My Butterfly

When I was four years old, I neglected to notice that my mom’s tummy began to grow. As soon as my parents shared with me that there would soon be a little sibling to play with, I created an imaginary little sister who was with me wherever I went. This led to a bit of consternation because when the gender of the little one was revealed to be male, the adults in my life were afraid to tell me for fear that my little heart would be broken. They gently broke the news to me, but found it didn’t matter in the slightest. My imaginary sister cheerfully and easily became an imaginary brother. 

My real little brother’s birth was met by much rejoicing by all. I loved him, held him, fed him his bottle, and was a delighted big sister. Many came to see him, including my dad’s secretary who brought along her dog. “Can I stay on the porch and play with him?” I asked and was given permission to stay with the seemingly lonely dog while the adults headed inside to the living room to sit and coo over my chubby little brother. Our family’s dog, tied away from the house in readiness for our doggy visitor, was barking unhappily over the situation. I stroked the big dog’s shiny dark brown fur, and in my childish mind it seemed that this visitor needed good Southern hospitality: an offer of some food.

I poured him a bowl of our dog’s food and squatted down to become acquainted; however, he didn’t much like the interference with his meal. The large German Shepherd growled and lunged at my face. I must have cried out because my next memory is my dad, the secretary, and my mom holding my little brother standing at the screen door out to the porch frozen in shock. This is the real horror of the situation. I now know that a momma’s greatest terror is the pain of her child. I have no haunting memories of physical pain. What does haunt me is the look of horror on my mother’s face and the real terror that it represented when she stood before her little one whose right cheek was hanging open and covered with blood.

After that must have come a flurry of movement. My mom took my little brother to her parents’ house before heading to the hospital. The secretary held a wet wash cloth over my cheek while my dad drove us quickly to the hospital. When I pointed out that my dad had run a red-light, he said through gritted teeth, “Olivia, you can do that in an emergency.” At the hospital I was put in a room to clean up the blood. To me it seemed that everyone else was much messier, and I can remember the incredulous smiles from my family and the nurses when I forcefully ordered, “Clean up my family! They’re messier than I am!”

It wasn’t long before I was being wheeled in to a tiled operating room. A masked doctor offered to let me choose a small stuffed animal from a box full of different toys. I took my time, deliberating over whether to choose the bear, the cat, the owl... They finally reminded me with slight impatience that we needed to begin the surgery, and so I settled on the little owl. For me the eight days that followed are a blur of gifts, the hospital toy room, and visitors. It really was a marvelous time for a little girl of four. The medical staff did excellent work in the cold, tiled room, and after 60-something stitches, I was ready for recovery. I’ve never asked the physical details of the dog’s bite, but I do know that if it had been ever so slightly higher, I would have lost my eye. 

The doctors worked a miracle stitching up my cheek. There were several parts of skin missing, which they were able to manufacture, and as you can see from the picture above, the scar was never a predominant feature of my face. When I was in third grade, I had plastic surgery to remove the larger pieces of scar tissue. Though I do remember a few times of schoolhouse ridicule, for the most part it never held me back from anything, including entering and placing in beauty pageants, a common competition in my hometown. My parents must of have done an excellent job of teaching me about real courage and beauty because I was never scared of dogs, and I was proud of being different.

Over the years my scar has faded, and I sometimes mention it only to find people looking back at me in a puzzled way. However, when I was a babysitting teen, one of my little charges, an inquisitive three year old, asked me, “Where did you get that butterfly?” Puzzling it out, I finally figured that she was talking about my scar. To her the lines on my face resembled a carefully drawn butterfly. This is a poignant picture of what my scar became to me; this large mark on my face is the artwork of my creative God; a mark that symbolizes his love and care for me. I know that my scar is a gift, not a curse, from my loving Lord.