a blissful moment alone with Dad, wrapped in his compassion. The wound was just the instigator and the accident, well I haven’t really given much thought about until now.