“Is it the scar?”

 

My mind drifted back to my summers during elementary school. Back to the years of wearing a one-piece bathing suit and getting away with it until it was deemed “uncool.”

Those one-piece years were then transformed into what I now call my “Napoleon era,” which was sometime around late middle school, early high school.  It was then that my normal summer stance, in a bikini anyway, looked much like the French commander’s, one arm staying affixed, trying to hide as much of my exposed mid-section as possible.

The reason for this, was to defer any stares, comments, or questions resulting from other pool, beach, or lake onlookers that would happen to notice the scar that I had donned since birth. What I failed to realize back then, was that my Napoleon imitation was probably drawing more attention than the scar itself.

My mom used to tell me that the military surgeons responsible for this scar explained to her that once I entered into adulthood, the scar would render virtually unnoticeable, most likely hiding right under my left boob.

Apparently, I didn’t meet their expectations of growing into the height of a supermodel, nor developing the cup size of one of Hefner’s infamous bunnies.

So, in retrospect, I dealt with it, although I continued to be pretty self-conscious and rightfully so. It’s a pretty ridiculous looking scar…

The best way to describe it?

It resembles that of reversed road markings, with two dotted lines on either side of a solid one that goes down the middle. Above that, or below, depending on your point of view, is a separate scar that looks much like an airplane. There’s also a lengthy scar that stretches from my shoulder blade, down and around to my armpit, possibly serving as the runway for the airplane before its final take-off above the convoluted roadway.

I don’t know much about surgery or incisions or what-not, but I’ve often wondered just what resulted during that surgery to produce such a botched-up scar such as this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, ‘cause whatever happened during that surgery, well, it obviously worked. I’m guessing that performing emergency surgery on a low weight, premature infant probably wasn’t easy, and ya basically “get what ya get.”

Now, the need for this life-saving surgery that I received when I was only a day or two old was because of a rare congenital birth defect, affecting only one in every twenty-five hundred live births, or so the stats now say anyway. Ironically, though, upon moving to Virginia when I was about six, it just so happened that the neighbor kid down the street also had the same congenital defect and thus the same surgery. What were the chances?

Both moms thought it was nothing less than a miracle that we, being born several states apart from each other, would wind up living on the same street. The moms would get together and talk a lot, I assume comparing surgery stories, critical newborns, and birth control pills, (my mom always blamed my misfortune on the birth control pills) while we, the surgery recipients, would have many a Star Wars playdate.

At any rate, I don’t remember exactly what that kid’s scar looked like, but it was more normal looking and wasn’t near as picturesque as my, “Airplane Flying Over an Abstract Roadway” piece, that I would forever exhibit.

Luckily for me though, there were a few years during my middle and high school days that a one-piece swimsuit would be considered “trendy.” I would jump on that bandwagon and thank God for it.

I can’t remember exactly when it was, possibly towards the middle to end of high school, that I approached my mother about plastic surgery in an attempt to get rid of the bothersome artwork that caused me so much summer and locker room turmoil. I think I knew deep down though, that even if I had access to the best of the best plastic surgeons available in the 1980’s, with a scar of this scale, there would still be a substantial remnant that would remain after, and I would never have that smooth, flawless abdominal section that I longed for every swimsuit season.

It was shortly after this, that I was on the lake helping my dad work on a boat when a friend of his showed up. My Napoleon reflexes soon kicked in as they always did, because of course, I was sporting a two-piece and hoping to reap the benefits of a tan during my labor in the sun.

Now, my dad wasn’t a man of too many words, especially complicated discussions. He tended to leave those up to my mother, but as evening was drawing to a close and his friend left, he approached me about the request I had made earlier to my mom.

 

“Your mom told me you asked her about plastic surgery and your scar?”

 

“Yea.” I responded.

 

“And I notice how you always try to hide it when people are around.”

 

“So?”

I remained short and nonchalant in answering his question, wondering where, exactly, he was going with this conversation.

 

“So, why do you do that?”

 

“Well, wouldn’t you?! The blasted thing takes up most of my stomach! I hate it! You would too if you were me!” I explained, exploding in my typical teenage narcissistic angst.

 

“Maybe… but you have to remember something. If it wasn’t for that scar, you wouldn’t be here.”

 

I rolled my eyes at him, continuing to pack up the boat tools in hopes that he wouldn’t notice that my ears were actually glued to whatever he was about to say.

 

He continued, “That scar is who you are. It’s what makes Valerie, Valerie. It’s an important part of your life. Don’t ever be ashamed of it.”

 

I would rather have dropped dead at that point than admit to him that I pondered his words, but I obviously did, and they stuck.

 

The following summer, and all the summers after, the two-piece swimsuits became a thing and my Napoleon stance slowly diminished altogether. Occasionally people would ask me about the scar, and occasionally I would tell them the truth… My love of fiction sometimes grew into explicit tales of knife fights, sudden attacks, and self-administered stitches where I ended up saving my own life, numerous times.

Do you blame me?? I mean, I needed to have some fun with it, right? Most of the time I fessed up, but only after I had them hooked and astonished at how I survived any of the said acts.

My favorite, though, was when my children were old enough to inquire about it.

“Tell us a story about your scar,” they would ask each night, most likely to delay bedtime.

These stories were expected to always be different from the last and would range from being up against a band of evil star-slinging ninjas, to aiding in the rescue of a princess from a nasty group of trolls, to my favorite, being captured and held prisoner on a ship bearing the Jolly Roger and defeating an entire pirate crew in one single sword swipe. The list would go on, laughter erupting each time, and all ending with their mom prevailing, with nothing more than “just a flesh wound.”

 

“Mrs. Archual? Is that it? The scar? Is that what you’re worried about??”

 

My local cardiologist asked again during my last office visit before leaving for the Cleveland Clinic for heart surgery. We were discussing the option of having a minimally invasive surgery verses a full open heart sternotomy.

 

“Mrs. Archual?? I ask only because I know that’s one of the major concerns of most women, especially younger ones, that are about to undergo open-heart surgery, the size of the scar it will leave…”

 

There I was, less than three weeks from my surgery date, and after almost a year of grueling over this heart surgery, I had not once concerned myself with the scar that would be left. Not once.

 

“No…” I responded, thinking back to that hot summer day working on the boat with my dad.

 

“No. I’m not worried about the scar at all.” I answered.

 

He went on to explain that while the minimally invasive heart surgery was described as a bit of an easier recovery and left a minuscule scar, that it was a much more difficult and sometimes riskier operation for the performing surgeon, and that with a traditional open-heart sternotomy, the surgeon would have easy access to the heart, resulting in a more likely successful repair and a quicker surgery, meaning less time for me on the heart-lung machine. My Cleveland master surgeon agreed that due to the complexity of my valve formation and the size of the hole, a full sternotomy was the best and safest route.

 

And all that was left, was a scar…

 

As I sit here and type this on my one-year surgery anniversary date, I look down at my six-inch souvenir tattoo.

I guess my scar kinda serves as a visual memoir, in and of itself.

I don’t remember much at all about any pain or discomfort of the surgery, but more about the year that led me to it…

A year’s worth of denial, of anticipation, of senseless worrying, sleepless nights and endless tears…

A year’s worth of allowing the fear of the unknown to get the best of me.

It was also a year resulting in an incredible faith in God, that I sadly didn’t allow myself to succumb to until right before I was wheeled into that cold and sterile operating room…

It serves as a reminder that, once again, I did prevail, but only by His grace and mercy.

In the end, our scars are a part of us, and a part of our story, both the good and the bad.

They show where we’ve been, what we’ve endured, and what we’ve ultimately conquered.

That we were made stronger, in more ways than one.

Why should that ever be hidden?

Photo by Ivy Kingery Photography