Scar Alive

Memories of that day come gushing back, like a sea relenting to the moons gravitational force. Swishing and tugging, currents in my mind wax and wane, as if they were a slave shoved into the deep, only to be whipped by that crystal clear memory. My mind is a captive. Twenty one years and I still can't forget; the scar knows and tells all.   

Like all Saturdays, I was up for playing cricket with my bunch of hostel mates; junior girls from Green dorm, seniors boys from Top dorm and ofcourse junior boys (eager enthusiasts) from Blue dorm. The seniors were happy with more people fielding, because that meant more chances of getting the batsman out faster. So there I was, fielding. Far out in the periphery of the grassy arena, I lingered, waiting for some action. It was a lovely day, the sun was just the right intensity, not too hot or too mild thanks to the tall eucalyptus trees that diffused the rays to create an ambient temperature. I could see that other courts were slowly filling up; there were three to four shooting baskets, and the throw ball court was getting set up for the senior girls from Orange dorm. It was a good feeling, just being out in the open; blue skies and trees in the background slowly swishing in the gentle breeze. The cricket game had taken some time to kick start, placing of wickets and deciding teams was always the slowest part (and bit of a chore if you ask me) of this game and ever since the start, the ball had not come to me even once. I wanted to exchange positions with my neighbour Karthik, who had been fortunate to retrieve the ball at least three times. Anyways, it was a new over and a new bowler, maybe this time the ball would get whacked my side. As the ball surrendered itself to the bat, I saw it fly, surprisingly towards me; just as I had wished, but it was too soon and I was not ready.  Nevertheless, I ran forward, cupping my hands hoping I had placed them right under the ball, waiting for its hard leather exterior to embrace my skin, when wham, it slapped itself on my right thigh bouncing off on to the grass. My thigh stung, and my eyes suddenly hurt. Damn, I thought to myself, 'easy thing and I bloody missed'. Rubbing my thigh, to calm the throb, I continued standing, waiting for a new face -off; which happened only eleven years later.

I could not move my leg the coming morning. It felt heavy, hot; like it had suddenly accumulated enough and more juice. I felt dizzy. I hesitantly uncovered the blankets to see a swollen thigh staring back at me. It pained and weighed more than a tonne of bricks but at the same it squished if I poked it. Something terrible had happened and my thigh unfortunately was bearing the brunt of it.

Dr David, the physician with the magic wand, came to my rescue. I remember him trying to explain me something. I could only catch snippets of what he was saying; x-ray, blood tests, and pus. On the stretcher, blinded by hospital lights, my eyes pierced. Were they warning me of some impending danger? Combating the glare, I tried to heed to what the doc was saying; but all I heard was 'operation'. Suddenly, from out of the blue, I heard my mothers’ voice; loving, soothing and calm. Where did she come from? She couldn't have possibly come all the way from Gujarat to Tamil Nadu, like in one afternoon! Imagining how my mother would have arrived in a jiffy, my mind drowned in a sea of darkness as her soft hands squeezed my tiny fingers. 

Awakening from excruciating pain, I saw my thigh; open, streaming in pus. There was a drilling machine sitting next to the pool of blood and a can of white juice. Seeing these; my mind swirled and I fell back to unconsciousness. Seven months later, I wheeled out of the hospital.

I had succumbed to one of the rarest forms of infection (osteomylietis) which doesn't have a definite cause; its trigger is anything and everything. The degree of infection was so intense, that I had constant fever for seven months. The fever had taken such good hold of me, that at one point, the constant shivering that I experienced started feeling normal.  A white board had been mounted by the side of my bed, which had the days, months, on the x axis and the temperature on the y axis, the graph looked like a plateau; the constant 104 degrees Celsius forming the mass of it.  

Each day of those seven months, I endured the pain of four blood tests and two nasty jabs in my buttocks. I will never forget my mothers courage and resilience, who stayed by my side every minute of the day. If it was not for her constant encouragement ‘that I will get better, no matter what’ I wouldn’t have made it. Thankfully, I had a major support group; from the nurses to the doctors to all my friends in hostel. I remember receiving ‘get well soon’ cards from all of them, in particular my classmates.

Interestingly,  at first, I used to get scared of the nurses; what with all those injections, cotton swabs and tiny bottles with weird sounding labels; but after sometime, I realised they were there for my betterment. I started talking to them, about simple things like how is your day going? Is Dr David in today? What’s there for lunch, etc etc? I got to know them all, quite well actually; I had gotten used to their rotation routine, and so I knew exactly who was on night duty and whose day it would be to come to me in the morning to check my temperature. I developed a good rapport with them and them with me. I remember, one of my favourite nurses actually holding back tears when my arm had gone sore during one of the blood tests; the nurse inserted the injection into my vein, but it didn't give in, no blood flowed into the vial. She tried again, slapping my arm to loosen the vein but in vain. The veins on my right arm had gone dry, which meant milking my left arm till my right arm came back to life. I had lost tremendous amount of weight, my arms skinnier than before. I had lost my appetite, nothing tasted good, forget good, even tolerable wouldn’t cut it.

As my temperature began reducing, I started physiotherapy to get me to start walking again. I had been wheeled around for over 6 months and I was frustrated like anything. I hated the sight of my bed; I wanted to meet my friends; I wanted to just get out of the hospital, the smells disgusted me; I wanted to be able to use the loo on my own, I wanted to stand under a hot shower,  I wanted to meet my family, I wanted to go home.

The day arrived when my stitches were going to be removed. That morning, the nurse came to me and said ‘today Dr David will remove these stitches okay, you will soon go home, don’t worry’. As soon as she finished saying that, I was so happy that I didn’t know how to kill time till Dr David arrived. I just kept fidgeting, I couldn’t concentrate on the book I was reading or the program on television or anything. I just kept staring at the door waiting for Dr David to enter. Finally the door opened, and it was Dr David with the nurse. She was carrying some equipment. I figured it was for my stitches and it was. Dr David slowly cut the threads holding the bridging skin. Forty three stitches in total and my scar pink and bulbous. It looked disgusting; it cut right across my thigh from hip to knee. Dr David kept assuring me that it would heal real fast and the skin would harden. At that point of time, I couldn’t really bother with the future of my scar but just wanted to go home.

I started walking eight months after reaching home and could manage a run only one year later. My bone has healed, and the skin on my scar has hardened. The scar is there for life. It expands in summer and contracts in winter; reminding me it’s alive.