Image: Pixabay

I watched with a curious fascination as the wicked scalpel was drawn across the skin, blood following in its wake. Somehow both detached and yet deeply, intimately engaged. It was an oddly disturbing feeling. It was, after all, my own flesh that was being deliberately and slowly sliced with great precision.

It had been my own fault. And a mental note was made, along with a swiftly administered metaphorical kick to be more careful with oyster knives in future. Just a small slip, but that is all it takes to cut a tendon. So there I was, under local anaesthetic, watching two surgeons repair it, and feeling oddly like a puppet as they retrieved the severed ends of the tendon and twitched my fingers without my voluntary participation. And I could not understand at all why they hadn’t just put me to sleep.

This happened a long time ago now, but I remember that it was quite fascinating to watch, in spite of my normal aversion to seeing sharp and shiny things pierce skin. The actual piercing of flesh has always been a dodgy area for me; I’m fine with anything else, not in the least bit squeamish, which is just as well given two sons who managed to get damaged in the most creative ways as they grew up. I wouldn’t say they were accident prone as much as adventure prone. The combination of, say, a hill, a bare back and a skateboard, for instance, or a mountain bike pointed down a steep slope… And don’t get me started on screwdrivers!

Any claims that it might be hereditary are neither here nor there. However, I digress…

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