Counting Scars

Yesterday, Sweetie got it into her head to start counting Ike’s scars. Though he’s only a little more than two, in a lot of ways he’s more the grizzled veteran who, though haven gotten his lions share of Purple Hearts, has not let this affect his overall outlook on the world. In fact he seemed more than happy to be on the receiving end of Sweetie’s epidermal version of connect-the-dots: laying on his back at the far end of the couch, trying to both watch the fire in the fireplace, and pay close attention to Sweetie, to make sure that she wasn’t putting any undue pressure on his latest scars, the ones that live on both sides of his left leg.

His body reads like the pages of a diary annotated and footnoted for that little added kick, when the reading gets too dry. “Remember his first scar?” She says and I can honestly say I don’t. But Sweetie knows that if you put your fingers on his soft skin the scars act like a roadmap back in time. Like returning to any house you’ve ever lived in, though you might not remember the address, when you drive around the city you know just how to get there.

Sweetie counts “One, two, three, four…” Ike catches the eye of our older boy and starts to laugh. In front of the fire the house is nice and warm and Ike is enjoying hanging out in just his diaper: Tentatively kicking his sore leg once in a while and making a high-pitched squeal in between belly laughs.

“Five, six, seven…” She runs her hands over his leg and asks “Do I count one scar twice if he’s had more than one operation there?”

“I don’t know.” I say. “If I were shot twice in the same spot, I think I would say I’ve got two scars. I mean scars are nothing if not the stories of old battle wounds.”

“Eight, nine ten…” Not all his scars are long and snakelike. Some are round like the little holes left from a B-B gun a friend might have fired at you when you were a kid. Others, like the new one on his leg, stretches like an earthworm dried by the sun. The scar he got when he received the new liver extends the whole length of his abdomen. The stitching, making it look like some sort of albino millipede from South America.

“Ten, I think.” She says. “Unless you want to count all the blood draws, IV sites and stitch marks.”

“No, ten seems like a good round number.” I say. “I don’t think you can count being poked with a needle, even after you’ve been poked more than a hundred times with one.” I guess to me, there just nothing more un-heroic than an ex-junkie showing the remains of his life story through old tracks in his arm.

How many needles were there I wonder? How many stitches? How many yards of thread were used, or staples, or tape?

I try to think if there was ever a time that he didn’t have all these scars. Did I ever run my hands over him without feeling one? The first 36 hours or so would have been about the only time I guess. Actually now that I think about it, that’s not true; we had Ike circumcised only hours after he was born…

I almost ask if Sweetie counted that one, but I don’t. Ike, watching the fire, takes a deep breath and quietly says “da-adah-adah” in that certain way he has of letting me know that all is right with the world.