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.