The first time I was taken to hospital for treatment was when I was in New Zealand. It was while I was on a wildlife day tour during one of my early weeks there. We were trekking down some hilly farmland to reach a secluded cove where we could watch the yellow-eyed penguins come back to roost for the night. I think I slipped and instinctively reached out to grab hold onto something, which unfortunately was the barbed wire fence.
Blood spewed. I had cut my finger. But surprisingly, it didn’t hurt that much. Either I was in too much shock, or the cold was really doing its job of numbing my fingers. There was quite a lot of blood, but the first aid kit was in the tour bus which was quite a distance away, so a decision was made to continue with our trek down the hill to catch the penguins while a makeshift bandage was put together with pieces of tissue paper.
When we eventually got back to town, I was sent to the hospital, nursing an injured finger that by this time had swollen quite a bit and was beginning to smart quite a lot. The doctors injected some local anesthetic while they cleaned up the wound.
I still carry the scar today. On the ring finger of my left hand. I just think it’s very poignant, given the situation I am in now.
A scar forever etched.