The Scars We Carry

*I wrote this a while back and never intended to share but it went with the "Haunted" Blog Hop theme so here goes...

The scar runs the length of her right forearm, widening near her elbow where the wound had eaten away at her once white, flawless flesh. She covers it, an oversized hoodie her fashion staple of choice. She draws her right hand into the sleeve of the jacket, hiding the evidence of pain endured. 

Usually a childhood rite of passage, a broken arm seems an unlikely source of absolute catastrophe. The day the cast was removed is forever engraved on my mind. The tech who began to unwind the bandages, then stopped and casually said he was going to get the doctor. The way the doctor’s eyes bugged out, his face instantly falling. Shock, then disappointment. It’s all branded in my memory. Even after he removed the cast completely to reveal a gaping pressure wound, brown and yellow and a myriad of other colors blending together, I remained blissfully unaware of how life altering this moment was.  A gymnast, a dancer, a free-spirited eight-year-old instantaneously had her dreams ripped away. Her arm forever marred. Her tendons destroyed, muscle eaten away never to return. The too-tight cast had destroyed her arm, which in turn left her right hand, her dominant hand, severely disabled.

 We walked out of the office that day without a full understanding of what had happened. For months, I thought it would heal and everything would be fine. 

It didn’t heal. 

//

The scar runs horizontal across my abdomen, widening on the left side where my incision had become infected and oozed after my third baby. It’s a part of who I am now, evidence of each baby I’ve birthed. I’m learning to be okay with it. I’m learning to acknowledge the wounds and accept that none of us are flawless. 

A day or two after I arrive home from the hospital, baby in tow, I notice a gaping wound on the side of my incision. Panic quickly sets in. I begin to imagine my incision bursting open, me being rushed back to the hospital to undergo another surgery. Uneasiness settles into the pit of my stomach as I make an appointment to see my obstetrician. 

I lie on the table, terrified of what she will say. Will I immediately be escorted back to the hospital? Is something truly terrible happening to my body? She looks it over, dabs something on the wound, and says, “Just keep an eye on it. Keep it clean. I’ll prescribe an antibiotic. It should heal over time.” Relief floods my body. This was something that happened to my body. It wasn’t ideal. But I would be okay. The infection left its mark on my abdomen, forever a reminder of what happened. The once clean incision line is now marred with the evidence of what had once been a gaping hole in my flesh. 

//

Motherhood—an unspoken oath to shelter and protect. From the moment those two pink lines appeared on that stick, my purpose was to protect this tiny flicker of life inside of me, ferociously shield her from any harm. Nauseous and weary, I trudged on throughout pregnancy to produce a wet, squelching, bald baby girl one April morning. She cried incessantly, demanding my unwavering attention every moment of the day. I acquiesced, holding her ceaselessly, shooing away any suggestions to let her cry it out. I read every cue. Back hunched, dark circles permanently etched under my eyes, I held her like a treasure I refused to share. 

She grew, and so too did her disposition, as well as the hedge I built around her. Stacking stones meant to insulate her, while allowing her some semblance of childhood freedom. However, hedges are exposed to the elements and are rarely impenetrable. One day the stones crumbled, an outside blow to this wall of security. Guilt forever stained on my heart. It was my fault.

//

Her world quickly becomes a blur of splints and therapy exercises. Brad becomes her champion motivator. Her occupational therapist and newly acquired lifelong friend explains that wearing splints is like wearing braces on your teeth. It works slowly over time. You have to put in the work. You have to stretch yourself daily, vowing to push yourself further each time. You have to want it. Each time we sit across from him, he thinks of a new activity for her to try. He takes her over to the pull-up bar and tells her to lift herself up on it, a gymnastic trick she used to love. Her right hand struggles to curl around the bar. He encourages, “push push push.” She lifts herself up and pride beams across her face. Muscle begins to build. Healing- slowly, intentionally. 

//

Forgiving the doctor was easy. I never felt like it was solely his fault. It didn’t seem fair to point fingers. He seemed like a guy we’d be in a church group with. His family of five seemed like a group we’d spend Saturday afternoons with in the park. His colleagues told me that he undoubtedly lied awake every night wondering what he could have done differently.

 Me too, I thought. Both of us, late night worriers. One of us should be let off the hook. Scars aren’t always visible, some lie hidden, but they still rage, deeply rooted in your mind. 

//

We walk towards the exit of the doctor’s office, the purple and pink strips of her cast only now beginning to fully set. She pauses when we are almost to the door, stops in her tracks. “I can’t feel my fingers”, she says. I stop too, turning to look at her. 

“You really can’t feel your fingers?” 

“Well, maybe I can. I don’t know.” 

“What do you think? Can you feel them?”

“I guess I can. I don’t know.”

We shuffle our feet to the door and make the long drive home. I know the moment that she stops in the lobby of the doctor’s office that something isn’t right. I know in my gut that something is off. I brush it off. We’re all tired. We’re worn out and stressed from the whole experience. I explain it all away, burying all intuition. 

The night is wrought with pain and tears. I lie in bed with her, playing movies on an iPad to distract her from the pain until the sun rises. A late-night call to the doctor ensures me that pain and swelling are part of the process. If desired, I can take her to the ER to have the cast removed. That seems excessive. I load her up with pain medication. 

Forgiving the doctor was easy. Forgiving myself has been harder. I think about that first night and curse myself for not going to the ER. I crumple at the memory of her wearing that cast for weeks, how much it must have hurt. She just accepted the pain. My insides twist remembering how I knew and how readily I was able to brush off that gut instinct. 

Like a splint stretches you slowly, a little at a time, I’m taking baby steps. Restoration doesn’t happen overnight. Motherhood throws us into the fray with little warning. We try our best. We grow and learn and stretch a little more each day. 

//

The panic attacks started several years ago. They come for me at night, sometimes in my sleep, fear meeting me in my most innocent of postures. A deluge of negative thoughts and regrets. My world suddenly quiet, anxious thoughts roam wild and free in the stillness. Heart racing, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, overcome with all of the ways I’ve failed. My breathing becomes labored. Instantly I’m nauseous. I become crippled by anxiety. Sometimes I find myself peeking into her room, needing assurance that she’s okay. Like a mother creeping in the dark to watch the rise and fall of her newborn’s chest, needing physical evidence that all is well. She lies there, curled up in her bed, teenage memorabilia plastered on every inch of her walls. Polaroids of friends, drawings she’s created, and posters of her favorite musical artists stare down at her while she sleeps. She’s fine. I finally release the breath I now realize I’ve been holding. 

Initially after the mishap with her cast, I was in supermom mode. I researched, talked to experts, and intentionally built relationships with occupational therapists and hand experts. I made appointments. I advocated for the best care. I was always looking forward. There wasn’t time to dwell on what had happened. It wasn’t until sometime after her second surgery that I stopped to breathe, that I acknowledged that something really traumatic had happened. 

I’m learning to cope with the panic attacks. Breathing exercises are helpful. Breathe in four seconds. Hold four seconds. Breathe out four seconds. Hold four seconds. I can hold in both hands that I am a good mother and I am human, flawed. I was in the middle of a panic attack the other day, and my best friend reminded me to be gentle with myself. “There have been experiences that weren’t great, and your body remembers that. Be kind to yourself.” Some scars lie deeper than others. Something happened here. It wasn’t ideal. But you will be okay. 

//

Before dinner she glides onto the bench and begins to play the piano. Amazed, I look at her, wondering when she became such a talented pianist. She pushes up the sleeve of her jacket and her scar peeks out from under the yellow cloth. The fingers of her right hand curl unnaturally, but they hit the notes flawlessly. The song is something I’ve never heard, something she wrote. Her fingers slide across the keys, and it seems effortless. But I know she’s intent on making her fingers pull this off, concentrating on each note. There’s a glint in her eye, a resolve to push through, to fight. The music fills the room, and it feels like healing. She’s okay. And I feel myself relax, like a deep breath. 

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Haunted".