Scars! We all have some no matter who we are. Some are visible – puckered or discolored pieces of skin and some aren’t there for the naked eyes to see – silent broken hearts or post traumatic stress. Either way, we’ve all had something that has scarred us for life.
I’ve had both kinds of scars in my life and I treasure each and every one. Yes, you read that right, I treasure them. They are my body’s way of telling a story of who I am. I have a circular pale shaped one on my elbow from where Jon and I were rollerblading in California and my blades were old and rugged, his were brand new. He decided that pushing me from behind would help speed me up, but it made matters worse and when we hit a lopsided sidewalk piece, I lost my balance and took him down with me. I ended up with a bloody elbow, he with a bloody knee. To this day, Jon still has a scar on his knee and I have one on my arm – matching scars of young love in the California sun.
Other scars of mine have deep meaning, like the stretch marks on my belly and c-section scar from my son’s birth. My child and I were one for nine months, his healthiness, his growth created the stretching of my skin and even though it’s ugly, I don’t care.
He was a strong healthy baby and that’s what matters. The delivery scar is another that will always remind me that life is delicate and precious and should be appreciated every single minute. I labored for over a day and pushed with all my might to bring my child into the world, but sadly, we were both failing. My heart rate raced, his lowered and the doctor knew he had to take action fast. Scared out of my mind, crying and shaking, they raced me down the hall for surgery and in no time Cameron was out. We both ended up safe and healthy, something I am forever grateful for.
I have the other kind of scars too. The ones you can’t see, that are hidden on the inside. I still ache for my grandparents. They aren’t here anymore and whether I pass my Nana’s phone number on my contact list (which I won’t delete) or see a hat similar to my Papa’s cap he always wore, I long for them every day. A permanent scar on my heart and in my memory.
My phobia of vomiting carries scar in my mind. I can’t even touch a pepperoni pizza or see Cameron in his original Buzz Lightyear pajamas (which thank God he outgrew), as each triggers a pang of fear still left over from the moment the illnesses struck.
This whole topic came to me as Cameron fell this week chin first onto the cement pavement. He’s scraped and bruised and most likely will have a nice scar that will tell the story of how he ran in the dimly lit back yard and missed his footing. My parents’ two dogs were there hovering over him the second it happened, making sure he was all right. I scooped him up as he cried, beckoning for his bed, but he will be fine once the wound is healed.
Later, a friend of mine, fellow author R.T. Wolfe made a mention on Facebook – “How many of us have a scar there from a childhood accident?” So I ask my readers to tell me about some of your scars? You don’t have to reveal anything deep, but if you have a funny story or a good memory to go along with your scars, write them in the comments below.