Scratching The Surface

I went to a potluck of old friends at Raasa’s farmhouse in Ashland, VA. I couldn’t help but pull out the camera and start asking for stories. This crowd had stories about scars. The following bit is Nathan Long’s stories. Odd, after knowing him for 5 years, and living with him, I never think of him as having so many scars.

Nathan is a talented writer (http://www.failbetter.com/28/LongDevil.php?sexnSrc=Latest), an extraordinary cook, and a lovely person to have around (unless you don’t like puns).

“My scar is from my first drinking story from when I was three months old. I had Pyloric Stenosis, and was projectile vomiting because my lower stomach muscle closed. The Dr.’s had to operate and cut out a section of my stomach. When the Dr. was finished, he handed me to my mother,

which was when she smelled scotch, and believed that he had been drinking. I guess he saw the worried expression on her face, and he said, “No no, I gave it to the baby. A small child can die from anesthesia, so I gave Nathan the scotch.” So that’s the first time I drank.

When I was 20, I saw someone with this same scar, and it was exciting to see that.

When I was twelve I had a bump under my nipple, and so I went to the Dr. to get it removed. He didn’t tell me how it was going to be removed, and I assumed that he was going to cut under the nipple, but he actually cut through it.

I was twelve, in the hospital, and when I pulled off the bandage, and my nipple was all bloody. And I was furious. When we back a few weeks later, the Dr. said oh, (referring to the numbness), you are going to hate me for the next six month, but then it will be over. And I remember thinking, “No. I am going to hate you for the rest of my life.” And I do.

And this is from my ruptured appendix.

It had been ruptured for over two weeks by the time I got to the hospital, I was swollen with infection. They operated, and there was a 50/50 chance of surviving. After the surgery my stomach continued to stay swollen. Even though I hadn’t eaten in three days, the nurses said, “As soon as you poop, we’ll give you food.” And I said, “But I’m not going to poop until you give me food.” And this went on for ten days. Since I knew that they weren’t going to give me food for a while, I thought, “Well, I am already fasting; I might as well fast for a purpose,” and put a sign above my bed that said, “Fasting For Peace.”

Oh and this scar is from a bad novel! (He is referencing the scar beneath his belly button). When I was in the hospital someone brought in the results from the contest for the first sentence for the worst story in the world (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/). It was the first spring at the nuclear winter, we knew because the lawn had just eaten it’s first robin. I was on Demerol, and I started laughing and laughing, until my side split open.

I like scars; I’m glad that they resist (but I could do without the one below my belly button).”