Cheese and My First Scar

Hi! I’m the anxious friend from the posts about the oven that wasn’t cleaned before its first use, the one who spectacularly slipped on the living room carpet, and the one who tripped in the chaos during an earthquake and chipped her front teeth.

If you’re wondering why I got up to all these antics, honestly, I can’t say for sure. At first, I did them because my dad let me, and then maybe, instinctively, I was seeking my mom’s reactions. I was pestering her with my child’s mind.

My mom was the type of woman who got scared of everything, always feeling like the whole world was conspiring against her child — and, of course, I inherited this anxious streak from her.

My dad, on the other hand, even when I annoyed him, could always make me laugh. I remember once I tried to see if his watch was waterproof. His reaction? He threatened to take his belt and spank me with it. Of course, I knew he wasn’t serious, so I started laughing and running around the house like a whirlwind. Well, I ran into a wall in the hallway, hit my head, and fell on my back. I only managed a little “ouch.”

That was enough for my mom to hear and scold my dad: “Why did you even think of threatening her? Look what happened to her because of you!”

I remember the summer I was nine. I had just returned from Germany after a month of sightseeing, laughter, and hiding sweets in my luggage. At home, there were still two weeks of vacation left, and I wanted to make the most of it: rollerblading, playing with friends, staying out until evening.

But then it happened. While going up the stairs, I felt a sharp sting in my right side. It passed quickly, but the next day the pain started radiating down my leg. I wasn’t afraid of the pain — I was afraid of my mom’s reaction. I knew that if I said anything, panic would ensue: luggage, doctors, tests, emergencies.

By the third day, I could barely stand. I whispered:
— Mom, my stomach kind of hurts…

I didn’t even finish the sentence. My mom’s eyes went wide:
— Quick! Let’s go to the hospital!

My dad drove like it was a rally race, my mom prayed the whole way, and I tried not to look sicker than I was, so she wouldn’t think I was exaggerating.

We got to the hospital. I went into the ER, had some tests done, amid my own screaming and my mom’s. A doctor examined me.

The doctor said it wasn’t serious. But my mom couldn’t leave without making sure I was safe. In her mind, if I didn’t get surgery right then, something could happen to me at school, on a trip, anywhere — and she wouldn’t be there.

The chaos erupted: I cried, my mom cried, the nurses hesitated, and my dad tried not to panic. When he got up to leave, I grabbed him:
— Daddy, don’t leave me here! Tomorrow you won’t find me alive!

The next day, I had surgery: appendicitis. I woke up with a small incision, an IV, and a few roommates. My dad stayed with me in the evening. We ate chocolate cookies and talked late into the night, while my mom came during the day with lunch trays. One tray had mashed potatoes — fine — the other had cheese mixed with cream. My mom was convinced that if I didn’t eat, I wouldn’t recover. And when it came to food, my mom didn’t accept any refusal. I, however, was full of cookies.

— Eat!
— I can’t, I’m not hungry.
— Just a little!
— No, Mom!

And the cheese flew, landing everywhere: in my hair, on my face, on the walls. I screamed, my mom cried. The mashed potatoes stayed, and I ate them later, but the cheese with cream? I haven’t eaten that since.

The scar stayed — and along with it, a little piece of my mom’s anxiety. That’s how I learned to live with the anxious pattern: love mixed with panic, but always with good intentions.