Saturday, May 26, 2012

Ruth vs. The Milk Bottle

When I was a little girl I loved to look at my mother's hands.  I think they are the most beautiful hands in the world.  In the palm of one of her hands is a large scar.  Here's the story of how she got that scar in her own words.

When I was six years old, we would get our milk in jugs made of glass. They would be left on our front door step by the milkman.  

One day they were out there, and my mom was downstairs with Art (her little brother) putting him down for a nap.  I was six, I didn’t nap anymore.  I was outside, I don’t know what I was doing or why I did it, I picked up one of the bottles and it broke.  One of the pieces of glass cut my hand.  I knew I had to get my mother’s help.

So I ran into the house across the floor, across the carpet, and down the stairs and woke up my mother and my brother who were down there in the basement.  

I remember sitting in the back of the car going to the clinic.  The doctor was just sitting there waiting for whoever came in.  He never knew what he was going to do next.  So I went in there and he said, “Oh we’ve got to clean that up and put stitches in it.”

I didn’t behave well, it hurt like crazy. They didn’t have any numbing stuff.  They just stitched it up.  
And then afterwards I went home and I think I had them in for a week or so.  My mother tried to take me to the doctor.  She said, “We are going to go in today and get these stitches taken out.“ I said, “No, I don’t want to go!”  So I came home from school and I took my time and I hid not in my vacant lot but in a vacant lot by my friend’s 4 houses down and I laid in the weeds.  

Because it hurt so bad getting the stitches, I didn’t want to go back and get them out.  That’s got to hurt right?  I remember lying in the weeds and sucking in my stomach so that no one would see me.  And I laid there in my little dress for the longest time until I thought it was too late to go to the doctor.  To be honest I don’t know if I actually did go that day, if my mom forgot about it.  It seems like I didn’t have to go, but I went the next day. 

I remember going into the doctor’s office just petrified.  

And they took these little things and cut those stitches and pulled them out and I said, “Oh.”  It didn’t hurt.
My doctor was a nice guy. 

I love this story because it teaches that past experiences aren't always an indicator of future experiences.  

This post features:

This post features:


My mother 

me --> Ruth Rasmussen Buchanan

To read another great story about my mom's childhood, click here.

No comments:

Post a Comment