Welcome to the KingZoo and Funny Farm, where we learn to live, laugh, and love together. Here you'll find snippets of life in our zoo, parenting tips we've learned along the way, reflections on shining God's light in this world, passions in the realm of orphan care and our journey as parents of a visually impaired child. Have fun!
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Growing up I always wanted stitches or a broken bone, any reason to go to an ER. I was a child, okay? My brother broke a bone or needed stitches at least once a year; it seemed like fun. I tried very hard, in many different ways, to break a bone but it never happened. I remember gymnastics being a common limb breaking attempt but I never succeeded. And I never split the skin enough for a frantic visit to the ER, a long needle, and a couple of sutures.
But in 8th grade, I finally got my wish in the weirdest, round-about way. I was sitting in science class and my pencil dropped. I reached down to get it just as it bounced off its eraser and was on its way back up. When I lifted my hand, there was my pencil with the point jammed well into my palm. I removed the pencil but the point stayed. I took the obligatory trip to the nurse, got cleaned up and was given a band-aid, and returned to Mr. Moyer's boring lecture. (Note: I don't remember the specific lecture but I know that all of Mr. Moyer's science classes were boring so I'm sure this was the same.) I thought it was the end of the story.
As the days went by, however, that tiny pencil point became a thorn in my flesh. As I recall, my parents finally took me to the doctor (a surprising twist as I never went to the doctor except for yearly visits who suggested a visit to the surgeon would be in order. The surgeon decided the point had to come out (of course he did, that's how he earns his income) and that he could take care of it in his office. A shot of Novocaine and a lot of blood later, he changed his mind. That point was in way too deep and wasn't coming out. Thank goodness pencils no longer used real lead! He stitched me up and sent me on my way. And that's how I got my one and only childhood stitch (not counting surgeries). Boy, was I ever proud of that one stitch! I had my mom take a picture of my highly bandaged hand. It was beautiful.
The point is still there.