that Sarah Klem

I used to blog as the Devil. Then I was Tatiana. Now, I'm just me.

Sometimes I Can Be a Real Asshole

This bear had absolutely nothing to do with giving me the scar below.

This bear had absolutely nothing to do with giving me the scar below.

I had my hip replaced. 

And because my friends will use any excuse to have a party, they all stopped by one night when I was finally feeling up to seeing people (and by that I really mean in the mood to shower and change out of pajamas) to eat bad food and drink copious amounts of wine (no, I was not drinking while on pain killers — I’m a responsible drunk).

After several glasses of wine, I finally felt comfortable talking to my friends about something that had been bothering me since I came to in the recovery room. My scar. More to the point — telling people (dudes) who ask about the scar that I have a fake hip.

My friends all guffawed and argued that scars are cool and sexy and I should be proud because now I have a cool sexy scar to talk about.

The problem with my drunk friends’ theory (and which I quickly pointed out to them) is that there is nothing sexy about a hip replacement scar.

Think about it.

Oh, what is that scar from? 

I had my hip replaced.

Oh. Yeah. Cool. My gram had her hip replaced too.

By my friends’ silence I could tell I was right to be afraid hip replacement scars weren’t sexy.

My friend Lula was the first to break the silence: Well, you could make up a story about how you got that scar. Like you could say you were bit by a shark while surfing.

Interesting. The scar looks nothing like a shark bite, but Lula might’ve been on to something. I’ve been told many times since I could make my legs wiggle again that my body has been through a terrible trauma and that it doesn’t know the difference between being mauled by a tiger looking to make me lunch and being cut up by a doctor looking to make me pain free. 

Of course, no one would believe I ever got close enough to a tiger to be mauled by one, but I was in Vancouver last summer. I even visited a grizzly bear refuge. And while no one would believe I was backpacking through British Columbia, they wouldn’t be too hard pressed to believe I got drunk enough to think climbing a fence to pet a grizzly bear was a good idea.

And so I was totally prepared to share with you all the story about how awesome grizzly bears are and how instead of killing my drunk ass, this grizzly bear let me off with just a swift swipe to the leg.

But then, this morning, as I turned on my computer and opened up my email, I came across these photos of survivors of the Boston Marathon bombing revisiting the finish line and I realized just how big an asshole I was being about this whole thing.

My ugly scar (and some left over marker from the surgery -- I told you, I haven't been showering much).

My ugly scar (and some left over marker from the surgery -- I told you, I haven't been showering much).

My leg might not be able to tell the difference between a helpful doctor and a grizzly bear (or a fucked up kid with a backpack bomb) but I can. I didn’t survive a trauma. I had surgery and there is an ugly scar on my thigh but I did this so I can run pain free again and I should be happy about that. 

Not worried about what some stranger whose last name I probably won’t know (or remember) thinks about it.