I remember hearing a story on NPR about a young, American raised Afghan who was traveling back to Afghanistan to visit his family. One morning, his uncle asked him for some help removing a piece of soviet era shrapnel that had begun to work its way out of his forehead.
This morning, as my son looked on and at times played with cabinet doors, I removed some sort of surgical wire that had been left in my ankle 11 years ago after I broke the ever-loving hell out of it. It was amazing.
Those who have known me for a while also know that for years I kept the surgical plate that held my tibia together for a summer on my keychain. It's still hanging on a hook in my basement. What came out this morning looked like nothing more than a small curly piece of boar bristle. No souvenir, but a fun reminder that I am still part machine.
