It’s Just A Flesh Wound

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One year ago, I had a work accident that left me both scarred, and satisfied.  If you don’t recall the incident, here’s a recap: I burned my foot with boiling water.  It left me with a second degree burn that kept me out of work for three months.  I was unable to walk for the first month, and then without shoes for the second (on account of my fist sized blister).  During the month of no walking, all I could do was sit in a chair, feet up, in a reclined position.  Oh yes, I could also write.  During those three months I wrote, edited, and self published my first short story, Mother Ann.  While it may not be the best work I have ever produced (I still have time to accomplish that feat), it satisfied me to the point of publication.  I was finally, officially, an author.  A published author.

I went back to work with no problems.  I could stand, walk, run, dance, anything I could do before.  Only now, I had a story to tell, and evidence that it happened.

I never blamed my coworker, who was right beside me when it happened.  It was an accident.  It didn’t matter whose fault it was.  It happened, and now, it’s over.  There is no damage.  My foot is still very much in tact, as you can see in the picture.

If I were to, I’d blame my coworker for kick starting my career.  I’d blame them for having a part in the events that led me to checking off another box on my bucket list.  I’d blame them for making me sit down (which was the only thing I could do for a while).  I’d blame them for allowing me the pleasure of a taste of the life I want to have.  I’d blame them for turning me into an author.

Yes, I agree dear reader, this is a strange way of getting me to do something I should have done years ago.  But life has a strange way of making events it knows should happen, come about.  Whether it be loss, life, or a scar, things that have to happen, do.

Would I wish this on anyone?  No, absolutely not.  I would never wish pain on anyone.  To wish pain on another human is the sign of pure evil.  I only wish that we see the signs, and discern them before it’s too late.

I don’t know where the other coworkers got the idea that this was the other half’s fault.  When I tell newcomers this story, I strongly express that it was purely an accident.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Now, when I am asked how I got my start as an author, I can point to my scar and say, “I burned my foot.”

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