I’ve been yammering on here at LWON for long enough now that it’s time for readers to get to know me a little more intimately. That means some introductions are in order.
We’ll start strong with my buddy Gus, the Skittle-size hemangioma spooning my liver. As you can imagine, this bundle of excess blood vessels gave me a little scare the first time we met via CT scan, but now we’re pals; I can count on him to be there for the rest of my days.
Next up is Clint, my left-ear dehiscence. He showed up during fetal development, or should I say he missed our scheduled meeting, leaving a gap where parts should have come together. As a result, my left ear forever feels full, it clicks and hisses at me, and sometimes my breathing is disturbingly loud in my own head. I get momentary dizzy spells, too. Patching up Clint would require drilling into my skull beneath my ear, so I’ll be living with this developmental blip for the duration.
Then there’s Betty and the [Bloody] Dozen, my lung node and 12 blood clots that appeared ensemble two years ago, putting me on the fast track to the ER! Betty appears to have tucked in for the long haul—maintaining her girlish figure, thankfully—but the Dozen had to go before they sent me to Stroketown. A little pill that blocks clotting factor Xa did the trick, but I have to keep taking it forever and I’m not allowed to bump my head ever again.
Emmet sits left of center between my eyes, seeming more scar than wrinkle, but I have no memory of an injury there. I’m not sure how he got so deep or why the other one in my “eleven” is much shorter and shallower. Not that symmetry has ever been my thing. I’m unbalanced in lots of ways; just ask my husband. Anyway, Emmet might meet a needle full of Botox someday. We’ll see.
Cybil is the chin scar reminding me of my decades-ago fancy footwork at the ice rink, which ended that one time when I went down harder than usual. A lesson from that day: If you must injure your chin, doing it on ice is super efficient from a first-aid perspective. Regardless, seven stitches led to Cybil’s emergence, and she’s refused to fade away.
Which leads to Finn, my most persistent chin hair—oddly, rooted in Cybil. He enjoys growing to at least an inch before making himself known. I don’t know how he does it. One day he’s not there and then suddenly, there’s Finn, long as a blade of grass, making a scene. (The one benefit of losing one’s eyesight with age? No more Finn. I may be drawing on my eyebrows with lipstick, but soon Finn will be a distant memory.)
I kindly call my one droopy eye Grace; she’s very self-conscious. Most of the time she’s not that noticeable unless you know to look for her. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her at all.
Skeeter is my left-eye floater. Irritating as hell, that one. He arrived with great fanfare—flashing lights and dizziness! Now it’s just him, that buggy speck that try as I might I can’t pin down. My swatting him away is fruitless. Doc says there are more to come so settle in.
My cowlick, top left, I call Rinske the temptress. I have nearly mastered the comb-over that keeps her modest, but sometimes she shows a little extra skin and I’m forced to put a clip in her. She hates that.
Omar is the brown mole on the cartilage in my right ear, and Omar requires constant monitoring because he’s extremely ambitious. I tell him I like him just the way he is. Regularly I say to him, “Omar? Don’t go changin.” So far so good.
They don’t have individual names, but periodic white “hotdog spots” mottle my arms and legs. I’m not sure if they’re a fungus or signs of an autoimmune skin condition, but I think of them as bits of gristle in the meat of my extremities and I do admire how they pop against sun-kissed skin.
I have a soft spot for Boris the spider vein.
What to call the cherry angiomas, other than a fabulous band name? You tell me.
I think that’s enough for now, don’t you? The skin tabs (Blimpy, Gilgamesh, and Ray) and the most unflappable of warts (the Hydra) can wait until another day. Also, be ready for Pip, the tiny bead of flesh at the center of my belly button, who is sort of adorable, if I may.
Here’s the thing. In my experience, especially for the bits of ourselves we are least fond of or that threaten to do us harm, giving them names seems to take some of their power away. They’re just the little frenemies our moms made us be nice to because, after all, they’re family. You can’t pick ‘em, so name ‘em and give ‘em some love.
Until next time, may your body, like mine, keep accessorizing, and may your next crusty addition answer to Stimpy McGee.
Photo from Unsplash.
