Our scars remind us that we survived.
Pat Aitcheson

Thank you for your kind words and for taking the time to express them.

For me, my strangest physical scar (it fittingly looks like a gunshot wound) is a constant reminder of what I experienced and that it could open up again and begin draining again, as it did when I was 22, or cause me to have another intestinal resection as it did when I was 30.

My scar does not say to me that I fought and won. It is a daily reminder that I went through some hair-raising shit that could come back at any time, to treasure every healthy day and revel in the tiny to gigantic moments of beauty that surround me.

It is a constant lesson to practice living in the moment as much as I am capable of and to be grateful for every day that I don’t wake up needing to change pus-soaked bandages, wondering if I’ll ever go into remission again and live with a terrifying unknown.

My scar is a symbol of uncertainty, pain and the powerlessness one feels when our bodies betray us. My body has been waging war against me for most of my life (other physical issues I didn’t get into in this story) and I’ve had a love/hate relationship with it for as long as I can remember.

Things are rarely black and white for me, and my physical scars, as well as mental, are no exception. No winning or losing. Just learning.