As I mentioned earlier, I have a scar on my arm. It's not pretty. But it's better than it was.
I remember seeing that scar the first day I took the bandage off my arm, 8 days post-op. All the steri-strips had fallen off, and all that was left was a very exposed, very raw scar. I couldn't cover it with long sleeves; it was painful to touch, to try to cover, so I pretty much stayed inside the house, content to be alone with my wound while it healed.
Within a few weeks, I could tell it was getting better, but still it was red and raw. At least it was no longer painful to the touch, so I could put on a long sleeve shirt and go outside into the world.
As more time passed, I was still acutely aware of the scar, and at times, others were aware of it as well. But for the most part, I no longer thought about it all the time. Every now and then, I'd bump it, and it would hurt, and I would remember it was there.
It's still there. Not yet healed, but not so raw. Just . . . well . . . there.
I am assured by the folks that know these things, that someday my scar will be a tiny little line, a small reminder that I once had something bad happen to me.
I think that's the way of scars. And the usefulness of them. They are a small reminder that something bad once happened to us. And that we survived.
All that to say, I guess I'll learn to love this scar I am presently carrying. You know the one I mean.
Showing posts with label Scars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scars. Show all posts
Sometimes We Don't Want Logic, We Want Compassion
I recently had a follow-up appointment with my dermatologist about my "not, not cancer" spot on my arm. When I had the procedure done, she told me that I would have a scar, but that the way she was going to sew it was going to leave a fairly minimal scar, one that she could even do some minor abrasion therapy to later on to render the scar virtually unnoticeable.
On the day I left my surgical appointment, I left with the idea that I would remove my bandage, see a minimal scar and a few months later at my follow up appointment, I'd go in and she'd do her magic on whatever was left.
That is categorically NOT what happened.
First off, when I removed my bandage I had a hideously red and very bumpy scar. It actually looked like someone had sewn an angry, red, fuzzy caterpillar to my arm. There was nothing minimal about that scar. So, I called the doctor's office and got what is probably a very commonly relayed "Calm Down" speech. I was assured that within 6-8 weeks I would be fine, my scar would be fine, the world would not end, and I could someday wear sleeveless shirts again.
Fast forward 6-8 weeks and that is categorically NOT what happened. My scar was less red, but other than that, pretty much the same. I decided not to panic this time and gave myself a pep talk. (Not the Kid President kind of pep talk, but more like the "don't be ridiculous Carol, it's a scar, not an amputation, geesh!" kind of pep talk.) I also decided not to call the doctor and get another lecture about calming down.
But every time someone would see my scar (I'm not even kidding here people!) they would say something like, "oh my" or they would suck their breath in sharply. Clearly, a surprisingly ugly scar.
So, when I went in for my appointment, I was ready to take that dermatologist to task over that scar. It wasn't at all what she told me I was going to get. It was far, far worse.
I feel the need to tell you that my dermatologist is an incredibly sweet person. Very soft-spoken. Very sensitive in her bedside manner. So when she said to me, "Mrs. Jones. You're being superficial about this. You have a small scar. It's significantly better than death by cancer, which is what you could have experienced had we done nothing," I was somewhat taken back.
And I cried. I mean like a baby, snotting, sobbing cried. (So embarrassing. I am an ugly crier, so there I sat with a red-splotched face and a hideous scar on my arm). Ugly from head to . . . well . . . elbow.
I said, "I know you're right. Of course you're right. My logical mind can tell me you're right. And then there's my illogical mind that just wants to be pretty."
All that to say, perspective is important. Of course I understand I'd rather have a scar than cancer. But sometimes hearing what you already know is still just hard to hear. Sometimes, we just want a little compassion. Sometimes, we just want someone to tell us it's all going to be okay.
On the day I left my surgical appointment, I left with the idea that I would remove my bandage, see a minimal scar and a few months later at my follow up appointment, I'd go in and she'd do her magic on whatever was left.
That is categorically NOT what happened.
First off, when I removed my bandage I had a hideously red and very bumpy scar. It actually looked like someone had sewn an angry, red, fuzzy caterpillar to my arm. There was nothing minimal about that scar. So, I called the doctor's office and got what is probably a very commonly relayed "Calm Down" speech. I was assured that within 6-8 weeks I would be fine, my scar would be fine, the world would not end, and I could someday wear sleeveless shirts again.
Fast forward 6-8 weeks and that is categorically NOT what happened. My scar was less red, but other than that, pretty much the same. I decided not to panic this time and gave myself a pep talk. (Not the Kid President kind of pep talk, but more like the "don't be ridiculous Carol, it's a scar, not an amputation, geesh!" kind of pep talk.) I also decided not to call the doctor and get another lecture about calming down.
But every time someone would see my scar (I'm not even kidding here people!) they would say something like, "oh my" or they would suck their breath in sharply. Clearly, a surprisingly ugly scar.
So, when I went in for my appointment, I was ready to take that dermatologist to task over that scar. It wasn't at all what she told me I was going to get. It was far, far worse.
I feel the need to tell you that my dermatologist is an incredibly sweet person. Very soft-spoken. Very sensitive in her bedside manner. So when she said to me, "Mrs. Jones. You're being superficial about this. You have a small scar. It's significantly better than death by cancer, which is what you could have experienced had we done nothing," I was somewhat taken back.
And I cried. I mean like a baby, snotting, sobbing cried. (So embarrassing. I am an ugly crier, so there I sat with a red-splotched face and a hideous scar on my arm). Ugly from head to . . . well . . . elbow.
I said, "I know you're right. Of course you're right. My logical mind can tell me you're right. And then there's my illogical mind that just wants to be pretty."
All that to say, perspective is important. Of course I understand I'd rather have a scar than cancer. But sometimes hearing what you already know is still just hard to hear. Sometimes, we just want a little compassion. Sometimes, we just want someone to tell us it's all going to be okay.
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