Herself speaks.
Last week, I made my biannual pilgrimage to the dermatologist's office for a routine skin survey. (This twice-yearly review was recommended since I have had basal cell carcinoma twice before -- want to catch any new things early.) Everything looked mostly good, except for that One Suspicious Spot that was biopsied. It's likely another basal cell carcinoma, which means MOHS surgery number three will be on the horizon. I'm trying to be matter-of-fact about it. We'll see whether I succeed.
The nurse practitioner asked whether I'd like her to look over my scalp while she was surveying matters. Yes, please -- the desert sun is never kind to the top of one's head. There was nothing remarkable, except for her slightly surprised comment: "you have a straight scar right here."
Yes, I do. I'd forgotten.
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Approximately fifty years ago, my parents, brother and I (and also possibly my sister, though I do not remember whether she was there - she might have been an infant at the time) went to a garage sale in the neighborhood. We, along with other neighbors, were poking around in someone's garage, when an old license plate that had been hung from the ceiling came loose, and fell and struck me on the top of my head. Bonk.
My brother mentioned later that he had seen the plate was about to fall, and moved out of the way. Apparently, I moved right into the way. That was some very unfortunate timing on my part.
I remember my father carrying me home, as I sat on one of his arms while his other hand pressed his handkerchief to the top of my head. There was a fair amount of blood, as I recall. I also vaguely remember a doctor examining it -- they'd probably taken me to the emergency room. I remember thinking that it was kind of interesting, not particularly painful, and not at all scary for me. (It must have been rather horrifying for my parents, in retrospect.) I must have gotten stitches. I don't recall anything else.
And now, half a century later, two thousand miles away, that ancient scar was briefly spotted. Imagine.
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I have accumulated quite a few scars over the past half century since then. Most of them are surgical, because the body has failed to cooperate in assorted ways over the years. Many are faded. Some are noteworthy only when sticky tape noting their locations must be applied prior to mammograms. And some are quite nearly completely hidden by the pale spiderweb tracts of pregnancy stretchmarks. (Are those marks also considered scars? Perhaps.) Most are protected from view by my clothes, or in the case of the license plate mark, my hair. I prefer it that way. I don't think many of us like our scars to show, either literally or metaphorically.
We don't always see people's scars, unless we look closely. What might seem like a noteworthy scar may in fact be a memento of a long-ago-forgotten moment. What may seem like a tiny mark, may hold a much bigger mental space. And then there are scars to the soul, invisible but clearly present, that we see with the heart rather than the eyes.
Acknowledging a person's scars is both affirming and consoling. I see that the world has left its mark on you. And I see that you have persevered. Well done, you.
I see your scars, and I recognize the strength behind them.
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