My scars do not define me, but they do tell stories.
I have scars under my breast due to breast reduction surgery. Having this surgery was one of the best decisions I have ever made.The type of attention I used to receive wasn’t the type any teenager or young woman wants. I was sick of being treated like a street prostitute. I was sick of people thinking they could simply grab them since they were big or assuming I would say yes to everyone who asked.I’ve never regretted the operation. Men went from asking my price to asking on an actual date. I was suddenly an actual person and not just a body to use. Unfortunately, this has been my experience.
I have a scar near my belly button due to the removal of my appendices.The pain was left to right, it wasn’t just in one spot. I was sitting calmly on the couch listening to television with my dad when the pain got really bad. I remember saying to my dad very calmly that my stomach pain was worse than when I gave birth. It turned out to be appendicitis and the operation went well but was followed with complication. I was in so much pain, I kept asking for morphine and the nurse kept giving some to me. The pain wasn’t going away. It took a while for them to realise that it was leftover air from the operation stuck between my muscles and the skin. No amount of morphine would have worked. It’s simply a question of time, the air has to travel up to the shoulders and then out the pores of the skin.
I have a scar near my upper leg due to a benign tumour that was removed. I found out on the operation table that I local anaesthesia doesn’t work for me. I remember suddenly feeling weak and dizzy, having trouble to think or keep my eyes open. I looked at the doctor to say something was wrong, but when I saw his face and that the blood had drained away from his face, I knew I wasn’t imagining it.
I have a small scar on my thumb from a childhood accident. I was playing in the backyard. I had climbed on the swing and got my finger caught. It hurt like hell. You could see the bone in the thumb. I screamed out in pain loud enough that my grandparents and the priest came over to see what was going on. My grandparents were our neighbours and the church was behind their house. We’re also talking about a village so neighbours aren’t nearby at all.
Do you have scars? What is your story?