The Day I Cut My Leg Wide Open

[BarbaraJane]

When you are as old as I am, it is hard to pick out one outstanding memory from my childhood.  It is not that I am so old that I cannot remember.  Rather, it is that as I continue to mature, more and more memories become outstanding in my mind.  Many times something will strike a memory from my past that I had completely forgotten and for the rest of the day I will contemplate that day in my history and remember it fondly.  Even memories of things that were not so pleasant as I was going through them, have a new hue about them as I remember now, so many years later.

I have spent most of today trying to pick out one memory that stands out above the others but I cannot do it.  This prompt reminds me so much of my children who are constantly asking me to tell them stories of my childhood.  For some reason unbeknownst to me, my early childhood absolutely fascinates them.  So I will pick one of their favorite stories to tell about my childhood.

And the Outstanding Memory of My Childhood that I have picked is. . . . . . .

The Day I Cut My Leg Wide Open

When I was a very little girl, probably around four years old, my father came home with a wooden trailer that he had hitched up to his truck to haul some stuff off.  Once he got the hauling done, the trailer ended up in our back yard. Looking back on it, I suppose that my mother insisted it go back there so it would not junk up the front of the house, but I cannot say that was the case with any certainty.  And also, in looking back, I do not think the trailer was very big, but to me it was ginormous!

I loved having it in the back yard and wanted to play in it constantly because it was the perfect size for me to pretend it was my own little club house.  The only problem to this scenario was that I was not allowed in the back yard by myself.  One day though, my mother consented to let me play in the “club house” as long as my cousins (who lived next door) were playing in their back yard. They had a basketball hoop and even a cement little court in the lower part of their yard and so I was allowed to play in my club house as long as the boys were playing basket ball.

I was heaven in my little club house.  It was just tall enough that I could reach the edges of the top if I stood way up on my tippy toes.  And for some reason that made perfect sense to a four year old at the time, I loved to raise myself up and stick my leg out of the wheel well.  I liked to see how far I could get my leg out of there in the space between the wood and the tire.

I played there for what seemed like hours.  The boys finished their game and all went inside but I stayed down there playing.  I did not even realize the boys were gone.  My mother was not really on her game those days because she was suffering with strep throat and was in bed for days with it.  (It is really about the only time in my youth I remember my mother being sick.)

So there I was, sticking my leg out the hole and pulling it back in and such and one time my leg got a little stuck in there.  So I just yanked it hard and it came unstuck.  I continued to play until I felt something tickling my ankle and when I reached down to scratch it I saw that the whole front of my leg was covered in blood.  I suppose that the violent ripping open of my skin caused a numbing reaction because I really did not feel any pain from the cut.  But that blood.  Oh my goodness.  I came out of the little trailer screaming at the top of my lungs.  My sister, who is five years older than me, but was not any bigger than me at the time, came to my rescue, but she could not really carry me up the hill at the side of my house.  So my cousin from next door, Hope Marie, came and took me from my sister, Janice, and carried me up to the house.  I could see my mother in the bathroom window that faced the side of the house I was on and could hear her saying, “What is wrong with Barbara?  What is wrong?”  But what I remember most is that Hope Marie kept saying in my ear, “Well, I didn’t know if you were laughing or crying.”  I am sure that she was just trying to get my mind of my leg, but all I could think was how stupid she must be to not know the difference in a laugh and a cry.

So they got me in the house and my poor sick mother tried to clean up the wound and it was decided that I probably needed to go the Emergency Room for some stitches.  Then ensued the conversation of who should take me as my mother was too sick and should not be the one.  My father said he would take me and my Aunt Judy (from next door) said she would go along to help. 

We had just purchased a new car a few weeks before the “incident.”  I am not sure what kind of car it was but the interior was tan.  It was long before the days of car seats and most people did not even wear seat belts.  I sat on Judy’s lap in the front seat and she propped my leg up and let my foot rest on the front dash.  All the way to the hospital she whispered to me, “Oh, we must not let your mother know that you put your foot right on the dash!”  Again, as an adult, I understand her diversion tactics, but as a child, I just knew that my mother would not care if my foot was on the dash considering my leg was completely severed.

When we got to the hospital, my aunt was not allowed to go back in the exam room so it was just my Daddy and me.  I remember he stood behind me and held my hands while they stitched me up.  I remember soft words of comfort from him, but I don’t remember exactly what they were.  Whatever they were they seemed to make me feel better and it was none of that nonsense like my cousin and my aunt were babbling on about.  Looking back on that, I know it was very difficult for my father who had an aversion to blood.  I do not know how he remained standing.  He used to pass out so easily at the sight of blood.

In the end I went home with eight stitches in my knee.  By the time I had to have them removed, my mother was well and she took me to the family doctor for the removal.  I was so scared, but it actually tickled.  To this day I still have the scar on my knee from that accident.  It curves upward like a smile.  And I always smile back at it when I look at it and remember that day.

[Lb128f]

Jan. 18, 2012 at 8:26 AM

Thanks for sharing. I wasn't sure I should read this considering the title, lol. ;-) But, I'm glad I did. I'm sorry you hurt yourself and I'm glad you are okay now...it's really a sweet story (minus the injury to YOU) of love and care. Memories...are great...like you say, good or bad they offer us a chance to go back in time. It's great that your children like hearing stories of your youth...so many might not care...I'm glad you are able and willing to share with them in making their own memories of time with you!