50-50: Before you go blaming Barbie for giving young girls' body image issues, realize that she can also give a young girl hope.

I think it was Barbie that saved my life. I played with Barbies a little too long as a kid. Most of my friends put down their Barbies at one point and started playing with boys. Not me. I just picked up their discarded dolls and threw a Barbie cotillion. No one ever spoke to me about it or told me it was time to move on. Probably because… like I said, I think Barbie saved my life.

Here's my version of the story. I'm a kid. Eight years old. I wake up one day in the hospital. It's blurry and I open my eyes to see my brother's best friend Robin and his mom staring at me. Everything is black and operation green. There seems to be a panic as Jeffrey, Robin's younger brother and the one I play with, is rushed to my bed. He sees me and thrusts a present into my hand. Nobody is smiling. No one speaks. They just stare at me with these wide eyes. These eyes that tell me that they are looking at something bad. I open the present and it's a brand new Superstar Barbie. I am so happy because after I lost the diamond earrings from mine, she felt broken to me. Jeffrey is whisked out of the room. More presents are thrust at me. I'm tearing "get well" wrapping paper and I'm confused, but thoughts aren't connecting. I see the reflection of my face in the chrome of my hospital bed and exclaim "Spiderman!" as I fall away into a velvety abyss.

My best friend when I was eight was Anabelle. She reminded me of Barbie. She had baby blue eyes and straw colored blonde hair just like Barbie. She had the Barbie camper and I was so jealous, but my mom said that I couldn't have it because we're Jewish and we don't camp. So I'd play with Anabelle's. Her Scottish family had no problem with camping.

When my Dad arrived at the hospital, he was met by Anabelles' parents. He rushed over after receiving that phone call no one ever wants to get. That phone call from the hospital telling him that I, my mom, my brother Amir, Anabelle and her brother Gillian were in a very bad car accident. Everything was still status quo in his world when that phone was just ringing.

My mom was the only one who remained conscious and saw every detail of the ordeal. She sustained one injury, a broken wrist, from a final desperate attempt to crank the steering wheel away from impact. My brother, sitting in the passenger seat, had cut up knees, a huge black eye, and had regained consciousness. Gillian, who was riding in the hatch back of our 1982 Honda Civic, back when people still did stuff like that, walked away with a couple bruises. Anabelle and I were broken. We were in critical condition. My dad and Anabelle's parents just sat there waiting in the hospital. Waiting for the news. Praying, hoping, making deals with every deity, and staring off numb. One of the surgeons who had been operating on me came to give my dad the report. With a sigh, and one manly hand on his shoulder, he told my dad that it didn't look good. I had a 50-50 chance of making it. The story goes that upon hearing that, my Dad's eyes brightened and through tears he began marching up and down the sterile hallways shouting, "Did you hear that? She's going to live!"

Unfortunately, Anabelle wasn't so lucky.

I love playing that game with friends where you compare scars and stories. One person will start, pointing to the remains of a hairline burn and launch into a story about a furious battle with a popcorn maker. The next will point to a little C shaped scar on their chin and reminisce about the time they tripped while putting on underwear. I'll laugh along and 'ooooh' and 'ahhhh' patiently waiting my turn. Because I know I am going to win. My biggest scar is a trauma scar, meaning it's not for any exact purpose. Basically you're dying and they rip you open to try to figure out what to do. It extends from my breastbone down past my navel and there's another one that goes up one side from belly button to under my arm. It's big and it was before fancy, plastic surgery so it is a little bulky. You can see still see the stitch scars.

When I first started sleeping around, I had this whole spiel that I would give the guy before our clothes came off. "I'm totally clean, on the pill, had a HIV test - negative, I've kissed a few girls and I hope you dig scars." Only once did a guy respond with an 'ewww' when he saw it and asked me if it hurt when someone touched it. Let's just say not a lot got touched that evening. I've also had boyfriends and friends obsessed with the scar. One sensitive art student boyfriend of mine went as far as penning a poem right on it and then snapping photos for a project. It was all about Greek goddesses and how they should all have scars. Ah, first year college.

The first few weeks in the hospital are an out of sequence mess of tubes, masks and drugs. I didn't know where I was, what year it was, or what had happened. Nothing was urging me to ask though. But soon, soon I will ask. "I have to remember that…I'll put it on my to do list…ask why in hospital, ok, and ask mom for Barbie camper again. I think my chances are better now. Ok, perfect. You want me to count back from 10? 10."

The stitches on my face are healing so I don't look like the web head of Spiderman anymore, which kinda sucks in my mind. I hear my mom's voice from somewhere exasperated and panicky saying "are you sure it's really necessary?" Blue liquid in a Dixie cup. No time to put the puzzle together again.

My dad is beside me. He tells me that when I come back, I can choose anything I want and he will buy it for me. Anything. "Start thinking about what you want," he tells me, "so it can be there when you come back home."

Squished faces in shower caps are everywhere. A smiling shower cap juts into my field of vision. He looks at me, takes a latex glove and blows it up into a balloon so it looks like a crazy beige rooster. I love balloons and I like this one a lot. He even draws a face and gives it to me. I will name him Otis. Then there is a mask on my face. This guy is good - good slight of hand. "Count back from 10? 10."

I have this metal plate sticking out of my throat. I've had a tracheotomy but I don't know what that is and again no one has told me. I think it's cool - like I'm part robot or bionic or something. My mom comes to my side with glassy eyes and a look of relief. Something good must have happened. I want to tell her about the rooster balloon and how I've named it Otis but no sound comes out. Nothing. I can't talk.

I am consumed with what I should choose for my dad to buy me. My sister is sitting beside me one afternoon having dinner. A tube is feeding me. She jokes that she sees scrambled eggs and steaks floating through the tube. I pretend to taste them. I want to talk over the present thing with her. She'll help me make the right decision. I'm torn between a TV and phone for my room or the Barbie Dreamhouse - it's not even available in Canada yet, I know from the commercials. She thinks the Barbie Dreamhouse is definitely the way to go. "Ok, get dad over here, because the decision is made. I want the Barbie Dreamhouse.'"

Days flew by in the hospital, as I got better, all the while focused on getting home and playing with that Dreamhouse. Was it really big and glamorous like on TV? A month later, I was allowed to go home for a half day. I walked in with my mother and there, larger than life, in the living room was the Barbie Dreamhouse. I got the Barbie Dreamhouse.