Rather than brag on my ailments like a middle-aged woman, I am mute in the face of blood and swelling. This silent suffering began with B’s wicker chair. During a family gathering, a broken strand of tacky white wicker stabbed deep into the back of my knee, making fatty white tissue visible. Instead of crying like any normal little girl, I snuck some paper towels from the kitchen, wadded them under my knee, and let my weight apply pressure to the puncture. That minute which passed without remark led to a lifetime of injuries unknown to family and doctors alike.
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