I think I had a fair few - including a laceration from running against a doorway and falling into a cactus. HOWEVER. There was the time I (almost) lost my hand when I was... 5, I think. Sorry if the retelling of that story is a bit... awkward, I have very little recollection of that day (and details before that are also mildly lost to time and PTSD), so all I know comes from memory fragments and retellings from my mother - never had a chance to talk to other people who were there that day since and... well, it appears none of them remember the exact details.
Let me start by saying I was a very energetic kid. Always running around, always doing... stuff, but never got into major trouble. I mean, yeah. Kids are wild. That said, I was never super good at or very much interested in sports. Especially winter sports. Especially skiing. I've loosened up on sports over the years, but winter sports are still the bane of my existence and after trying it again for a few years, winter is exclusively indoor-time for me. Fuck that noise, also my skin is super cold-sensitive.
But alas, one day when I was five - my birthday's in December, so it must've been January or February - my kindergarten class went skiing. Crammed into a van. All the way to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, since my home village didn't have a ski lift that could handle 30-ish children my age and average energy. Supervised by two teachers. My mother later told me she had a bad feeling about this (she was also a teacher, though she taught children usually 12 and up but had experience with going on school trips), but she let me go anyway.
I think I went skiing for the first time ever there and I wasn't good at it so I got bored. Now, what happens next is unclear, but what I think happened is I was on the ski lift which was just a rope you grabbed on to and have yourself be taken back up that way and I got distracted. Next thing I know is my goddamn hand is stuck inside the lift's drive system. The operator made an emergency stop and I was pulled out and taken to the hospital.
Don't know for how long I was out, it might've been a day, but what had happened and the only image I still have from that day is looking at my hand and seeing a goddamn hole through it. Underwent surgery for hours and it wasn't pleasant, which probably had to do with the fact that I was hardly sedated (again, according to family) and I had a frickin' bolt stuck through two fingers on my right hand... which they then proceeded to rip out while I was, again, NOT SEDATED. The clinic had to contact a neurosurgeon to come out from Munich (an hour away!) to try and fix the nerves in my hand, otherwise there was a decent chance it may have been lost forever. Luckily, it was possible to transplant neurons from my right elbow to my hand where it grew back and the hand is still attached and still functional. Though now it has a massive scar running through it and I'm inclined to believe they also did some skin grafting on it since a bit has hair growing out.
So, I'm glad I kept my hand, but the bad bit was that I gradually developed a severe fear of syringes and doctors and, for a long time, asked to only be sedated via nitric oxide (which, in one case couldn't even be done) and missed out on vaccination refreshers during my teens and twenties. It's slowly fading thanks to therapy, but jfc this is one thing that has really done me in good for a while. Oh, and my flare-ups of atopic dermatitis are worse on this hand than they are on the left hand due to how the skin has changed.