Second Helpings

Spanish Scar

I enjoyed the guided tours of other members’ scars and thought it amazingly revealing about the lives and characters of these people, not to mention the immense suffering and bravery of some. I also commented many of the little excerpts revealed could be turned into longer pieces. For those who asked here’s the background story behind my big toe scar.

It was the summer of 1977 when I flew out to Ibiza with my then boyfriend, now husband. Looking back maybe it was an omen, as I’d been abroad several times before with no mishaps, whereas this was a first for him. To this day I still blame him inadvertently for my little scar. Now, why doesn’t that surprise anyone?

One afternoon we were strolling around the local town when I decided to go into a shop for some bottled water. I would have naturally approached the shop doorway using the path, but hubby being the type who always likes to take short cuts persuaded me to climb onto a low wall to gain access faster. It was as I stepped off said wall I felt something sharp under my right big toe.

On inspection, nothing was visible and no blood evident, so I bought some water and we walked back to our hotel. The pain intensified during the walk and by evening was quite excruciating. In the middle of the night I awoke with a throbbing toe and examining the offending digit discovered if I pressed my toe on the top, a lump appeared underneath the toe and vice versa, convincing me something was lodging inside.

A taxi ride to the nearest Spanish doctor the next morning revealed a cactus needle was embedded completely inside the toe and there was nothing for it but to cut it out. An agonising local injection, followed by a procedure to remove the inch long needle were not exactly pleasant or easy to discuss with a doctor who didn’t speak a word of English and a patient with no Spanish beyond hola and gracias.

After the op, the doctor demonstrated through body language that I needed to drop my jeans and turn over. Until that day I was ignorant of Tetanus injections until one was administered into my backside with the accuracy and force of Jockey Wilson going for double top. With tears stinging my eyes, I leapt from the table and in my haste to restore my clothing and dignity, completely bust the zip in my jeans.

The only solution to limping through the town to the taxi rank without getting arrested or drawing attention to my state of undress was to purchase a painting from a nearby street artist, then carry it strategically placed over my exposed parts.

I still have the painting, the cactus needle, the scar and the feeling my ensuing holiday disasters have something to do with the company I keep. To this day my toe still throbs when the weather is about to change although it was a rather painful and embarrassing way of acquiring a barometer. I bet there’s no one else who remembers the Spanish island of Ibiza every time their big toe throbs.

P.S. Black and Pink.