Life of Wry

Scabs not entirely visible.. but note chin and left hand. Not visible: thighs, elbows. (Also? Ouch.)

I like scabs.

I’ve always liked the appearance of a dry, firmed up scab on a muscled arm, or on the back of tanned, veined hands.

Speaks to a bold and plucky spirit. To stepping out. Playful, unafraid.

Survivor.

For the last week, I was a scab monument, a walking testament to living life on the edge.. (not really).. the result of a bike accident, itself the result of a bike trick gone bad — a trick I’d tried to pull off with, and for the benefit of, Peter.

Following a tumble over the handle bars onto asphalt as hard as, well, asphalt, I boasted an array of scabs that I was, oddly, sorta proud of. Wore them for a good week.

But good things often end. And today, my big chin scab came off.

The chin scab was not a great one. When I woke up this morning, it was gone and I was relieved. I can now get on with things. It sort of gave me anxiety, this big juicy wound that outlined the lower border of my face, looking at first glance like a shadow or an unlikely, unflattering goatee. As the days passed, it went from bright and gory, to dark and crusty, to a giant, crispy flake seemingly suspended in midair, tempting gravity, just waiting to be FINALLY detached.

It was more blemish than badge of bravery, and undermined me in its wince-worthy ugliness. Good riddance, my ugly.

So…my chin scab is still lying, withered, somewhere in my bed. I looked for it, but didn’t want to unmake a just-made bed (I mean, I lost a scab,  not my OCD), so it remains unretrieved. It’s lying amid the blankets, sadly out of context… probably unremarkable and sort of pitiful.  Somewhere.

What are left — as little trophies of middle-aged-woman courage — are my row of knuckle scabs and a few well-placed, brick-colored tracks scattered across my arms and legs. They’re seasoned, dark and dry. And very cool. Yay me.

But.. they’re receding and fading.. and soon will sort of self-pick off (because I WOULD NEVER PICK A SCAB).

And with them go the glory. The marks of living boldly, on the edge.

Also, as normalcy returns, the accident becomes far less looming for Peter.

As long as they were prominent and distracting, the scabs were reminders to Peter that his mom was not a sure thing. In fact, it may have been the first time in Peter’s life when my vulnerability was in his face in a way he — a self-obsessed 11-year old — could understand. From accident to ambulance to hospital to the early days of recovery, Peter bore a set of emotions that were foreign to us. We learned that Peter, heretofore alone in the center of his universe, had a capacity for empathy. And in those first moments (turned days) he experienced a range of emotions that went from panic to sober to clingy to truly, adorably loving as my fate moved through a continuum from dead to going-to-be-fine.

It was sweet to connect with Peter in that way.

So, it’s with a little sadness that I watch the scabs fade. Good bye spunky, macha mama. Good bye totally-adored-can-do-no-wrong mom.

All’s back to normal.