On the 1st of October of a year in the mid of the 90s I was cutting down a tree in Italy. It was really warm and I wore just a t-shirt. I wore a safety harness but no protective clothing while I was cutting the tree down from the top. The harness I had purchased wasn't the right one for this kind of job, so I wasn't able to fix it properly and I was too far from the trunk of the tree to work properly. I made it up holding myself with the left hand to the trunk itself, wielding the (small) chainsaw with one hand only. When I pulled the trigger, the chainsaw " bit the wood", instead of cutting. I wasn't able to hold it and it landed on my left forearm. My first thought was: "Farewell my dear arm...". When I saw my hand still attached to the arm I thought: "Let me see if I'm still able to move my fingers..." All of them responded.
After the first aid, my brother drove me to the "Pronto Soccorso" (A&E). The doctor checked my wound, asked how had happened, made a bit of conversation about my job to relax me, then he got needle and thread and started to stitch my arm up. Eight stitches in all, but it took a long time. Why? Because as soon as he started to suture me, he picked a mobile phone up to call another department and started an argument about someone who wanted to take one of his nurses away. Soon the argument heated up, with shouts and angry words, and often the doctor stopped stitching me. Anytime he stopped, I painfully remember, he did it when the needle was inside my flesh, holding together the two sides of the wound. I have to say, at this point, that since childhood I suffer of a slight phobia of any type of needles. To remember the needle piercing my flesh gives me more distress than remembering the chainsaw plunging on my arm.
The process had been quite painful, particularly because any time the doctor started shouting he couldn't avoid to move the needle, which was well plunged in my arm. At the end of it I dared to ask to him: "Why did I feel more pain while you were stitching me than when I cut myself with the chainsaw?"
Well, this is the story. Nothing really deep or important, if not for what happened something like 15 years later, after I had moved to London and started a relationship with a girl (now an ex) haunted by nightmares. Often she woke up crying in the middle of the night due to the nightmares. I used to hug her in these cases, and she used to stroke my scar. Normally she was just half awake, and as she explained to me, touching my scar was a way to recognize me, to know I was close to her, and so she was able to relax and sleep again. It's when I learned to love the scars, on the flesh and on the soul, marks which make the bearer unique and recognisable.
This is the story of my scar.
Have a good night.