Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I was a shy kid from the start. I have often times blamed my accident for this shyness, but in reality I am sure it's more biological.
As a small child, I spent a month in the Hospital for Sick Children. I remember it as a surprisingly happy and bright place, considering it was filled with sick kids. When I left, I missed all of the playful nurses, the Boston cream doughnuts after every operation and the colourful footprints leading down the halls.
It was almost 11 years ago, but I recall much about my experience there.
After many years of having to deal with people asking me what happened to my hands, I got fairly used to it. The thing that bothered me was the people who did not ask: those who thought they were being polite, but just stared. It was as if they were sparing me the humiliation of having to explain, when in fact it's really very simple.
September. At my cottage. When I was 4. Those are the three facts that set the base for the story I have told hundreds of times.
Typically, when people ask, I tell them the story my mother gives, about her rushing to pull me from the smouldering campfire pit, my hands already badly burned and swooping me down to the water, calling 911 and my grandma, who was a nurse, and then rushing me off to hospital. All of my family comes in to visit me and bring me gifts.
This is the logical story to give because it provides the most information, and makes the most sense.
It’s not exactly what I remember, though.
I recall sitting on the broken-down picnic table while my siblings asked me if I was okay.
I remember the bright orange helicopter I got to ride in. I still get déjà vu when I hear them fly over Toronto.
I remember watching TV all the time and scary baths that would hurt my hands.
I don’t remember tripping into the fire pit, but that is necessary for the “burning my hands” story, so I throw it in anyway.
I don’t recall, but apparently it took 30 minutes to drive me from the cottage to the closest hospital. I can’t imagine what that car ride was like for my mother, or for my father, who waited behind with three other small kids.
Immediately after the accident, the questions never seemed to end. It is very stressful, being a young and shy girl who just wants to keep her burned hands to herself, to have to explain to everyone what has happened.
Within a week I could recite the story perfectly: hospital, third degree, fire pit, I’m okay. I felt like a broken record. I was lucky enough to be in the same elementary school for a long time, so the questions did end, eventually.
The night before I started high school, I was stressed beyond belief. I stayed up all night anticipating the reaction people would have. As I rehearsed the story in my mind, I tried to make it sound brave without seeming as though I was searching for sympathy.
But that first day didn’t turn out as I’d expected: Not one person asked me why I had scars covering my hands; not on the first day, nor the first week. Instead, in every single class, both students and teachers would just look at them, then look away quickly.
It made me feel so awkward. I realized that having had people ask me “what’s wrong with your hands?” my entire life was a lot less intimidating. Now that people weren’t asking, I didn’t know what to do or how to act. Can you politely ask someone to stop staring at you? Even if you could, I would never be able to work up the courage. I couldn’t come right out and tell them, either, because it would look as if I wanted them to say they felt bad for me. That was most definitely not what I wanted.
It was a very difficult time for me. But after much contemplation, I decided that I was overthinking it and that it really wasn’t such a big deal.
My mother often describes the day of the accident as the most stressful day of her life. My aunt once told me it was the worst day of her life, too. My dad and I don’t talk about it much, and nor do my friends who have been there since the accident.
As for me, I look at it as the first day of my life. I don’t really have memories from before the accident, and when I think of my childhood, it’s the hospital and mini versions of all my friends asking me to repeat the story that often come to mind.
But the first day of my life was not depressing or sad. It is part of who I am. And it has had a huge impact on my character.
Now going in to my fourth year of high school, I never hesitate to tell people my story (the one with the Boston cream doughnuts and colourful footprints) whether they ask or stare. I do it because I’ve realized that I don’t care if I have to explain what happened a million more times – it’s a part of my life I feel comfortable about, so there’s no sense in feeling uncomfortable with others over it.
The whole experience has made me a lot less shy. If the first conversation I have with a new person is going to be about my accident, I will be grateful because it is a chance to share a personal story and create a potential friendship. I only hope that people don’t shy away from my moment of confidence.
Abby Love lives in Toronto.