Taking It On The Chin Like A Champ

When I was in elementary school, my parents split up. In order to make ends meet, my mother took a new job that required her to leave the house at 5:00 am. Since I was quite stubborn and independent, I simply asked for an alarm clock and proceeded to get myself ready and out of the house on time on my own.

For the most part, this worked well. My mother called our house at the time I needed to be up, we chatted for a few moments, and I got ready and went to school.

When the phone rang one morning, I leaped out of bed. Unfortunately, my nightshirt snagged on the bedpost and I faceplanted onto the floor, chin first. It hurt like h*** and I dashed to the phone crying. 

While talking to my mother about what had happened, I wiped my tears on my purple nightshirt. Some got on my hand, and to my surprise, the liquid was red instead of clear. Since we didn’t have a cordless phone, I told my mother I’d call her back and went to the closest mirror to inspect my face. To my horror, my chin had a gaping cut. After informing my mother about this, I got dressed and waited for her to pick me up and take me to the hospital.

Of course, I needed stitches. Unfortunately for the whole ER, I was terrified of needles, and the doctor tried to give me the anaesthetic in a — to my eyes — gigantic syringe as big as my arm which, due to the nature of the injury, approached my face way too close for comfort. 

After a few minutes of screaming, my mother took me to the hospital shop in order to calm me down. She bought me a small plushie under the condition that I would have to be brave and let the doctor stitch me up.

When we returned to the ER, rinse and repeat the screaming. The doctor was so fed up that she proposed to stitch me up without anaesthetic. Content to be spared the gigantic syringe, I consented.

The doctor spread a cloth over my face and started stitching. I clutched my new plushie and let the doctor stitch me up without fussing, since the cloth prevented me from seeing anything.

Of course, the doctor could have picked up the syringe again instead of the needle. Maybe she was just so fed up that she wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible (I wouldn’t blame her) or she was waiting for me to relent and ask for the anaesthetic. But since I was as stubborn as any ten-year-old could be, I got three stitches without anaesthetic, and twenty years later, I still have a small scar on my chin.

I never wore that nightshirt again.