SCAR TISSUE...

...is an issue.
Without going into all the gory details, my body now comprises a great deal of scar tissue - far more than I ever thought I'd have. I have a small, almost invisible scar on my forehead, above my right eye, where I had a cyst removed (while awake!) which is unnoticeable most of the time, but when I rub my forehead, it sends a tingling sensation (not entirely unpleasant) along my scalp towards the crown.
Just below my left eye is a scar I received as a young child which has two conflicting stories behind it, both of which I seem to have recollections of. My Dad told me that my birth mother (who left when I was but 2 or 3 years old) had dropped me off her knee whilst changing my nappy and my face had collided with the corner of the hearth. To say that I can remember this is an understatement, when I think of it I can see where she would have been sitting.
The other version (in a letter from my birth mother as I approached my 20th birthday) states that whilst in the care of her other son Robert (of whom I have no clear recollection) I was hit in the face with a swing. I can envision this happening, quite clearly, but the park in which I see it happening did not exist at that time. I've always had a healthy respect for swings, and go into a panic if I see any of my kids going near one while it's moving, so either story is possible, but there's no real way of checking now. While I was growing up the scar was a well-defined crescent which was impossible to conceal, but now it's just been absorbed into the general cragginess of my grizzled face.
My left hand has a fair few scars from when I had a spectacular incident while out in Yorkshire with the Orpheus Caving Club. We had been drinking in The Three Horseshoes in Ingleton, and were sharing a couple of caravans down under the viaduct. As we left the pub, I had 2 bottles of Newcastle Brown in each hand to take back to the caravan, only in going from bright lights to pitch blackness caused me to miss a flight of steps completely. My foot went into a waste bin and I hurtled forwards, landing face down. My left hand ended up among the two smashed bottles, my right hand instinctively held the other two bottles in the air.
I was bleeding quite profusely, so emergency medical treatment was sought, and after a few frantic phonecalls from the pub (while I bled and puked all over their floor) we were instructed to drive to the surgery at High Bentham, which we somehow managed, and we waited for an eternity in the carpark. Eventually a very bad tempered doctor turned up, annoyed because he'd driven all the way out to the pub. By this time things were beginning to heal over, and getting bits of glass out was slow and painful, and a few bits got left in.
to be continued...