I have a scar on my lower back—a large patch of smooth, hyperpigmented spots. It looks like a birthmark. I’ve always had this scar and I never really thought much about it until my dad told me how I got it a couple years ago.
When I was really young in Korea, he had been pulling his car out of the driveway. As a toddler, I must have seen him in the car often and so, believed the car to also be him—like an extension of him. I apparently walked up to the car while my dad was pulling out and since I was so little, he didn’t see me in the rearview mirror.
I got hit by the car and pulled under its wheels. My dad said the car had bumped a little but he didn’t think anything was wrong until he got out and was shocked to see that my body had been caught under a wheel and dragged along the pavement.
He immediately rushed me to the ER, but the doctors told him that I would most likely die because I was so small and had lost too much blood. My dad told me that it was one of the worst moments of his life. He thought he had killed his own daughter. He desperately prayed that I would live.
I somehow made it through—and with no permanent damage besides the marks on my lower back. I must have been really young when the accident happened because I have no recollection of the event. All I have is my back scar—a reminder that I could have died when I was a little child.
Whenever I see my scar, I think about all the years I’ve been able to enjoy since that day and wonder why I’m still alive. I’m still here. Why? Who knows what the answer to that question is… but I guess knowing that I could have died inspires me to make my life count for something—something worth living for.