Throwback Thursday – Scarface

It’s long been a joke in my family that if I am in an area where objects are airborne, I am going to get hit in the face. I’ve been hit with basketballs, volleyballs, Frisbees… you name it.

Most people get injured at least a few times on this rocky road of life. And nobody makes it out alive. But when you’re born with pre-existing “injuries,” it can seem even more offensive to hurt yourself in some additional way. I’ve had a couple of doozies over the years. Luckily none of them have been life-threatening, but just kind of stupid, and at the end of the day I’d ask myself, “Why me?”

The first time was when I was about 5 years old. It was a sunny summer morning and Kris and I were running around the house. We lived in a contemporary split-level house with an open floor plan that allowed us to run wild from the front door through the foyer and into the living room without obstacle. That day we were running back and forth, leaping onto the couch at one end and then back to the front door. Since it was a warm day, the wooden door was open, leaving only the plate glass storm door between us and the great outdoors. After hurtling off the couch, I ran full-tilt towards the storm door, hands outstretched and ready to bounce off the door.

Except I didn’t bounce. As my hands made contact with the glass, it shattered, and my little body shot through head first. It happened so suddenly that I didn’t even comprehend what was happening, just that one moment I was running and the next I was lying on the slate patio out front, looking up at the eaves of the house. Mom was soon by my side in a panic, lifting up my shirt to check for cuts.

Somehow, the only part of me that had major cuts was my cheek and my lower lip. My arms were scratched but not enough to require stitches. We went to the emergency room and they stitched up the cuts on my face. The doctor said I was lucky I hadn’t severed my head.

The next insult to my face happened at school, when I was in 7th grade. I was one of the herd trampling through the hall on the way to my next class, which was Chemistry, where I was looking forward to doodling in my notebook and gazing out the window for 45 minutes. Just as I strode into the stairwell, a boy ran in front of me, his long legs flying. Somehow my own legs got caught up in his and I fell forward. My arms were full of my books, so I could hardly catch myself as I fell. My forehead hit the first step. A concrete step with a metal edge.

I was so embarrassed to have fallen in front of everyone, so I quickly pushed myself into a sitting position and tried to gather my books. When I reached up to adjust my glasses, I realized that my forehead was burning. I was bleeding. Someone ran to get the nurse and moments later I was being whisked away in a wheelchair, holding a wad of gauze to my head.

Once again, I was lucky. If I had fallen a few inches further forward, it’s likely I would have broken my nose, or worse yet, fractured bones in my face. Instead, I obtained a lovely inch-long scar on my upper forehead.

In the years since then I have also hosted countless poison ivy rashes on my face, two separate incidences of scratched cornea requiring the use of an eye bandage, a weird phase in my teen years where I kept getting sores in my nostrils (which I lovingly called nostrilitis whenever it showed up) and of course the jaw surgery which was probably the worst planned assault on my face ever, but the results were totally worth it.

In conclusion… be careful with your face, as it’s the only one you’ve got. I’ve certainly learned to be careful with mine, after those tumultuous early years. If you’re ever around me and you see me wince and duck in the presence of flying objects, or wonder why I refuse to try certain risky activities involving speed and/or force, perhaps you’ll remember my tales of blood and stitches and you’ll understand.

What about you? Is there a particular body part you’ve repeatedly injured?

Edit: here’s a pic of the above mentioned scars, plus sun damage from my years of lounging in the pool all summer. 

Purple= born this way (well, ok, there was some surgery involved.) Dark blue= plate glass window. Green= school steps incident. Yellow= cornea scratches, and the last one, which I forgot to mention in the blog post: Light blue= sun damage. Luckily this pic is not detailed enough that you can see all my wrinkles too. 😅

Dental Update…

Last time I wrote I was excited because I went through my dentist appointment without having my bridgework removed. My doctor has since acquired the necessary tools to remove my lower bridge, so that was how I spent this Wednesday morning.

I made a quick video about it when I got home tonight. You can see I’m trying really hard to speak clearly. It takes me back to all the times I had surgery or orthodontic work and had to re-learn how to use my mouth. It really sounds like I say “meow” at 2:34.

Tomorrow I go back for a temporary bridge, so perhaps I’ll post an update of myself struggling to speak again tomorrow night!

Never a Dull Moment

Things never quite end up the way I worry that they will.

See my video for a recap of my dentist appointment and my run-in with the law today.

Pardon the bad lighting, bad outfit and bad hair portrayed in this video. This is really just how I roll at home.


A Life in the Dentist’s Chair

On a regular day, the history of my mouth isn’t something I even think about, but the moment I walk into a dental office, that familiar smell nearly knocks me to my knees with dread. Memories of countless times before, sitting anxiously in the waiting room, flipping through magazines, wishing I was a model with naturally perfect teeth, wishing I was anywhere but there.

To say I’ve had a lot of dental work is a bit of an understatement. I’ve already written about some of it, and the anxiety I developed over the years in my post Oral Fixations. You would think that having been in the dental chair literally hundreds of times in my life would mean that I would approach the chair like an old friend. Not so. Not so at all.

Tomorrow I am having a consultation with my new dentist to talk about updating my bridgework and fixing my bite alignment. I really do want to do this. My jaw clicks when I chew and it’s uncomfortable. My bridgework is nearing 20 years old, and could use some refreshing. I want to be able to chew my food comfortably again, and, if possible, do it more gracefully.

In preparation for tomorrow’s visit, I was looking through some of my old dental records. I came across some x-rays and other weird things so I thought it would be fun to share. It reminds me of how far I’ve come, though looking at some of my earlier x-rays makes me kind of sad. I wonder if I was going through all this now, if they could have done more to save my natural teeth, and perhaps eliminated the need for 10 implants. I’m told that they would never do so many implants so close together now. But I’m also told that my doctors did a great job on my mouth, so that is good to hear, and I suppose it means it was all worth it.

Walk with me now, through some of my mouth’s greatest adventures.


My first dental appliance – at least the first that I still have in my possession. This was the obturator that Mom and Gram had to wrestle and hold me down every morning to put in. It fit across the roof of my mouth and closed the hole in my palate so that I could drink my baby formula. (I have no conscious memory of this happening.)



A snippet of the new patient form my mom filled out when I started with Dr. Prusak. Thank goodness for him. He was so kind and gentle and he really knew how to handle a scared little girl like me.


Pano of my 5-year old mouth. Look at that beautiful bilateral cleft! My eye sockets look misaligned because I moved my head during the x-ray. I actually had a lot of teeth for someone with ectodermal dysplasia. Notice the creepy orbs with adult teeth buds in them in my lower jaw. I was probably scared out of my mind getting this x-ray, but I have no memory of it now.


Dr. Bond created this to push my front teeth forward and my canines outward. It worked. It was attached to my upper arch with brackets on my back molars. I couldn’t take it out. I spent a lot of time working food out of it with my tongue after meals.


Heres that contraption at work. My two front teeth started out twisted and pointing inward. Dr. Bond devised the metal sculpture to push those teeth forward. Every time I saw him he would adjust the wires just a tad until my teeth were finally in position, which it looks like they are here. This was before the bone graft to close my clefts, obviously.


Another pano at age 12. Post bone graft. I was already sporting a mouthful of metal. You can see that some of my molars were still baby teeth with no adult teeth behind them.

Fast forward about 20 years – post LeForte Osteotomy and post implants…


This is about how my mouth looks now, give or take a root canal and a crown or two. Talk about a metal mouth. I still have 9 real teeth, though they have been enhanced by crowns and root canals…


This is a plaster model of my recent mouth situation. (They look like horse teeth.) The bottom ten teeth are part of a bridge that is screwed in to my jaw on 6 implants, and the top six teeth are a bridge that is cemented onto the top 4 implants. Only my molars in the very back are what remain of my natural teeth.

I expect I will be getting another pano x-ray tomorrow. If I can get a copy of it, I will definitely post it. Of course I will post about whatever ends up happening with my future dental work too.

You may be wondering, after seeing my current model, what I could possible still need to have done. Well, the top bridge has a terrible habit of coming lose and falling off. And you can’t tell from the model but there is a slight gap between the top of my bridge and my gums, which means whenever I eat, food squeezes through and nestles in the cracks between my teeth. Since they are fake, I can’t feel it, though I have learned to constantly be checking my teeth for bits of food, it’s really not ideal, and makes for some awkward social moments.

Also, as I mentioned – my jaw alignment has somehow fallen out of whack. And I’ve broken two teeth off the bottom bridge… because it takes three licks to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop… I can’t resist biting things I shouldn’t! 🙂

Stay tuned for whatever’s next in my dental adventure… xx

Throwback Thursday – Autobiography of a 16 Year Old Me

In my junior year of high school I took a developmental psychology class and loved it. One of the projects in the class was to compose an autobiography and pay attention to the stages of development throughout our lives.  So here is what I wrote, with a few edits for brevity and privacy. Even with my edits, this is super long, so I’m going to break it up into 3 posts. Keep in mind that I was sweet (and innocent) 16 when I wrote this!

The cover has seen better days.

The cover has seen better days.

Infancy and Early Childhood

I was born EEC Chick in June 1980 to Mark and Susan in Abington, Pennsylvania. I was a healthy 7 pound, 21 inch baby, but it was a shock that I was born with a cleft lip and palate and cleft hands and feet. My mother didn’t even get to hold me right away because the doctor rushed me off to examine me. I had to have many surgeries those first few months of life to close up my lip and palate so I would be able to eat and look presentable.

I was an only child for the first four years of my life. I remember we lived with my grandmother, who I called Gram. Both Mom and Dad worked so Gram took care of me during the day. I started talking at about a year old. My first words were cookie, eye and flower. I began walking in September 1981. I stood myself up with the help of the television stand and walked towards Mom and Gram as they sat on the sofa watching Lawrence Welk.

Our family went to Sunday School and Meeting (Church) every Sunday, so I had friends there from the very beginning. Becky, who was six months older than me, and Joanna, who was six months younger. We had a lot of fun together. Becky’s older brother Ben would play with us too.

I don’t remember much about my surgeries except for the one I had to fix the big toe on my right foot. It stuck out so far that my mom had to cut a hole in my shoe so it could stick out. I remember Mom, Gram and I got up really early and went to the hospital. When we got there we had to wait for a while and then my doctor came and asked me if I was ready. I said I was and he picked me up and carried me into the operating room. There he put me on a table and put a funny mask on my nose and asked what flavor I would like, strawberry, banana, chocolate, or bubble gum? I asked for banana and soon I was sleepily breathing the banana scented anesthesia. I was really grouchy when I woke up. As soon as I woke up I was taken to the physical therapy room so I could learn to walk on crutches. I was really mad and I screamed and yelled until they let me go back to my room and go back to sleep. All I wanted to do was go home! Once I did get home it wasn’t long before I was walking again despite the cast on my foot.

I just walked down these stairs with two different sized feet... no big deal.

I just walked down these stairs with two different sized feet… no big deal.

When I was three, my mom became pregnant with her second child. I was going to be a big sister! I couldn’t decide whether I wanted a girl or a boy but my mom told me not to worry, God would choose what it would be. So, 6 days after my fourth birthday, my first brother Kris was born. That year I began taking swimming lessons at the YMCA. I couldn’t wait to begin. I loved swimming in our pool at home and I was ready to make new friends. My mom was nervous about how the other kids would react to me, but her fears were quickly overcome when she met my teacher, Suzanne, who had exactly the same things wrong with her as I did! I had a great time there. Swimming was my favorite, but I also loved arts and crafts and gymnastics too.

Around that time, my great grandfather died. I wanted to go to the funeral but Mom wouldn’t let me. I had all these questions like, would he be naked? What would he look like? Was he going to be a skeleton? And of course, why can’t I go? Mom said funerals weren’t for little girls. Oh well, I had fun because my cousin Karen babysat me and I thought she was really neat. She was 16 and I wanted to be just like her. Not long after that, Gram moved out. She was going to go live with my great grandmother, who needed someone to take care of her. I was very sad that she wouldn’t live with us anymore, but I would still see her a lot because she would be less than an hour away, in New Jersey.

One day I was out playing in the yard when I heard a voice. “Hello, little girl!” At first I was scared because we didn’t have any neighbors and I couldn’t imagine where the voice was coming from. Then I realized there was a woman and a little girl about my age standing between the grapevine and the big pine tree that separated our yard from the next. “Hello, this is Christina, your new neighbor!” said the woman, motioning towards the girl, “and I’m her grandmother. Who are you?” She smiled as I walked over shyly. “I’m Heather,” I whispered “Let me go get my dad.” I ran into the house and found Dad in the kitchen washing dishes. He came outside and talked to the woman. I shyly asked the girl to play and we hit off well. Actually, to say we hit off is rather funny considering how much we fought. It seemed that we finished each of our play sessions with a fight and I would swear that I wouldn’t play with her again for a year, but by the time the next day rolled around we had forgotten about the fight and were ready to play again.

In September 1985, I started Kindergarten at McDonald Elementary School. I was very excited, I couldn’t wait to go to real school like a big kid! The first day came and I climbed onto the enormous yellow school bus that would take me to the even bigger red brick school. I thought Mrs. Schulden, my teacher, was kind of scary because she was so strict. Once, we were taking a test and she had set up books on our desks so we couldn’t look at the person next to us. I was confused about one part and I leaned over to see what the girl next to me put on her paper. (Little did I know that Mrs. Schulden was standing behind me.) She pushed my chair in hard and fast so that my ribs hit the edge of the desk. I tried not to cry, not because it hurt, but because I had done something bad and I felt ashamed.

One day just before it was time to go home, Mrs. Schulden asked if any of us had left an umbrella in the coat closed the day before. She held up a blue plastic handled umbrella with a clear plastic top that had little fish on it. Wow, I thought, that is a really neat umbrella! I raised my hand when I saw that no one else was claiming it. “Are you sure it’s yours Heather?” asked Mrs. Schulden. I nodded, and the umbrella was mine.I told my mom that a friend had given it to me at school. A couple of days later, Mrs. Schulden asked who had taken the umbrella because a girl in her afternoon class had lost one. Everyone knew I had taken it but I claimed it was mine.

Riding the bus was always interesting. Chrissy and I sat together and once we got in a big fight and the bus driver told us that if we didn’t knock it off, he’d send us to prison. That quieted us down quite a bit. We also had problems with boys. Once, I got punched in the nose by one and then Chrissy tried to beat him up before the bus driver intervened. One boy in particular, whose name was David, made fun of me to no end. he called me blondie and was always teasing my friends and I, until one day Mom got on the bus (much to my embarrassment) and told him that if he didn’t leave me alone, he’d have to deal with her. I guess that was a pretty scary thought, because he never bothered me after that.

—- To be continued —

Whew! My hand is tired from typing all that out. Obviously I don’t have the original word document from 1997. Hah. For some reason when I type, I just hold my left thumb up in the air all the time, and after a while my hand starts cramping up. Awkward.

Anyway… If you’re curious to know what I edited out of this wordy introduction to my life, it was about 20 “I remember”s and a section where I talked about the senile old lady who lived next door before Chrissy’s family moved in. How odd that I found that to be something relative to my life when I wrote this autobiography.

Also, it’s kind of alarming to realize how much of my early life I have forgotten. I have NO memory of being punched in the nose on the bus, and I definitely had not thought of Mrs. Schulden or the umbrella I stole in many years. (What is with me and umbrellas?)

I hope you enjoyed this throwback within a throwback. Next week I will post the ‘Childhood’ section, where there was lots of learning and playing and a couple more surgeries to boot.

Throwback Thursday

I’ve decided to liven things up by doing a weekly “Throwback Thursday” post. It will consist of photos, journal pages, and who knows what other mementos I will dig up. Hope you enjoy!


Goofball. Summer 1987

My mom and I were being silly as I got ready for bed. I probably asked her to play with my hair and this was the result. I loved making goofy faces to make my mom laugh.

This picture was taken shortly after my nose revision surgery. If you look closely you can see how red the scars are around the bottom of my nose, plus some of my stitches got infected so I had sores too. Ow.

I feel like this picture sums up how I felt post-surgery. After getting over the hump of feeling sad and wounded, there’s moments of feeling pretty happy and silly.




Where it all began – The story of my birth.

It was a dark and stormy night…

No, just kidding.  It was a sweltering midsummer afternoon when my mother’s contractions began.  My father’s cousins had come over to swim in the pool that day and through the window my mother could hear them laughing and splashing as she lay on the bed.  She would have been out there with them, cooling off from the heat, but she hadn’t felt so good and needed to lie down.  When my father came home from work a couple of hours later, he would take her to the hospital where I would make my debut.

My birth was a greatly anticipated event.  Not only was I the first child for my parents, but I was the first grandchild and first great-grandchild for all parties involved.  Everyone was waiting with bated breath.  Because my mother was young and healthy and there were no known health issues in our family, she had not had any ultrasounds or prenatal testing that would have indicated anything was amiss.  They didn’t even know if I’d be a boy or a girl.

Labor and delivery went as expected and I came into the world at 11:44 pm that summer night.  It was immediately obvious that all was not “right” with baby me.  They allowed my mother to hold me for a few minutes before taking me away.  While a cleft lip and palate was not an unheard of birth defect, my “clawed” hands and feet, sparse hair and eyelashes were cause for concern.  The doctors wanted to examine me further to determine if I had missing or deformed internal organs or mental deficiency.

My mother was taken up to her room without me.  My father went home to share the news with Gram and his cousins who were waiting to hear.  My mother called her mother to let her know that I had arrived but that there were some unexpected complications.  No one would tell her anything, so she didn’t know what else could be wrong with me besides the obvious.

It would be a long, lonely night.  At some point not long after she had settled into her room, they brought in another woman who had just given birth.  She had her baby with her, and all night my mother could hear the mother and baby on the other side of the curtain, cooing and bonding with each other.  Meanwhile, she had no idea where I was or what was going on. It wasn’t until early the next morning that I was brought in and she could finally hold me again.

Later that morning a plastic surgeon came in to talk to them about cleft lip and palate. The doctor was old and what he said was blunt.  “Your daughter will never look normal.  The sooner you accept that, the better.”   Despite this harsh diagnosis, he was the one who referred my parents to the cleft team at St. Christopher’s, and the skilled hands of Dr. Hulnick.  It was also sometime that morning that someone came in with pamphlets from the local AboutFace organization, which was a support group for people with various facial deformities.

Within the first week of my life, my parents took me to see the cleft team at St. Christopher’s, which was associated with Temple University.  This would be the first of many times I’d endure a full day of examinations.  The team made my first palatal obturator – which was an acrylic plate that fit across the roof of my mouth and allowed me to drink without aspirating.   (More on all this in a future post!)

Of course I don’t remember any of this.  I had to call my mom and asked her for the details.  Growing up, I’d always known basic facts about my birth, like how I’d been born at 11:44 pm, and that I surprised everybody with my birth defects, but I never really asked my mom how she felt.  How anyone felt.  I mean, was there some level of disappointment that a perfect child was not produced?

She said she remembers feeling fearful and overwhelmed.  She wondered how she would be able to provide everything I needed.  There was a lot of uncertainty about what my diagnosis meant, but there was such joy at my arrival that it outweighed any negativity.  Nana, (my maternal grandmother) was really supportive.  She was a nurse, so she was battle-hardened when it came to medical stuff.  She came up from Maryland and stayed with us for a week after I was born.  My other grandmother, (Gram), lived with us (technically, we lived with HER, but I didn’t realize that until I was much older), so  she was there every day and helped to hold me down while my mom applied my obturator and cleaned the junk out of my nose.

I asked my mom if she ever felt uncomfortable taking me out in public before my lip repair.  She said that she wanted people to see me and that there was nothing to hide.  She told Gram, “let people look if they want to look!”  They took me to the mall, to the grocery store, the bank – everywhere.  People would sometimes ask if I had been in an accident or if I’d gotten hurt.  She thinks it was good for her to talk about it.  Only once does she remember losing her cool.  While waiting in line for a teller at the bank, she noticed a man who would not stop staring at me.  He never said anything, he just stared.  Finally she snapped at him “Would you like to take a picture?”

It was interesting talking to my mom about this.  She began to recall things she had forgotten.  As we talked, I realized that she might not be remembering everything with exact accuracy.  For example, she recalls being told about the NFED soon after I was born.  However, the NFED wasn’t started until 1981.  She probably found out about it through a doctor or counselor at a hospital when I was still quite young.

I have some of the records from my birth.  No pictures, but here is my Discharge report.  I think the use of the term “clawed hands” makes it sound like I was a gryphon or something.  Which is actually kind of cool.

Dr. Hulnick

My first plastic surgeon was Dr. Hulnick at St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children.  I had 5 surgeries with him, the first when I was barely 3 months old and the last when I was 6.  I don’t remember what he looked like, but I do remember him being a big part of my early life.  I was just shy of 9 years old when he died.  My mom wept and wondered out loud what were we going we do?  I had no idea at the time – in fact, I have only recently realized – just what amazing work Dr. Hulnick did.  I am grateful that he was my doctor and did such beautiful work on my lip and palate repairs.

While doing research for this blog, I came across his obituary, which I’ve posted below.  My heart swells to read about what a kind and caring man he was, and I know I was fortunate to have him work on me.

Stuart Hulnick, 50, Plastic Surgeon

By Henry Goldman, Inquirer Staff Writer

June 16, 1989

Stuart J. Hulnick, 50, director and founder of the Burn Center of St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children and chief of its plastic-surgery section, died of leukemia Wednesday at his home in Lafayette Hill.

A pediatric burn-care specialist and plastic surgeon, Dr. Hulnick became nationally known for his writings on reconstructive microsurgery, burn care and treatment of children born with cleft palates.

Among his colleagues in Philadelphia, he developed a reputation as a tireless surgeon who worked long hours because of his commitment to caring for suffering children.

“He could have made a fortune as a cosmetic surgeon, but went ahead and did burns, the most difficult work,” said Myles G. Turtz, chief executive officer of the corporation that owns St. Christopher’s.

Dr. Hulnick’s friends remembered him as a man who enjoyed simple pleasures in life and took great pride in his wife and two children.

Born in Staten Island, N.Y., Dr. Hulnick studied American literature at Princeton University before entering the University of Rochester Medical School. He interrupted his medical residency at Strong Memorial Hospital there to serve in the Air Force from 1965 to 1967. He then returned to Rochester, where he was a senior resident and later the chief surgical resident at Genesee Hospital.

He came to Temple University Health Sciences Center in 1970 and spent two years there as a surgical resident before joining the medical staff at St. Christopher’s. In 1978, he became chief of plastic surgery and he founded the burn center – the only such children’s unit between Washington and Boston.

Yesterday, the hospital’s executive director, Calvin Bland, said the burn center would be named after Dr. Hulnick.

For more than a decade he served on St. Christopher’s board of managers and on the board of trustees of the Burn Foundation of the Delaware Valley. He remained in those positions until his death.

A member of the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons, Dr. Hulnick taught plastic surgery at Temple University Health Sciences Center and was on the medical staff of Chestnut Hill Hospital.

“I’ve never seen anyone love kids, and love kids who have had the horror and devastation of burns, as Stu Hulnick did,” said William H. Weintraub, who was recruited by Dr. Hulnick more than 10 years ago as the hospital’s chief of surgery.

“He had an unbelievable amount of commitment to children who had suffered the disfigurement of burns. I’m not sure he’s replaceable.”

He was “a straight shooter, a gifted surgeon and a brilliant guy,” said Turtz, who heads the nonprofit corporation that owns St. Christopher’s and two other hospitals.

Burn treatment for children, Turtz said, “is probably the most difficult job you can do, requiring extraordinary care and technique and constant attention.”

“He was a tremendous amount of fun, and he also had the capacity to be very silly,” said Diane Williams, who is director of nursing at Valley Forge Medical Center and a longtime friend of the Hulnick family.

Noting that a memorial service has been scheduled for a dining room at St. Christopher’s, Williams said, “He loved food and he disliked pretension, so it’s appropriate that a memorial service be held for him in the hospital cafeteria. He would love that.”

In addition to his work with burn victims, Dr. Hulnick ran a unit for children who had been born with cleft lips and palates. The clinic was staffed with oral surgeons and speech therapists.

Dr. Hulnick’s third major involvement was as a plastic surgeon for children who were trauma victims. St. Christopher’s has the largest trauma unit for children in the region.

“The kids would start out disfigured and end up beautiful by the time he was finished,” said Weintraub.

Dr. Hulnick excelled in his hobbies as well – needlepoint, gardening, cooking, making furniture by hand, and listening to classical music and opera.

Survivors include his wife, Virginia Cole Hulnick; two children, Lauren and Adam; a brother, and his mother, Martha.

Friends and family may attend a memorial service at 2 p.m. Wednesday in the cafeteria of St. Christopher Hospital’s Morris Pavilion, 2600 N. Lawrence St. Interment will be private.

Souvenirs You Never Lose

Every once in a while I think of that Goo Goo Dolls song, ‘Name’, which has the line “Scars are souvenirs you never lose The past is never far.” It brings to mind superficial scars, like the crescent shaped scar on my forearm, where our dog Tasha bit me when I tried to take a chicken bone from her. It usually takes a moment or two of deeper thinking before I remember how many scars I have.

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