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I remember a story I saw on television as a child. It was the 1970s, before lasers were available to remove tattoos. The story was about a woman who wanted a heart-shaped tattoo removed from her derrière. Apparently, the doctor incised the heart tattoo and stitched up the wound. The scar that the excision left was in the shape of a capital letter Y. I remember thinking to myself, “She better marry someone whose name starts with a Y. Otherwise her husband might get jealous!” Something about that heart-turned-into-a-Y-shaped-scar always intrigued me. That woman had a story to tell.
At age nine, I earned my own first noticeable scars when I broke my femur. My parents bought a small motorcycle, and they’d take us kids out for rides on a piece of country property that our family owned. I was too young to ride the motorcycle alone, so I climbed on the back and hung on behind one of my father’s friends. It was an accident. Emile certainly didn’t want me to get hurt, but a piece of barbed wire was dangling in our path and it snared the wheel, yanking the bike onto my leg. I still remember the pain and the long drive to the hospital. The orthopedic doctor surgically inserted a metal pin through my leg to set me up for traction. After six weeks in the hospital, six weeks at home in a body cast, and several weeks on crutches, my femur finally healed. Over 40 years later, I still think about that accident whenever I see the small scars on either side of my right leg where the pin was.
Most of us don’t like scars. If you Google the word “scar,” numerous plastic surgery and dermatology websites for scar removal pop up. There’s a lot of money to be made in getting rid of our scars. Everyone wants beautiful, flawless skin that’s free of freckles, moles, and wrinkles. But if you think about it, scars equate to experiences. I’m grateful for my scars. Each blemish has a story. Without my stories – and my scars – who would I be?
I acquired other scars over the years, too. There’s a small one on my knee from a cut I received in a high school car accident. I think of my friend Linda when I see that scar, because she was in the car with me. Our vehicle was totaled, but Linda and I were okay. In adulthood, two cesarean section deliveries left a thin zipper across my lower abdomen. My sons are the result of those childbirth experiences, and the scars remind me of bringing Mason and Will into the world. There’s also the one on my back where I had a benign skin cancer removed. The basal cell carcinoma was likely the result of childhood sunburns, and that scar brings back memories of a particularly hot family beach trip to Corpus Christie, Texas one summer. I’m grateful to those doctors. The scars are my reminders.
My most serious scarring accident happened last year. It was spring break, and I was on a skiing vacation with my family. I was skiing to the right while a young man turned too fast to the left. Our skis crossed and I flew out of control into some trees. It was a frightening experience. I immediately felt intense heat throughout my ankle. I thought it was another broken bone, but I was wrong. It turned out to be a full rupture of my Achilles tendon, requiring immediate surgery.
Despite tearing my Achilles tendon, I somehow managed to attend the book launch events for my first children’s book. I couldn’t drive for a few months, but a wheelchair, a knee scooter, and Uber provided the mobility that I needed. I’m grateful to my husband, children, parents, siblings, and friends for taking care of me. I disliked being dependent on them, but I learned that the Beatles were right when they sang, “I get by with a little help from my friends.” I’m grateful to the ski patrol team that took quick action. I’m grateful I didn’t die when I hit the trees in that skiing accident.
When the orthopedic surgeon unwrapped the bandage to reveal my new Achilles tendon scar for the first time, I almost hoped it would be in the shape of a capital letter Y. That would’ve been perfect. But no, it’s just a two-inch horizontal mark.
My scars don’t bother me. They’re a literal skin road map of life that allows me to retrace my varied experiences. They reveal a sense of adventure. The scars point out that I might be a bit clumsy, and they always remind me to be grateful.
This post was originally published on the author’s blog.