Love Your Scars: Easier Said Than Done
Everyone always says you should be proud of them, but…
After my surgery, I was in a daze for almost two days. It seemed like every couple of hours someone would come in and give me a shot in the arm, a shot in the bum, change my IV. I just wanted them to finish and let me go back to sleep.
When the dosages got smaller and my brain started getting stronger, I began to understand what was happening. I had a surgical drain coming from my left ovary — now torn apart, freed from the chocolate cyst that lived inside it. I had another tube attached to my bladder and I had been peeing in a bag all that time without even noticing. The rest of me was all bandaged up.
My surgeon finally explained what had happened. I don’t think any person is as happy to find out that it was “worse than we thought” as an endometriosis patient is. “I was right”, is all that I could think of. I was right — after the struggle of reaching correct diagnosis and the epic quest of finding the right doctor, the fact that I had been right all along was vindication.
The Unwrapping
Once I could stand, they unwrapped me. I shrieked. No, not yet, I looked away. I wasn’t ready to see it yet: two bloody cuts, a torn up belly button and deep purple bruises covering my entire abdomen. I closed my eyes and sighed as they put on new, smaller protective bandages that would allow me to practice walking. I decided to erase the gruesome image from my mind and focus on getting better.
The first scar was fun.
I was six years old. I had appendicitis. I don’t remember it as a traumatic experience. There were difficult parts, sure — but I remember the other kids in the hospital ward, the strangeness of all the nurses and doctors in their uniforms, the dripping IV, stealing a wheelchair to go storming through the hospital.
Then there were bandages, and then there was the scar. The scar was long and thick and had stitches in it but wasn’t covered with anything. I could see the thread move. My parents said it was because I was growing and my skin was stretching. I would sit on the toilet and curiously stare at the big cut and the blue shifting thread. The stitches eventually went out, but the scar stayed.
I was the only kid I knew that had had surgery. I was telling everyone about it and showing them my scar. It didn’t bother me. It made me cool.
The second scar made me sad.
I was 24. They removed my thyroid the old-fashioned way. I had a drain tube halfway between my butchered neck and my chest, stabbing me for over a week. It was a long and tough recovery.
Then the unwrapping came. The surgeon was optimistic, announced great results, applauded himself in a way, and then showed me the mirror. His face changed when he saw the horror on mine. What on earth is that? I googled photos, of course, saw some good ones and some bad ones. What I saw in the mirror was hideous. A 3cm long scar at the base of my neck, flaming red, still looking bloody. Under it, a big keloid scar from where the drain tube was, like a lump set on fire.
I was ugly.
My days as a heartbreaker are over. I’m no longer the hot girl at the club. I’m never going to find a boyfriend. I’m a freakshow. Shallow thoughts — but ones I feel I have to admit to.
The world lets women know if they are considered attractive or not. Pretty privilege is a real thing. I was aware of it, I was living it, trying not to let it define me or matter too much to me. But now that I was suddenly ugly, it was the most important thing in the world.
All I could see in the mirror since then were those two scars. They healed extremely slowly. The redness was persistent. I bought fitting jewelry to cover it up, got make-up far out of my budget in a coverage attempt, started wearing turtle necks and button-ups. The scars were all I could think about, and how they ruined me. “You should wear them proudly, they’re a sign you’re a soldier”, every single person said. It was annoying and meant nothing.
I eventually learned to accept them. Reason kicked in after a couple of years. I won’t lie — I constantly sought validation, in good places and bad. It was a burden. It made me unhappy to look in the mirror. But eventually, I realized that nothing really changed. I still had pretty privilege, and as horrible as I know it sounds, now I cherished it very consciously, even measured it.
Eventually, time passed and none of it really mattered. The scars never healed properly: they still look at me from the mirror. But now, I don’t cover them up anymore. I have scars — and better things to think about.
The last three scars I begged for.
Endometriosis is a hell of an illness. I’ve written about my experiences with it many times before — the medical struggles, and the personal struggles. I was relieved when I finally got scheduled for a laparoscopy. I’d already researched everything about it and knew exactly what I was in for — including the scars. I used everything at my disposal to comfort myself — endometriosis support groups, other women’s personal blogs, awareness Instagram profiles…
I knew it was gonna be bad, at least for a little while. I knew things could always go wrong and it could get really bad for a long while. But this time I went in as an actual fighter, ready to face the enemy living inside of me for decades, no matter the consequences.
Was it too risqué?
Inspiration struck one boring post-op day. I bought pink glitter craft paper and cut out hearts that I stuck onto the patches that covered my cuts and bruises. I put on a tiara. I spent the whole afternoon posing for selfies. I was on a mission to take a photo that would emphasize the sparkling hearts, but also make me look beautiful.
It had a purpose.
On the one hand, it was definitely self-indulgent. I’m not sure any amount of feminist work and practice is going to fully purge me of the deeply embedded idea that for whatever reason I have to be beautiful. Sometimes I feel ashamed of this — I’m an activist, a women’s rights advocate, my PhD has strong gender studies bones keeping it together — and yet still I am sad about my bruised stomach, secretly hoping that it’ll go away by the summer so I can wear crop tops again while I’m still young enough to pull off the Britney 2000s vibe. Am I a bad feminist? Maybe. I wanted to create a photo to show myself that I’m still beautiful. The hearts, though, have a meaning of their own.
The hearts represent love — love for my organs, as damaged as they are; love for my body, as complicated as it is; love for myself, despite the chronic illness; absolution for the silly mistake the body makes by cyclically attacking itself; love and kindness towards oneself while going through a struggle; forgiveness for being so systemically flawed.
176 million women on this earth share my struggle with endometriosis. The lucky ones share my battle scars. Surely some of them must understand me and don’t find the photo too tacky?
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