The Strength of a Little Girl

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I cut my hand when I was a little girl, which happens to many kids. But the way i handled it was very unusual for a child.

Submitted: May 16, 2011

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Submitted: May 16, 2011

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I had to be at least three years old on that one day I showed my true strength. I have always been a tiny girl, i never look my age. People look at body size in comparison to strength. In my case they’re wrong. At this time my family spent their time looking for houses. We bought a beautiful piece of property on a corner lot and watched the progress of it being built. New properties can be very dangerous, especially for little wild kids. There are sharp rocks, glass and bottles everywhere. The structure we are supposed to live in is a pile of wood stuck together and large bricks surrounding the building. As a kid, it was scary walking up the large brick steps, walking around the giant hole, which was failed to be filled with cement. That hole would soon turn into a beautiful porch. I remember riding in the car heading to see our unfinished house. We parked out front and I jumped out of the van with excitement. I ran straight for the house tripping over the unforgiving glass and rocks. I screamed as I fell to the ground sliding my hand across the glass. I lye on the ground crying with my fists balled up and my mom came to help me.

“Come on Caylon, get up.”

She picks me up and slowly unravels my fist. Right as she opens my palm, a dark red stream of blood runs from the gash. The ride to the hospital is hazy, but it’s what happened at the hospital that is unforgettable. I kept my fist balled as the doctor prepared to give me stitches.

“No stitches, no stitches.”

I didn’t want stitches the same way many people do not want shots. The doctor struggled to unravel my fist, so he called in a nurse.

“Don’t give up,”

The nurse strapped me down in a long chair. They took straps that covered my entire body and held me tight against the chair, leaving my arm with the damaged hand to hang out for easy access for the doctor. Although I now lay parallel to the floor, I didn’t give up. He then called in two more nurses to try and unravel my hand. I screamed and screamed the closer they got to fixing my hand. I yelled and screamed.

\"Mommy! Mommy! Don't let them do this!\"

\"Caylon, it's alright. It's ok, it's alright\"

The nurses struggled to keep my hand laid flat on the oddly convient table they placed my arm on. I shook my head violently, the now only free part of my body. I screamed and cried as the doctor began to put the stitches in. He still struggled and eventually got in only a few stitches allowing time to heal it. The scar on my hand is a constant reminder that I’m strong and confident, and I won’t let anyone allow me to think otherwise. Some people tire of hearing “never judge a book by its cover,” but I never will.


© Copyright 2018 Caylon. All rights reserved.

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