The most prominent of the multiple scars acquired during my many decades of life is on the bridge of my nose. Although it is neither dark nor large, its location is such that most people notice it, especially clinicians, who question me closely about my personal safety.

Our family was camping in Yellowstone that summer. We had separate tents for the adults and our primary-school-aged sons, pitched a few few feet from the fire pit on either side. Everyone else was bedded down for the night. I had just finished stowing our food and cooking supplies in the back of our rented SUV. The woods were dark and quiet, the temperature balmy, the stars overhead like spilled glitter.

As I contentedly closed the hatch, I was suddenly struck hard on the bridge of my nose, a blow that drove me to the ground, where I fell on my hands and knees, screaming, blood pouring out of my face into the leaf litter. I was terrified, but the conversation in the tents on either side was pretty funny.

• My husband yelled my name a few times, then our older son’s, and getting no response, started bashing around the tent, presumably struggling out of his sleeping bag and scrambling for pants.
• Meanwhile, our sons had the following conversation, younger one first:
  • I think that’s Momma. 
  • No, that’s not Momma.
  • I’m pretty sure it’s Momma.
  • No, that can’t be Momma.

Meanwhile, I had stopped thinking I was going to die from blood loss and started to worry about dying from beasts drawn to the growing pool of blood. My husband finally emerged and examined me. Not having owned an SUV before, I had apparently grabbed an interior handle instead of the edge of the hatch, and brought the edge crashing down on myself.

Disappointing, to say the least.

The kids got dressed and we drove to the campsite office, which was deserted but had an emergency phone. Two EMTs arrived in an ambulance. They were unclear on the need for stitches, but united as to the impossibility of getting any at this late hour in the park. The nearest hospital was 200 miles away. The park clinic would open in the morning.

I decided we would go back to sleep and get to the clinic when it opened, which we did. The doctors there assured me that I had needed stitches, but that I had waited too long. The EMTs had not shared this possibility. I was distressed for months by my unsightly appearance, but I later became accustomed to it, as we humans often do.

I’ve had to repeat this story often over the years, so I am wondering, has it changed? If you heard it before and detect any embellishments, please let me know. It will mean at least one of us has altered a memory.