Scarred

   They say everyone has scars.  Some scars are just more apparent than others.  My technical-scar isn’t all that noticeable, actually.  It’s on my left calf, up in the back, closer to my knee.  It’s the result of a muscle biopsy from last year.  The physical scar has healed rather nicely.

   But, I have other scars too.  I have prominent veins - red, blue, and purple on my legs.  They snake down and around, from my thighs to my feet.  They are evidence that there is something wrong with my legs.  They are a visible reminder that my legs are damaged.

   Other scars I hide.  I hide them behind my eyes, inside my ears, beneath my skin, and in my heart.  I can still see my red, swollen left calf, motionless on a hospital bed.  I can hear the scraping sound of my walker as I stumbled from the bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  I can feel the needles that were injected in my stomach when I was in the hospital. 

   I do my best to hide my scars.  I don’t wear skirts.  I try not to talk about my medical drama.  Many of my co-workers don’t even know that I’ve been struggling with a medical condition for almost two years now.  

   But, while reading Barbara Abercrombie’s Writing Out the Storm, I came across a passage written by Laura:  “I love my scar.  Scars are tangible proof that we have healed.”

   Last summer, I did wear skirts.  I celebrated the fact that I wasn’t in a hospital, and I wasn’t relying on a walker or a wheelchair as I had the summer before.  It occurs to me, now, that I was celebrating my scars.  My legs were scarred, but they were working.  I was still hopeful that the worst was behind me.  

   A year later, I’m not sure if I’ve already experienced the worst or not.  I’ve gotten frustrated, angry, and sad.  And I became pre-occupied with my scars.  I’m self-conscious about the way my legs look, and I lost focus on what’s really important - I’m walking.

   I have to remind myself that I’m dealing with a disease.  A disease that is unpredictable and chronic.  A disease that has left me scarred.  I can’t erase any of my scars; the ones you can see, and the ones I carry around with me.  They’re a part of me now, like my brown eyes, the beauty mark on the left side of my mouth, and the birthmark on my right forearm. 

   Now, I do know that it’s time for me to get out the skirts.