It’s weird when I scratch an itch on the back of my neck, and I feel my scar.
It’s a year and 2 months old now. Only a week and a few days older than my nephew.
I remember it itching when the metal staples were still in it. The week before I was allowed to take my first shower.
I remember the itch and the slight sting as the staples were cut out and removed.
I remember the first bath and the pools of brown water at my feet.
I remember the satisfaction of warm water washing over old wounds, Iv holes slowly healing, dried blood that had to be scraped away and was left under fingernails being washed down the drain.
I remember baby shampoo and what an unsatisfactory hair detergent it makes.
I remember pills. Lots and lots of pills.
I remember falling asleep.
I remember crying.
I remember wanting my Daddy to not go to sleep so I could spend time with him.
I remember my Mommy bringing me cold gel packs for swollen shoulders and pillows for my bed.
I remember countless episodes of Batman.
I remember the endearing hugs of a two year old.
I remember getting my own juice box.
Every morning was a cup of black tea with milk and a spoonful of sugar. The organic bread with butter, untoasted, several slices daily. Sliced cucumbers.
I remember sleeping until the late afternoon…sometimes evening.
I remember so much, and I don’t want to forget, because it hurt me and I want to talk about it. Because the doctors at one of my appointments said my life wouldn’t be ruined, and it isn’t, but it was changed. I experienced pain. Not normal pain. Not pain where you can simply say, “I know what you’ve been through”, or “I’ve experienced it.” Because you haven’t. Its not hell either. I don’t know what that is and don’t want it. It’s horrible. It’s sad. And I don’t want to give up a single memory of the life behind this scar. Because it is my scar. And it shows you where I have been.
I have been through cutting and shaving and actual removing, bleeding and attaching and closing and stapleing, wrapping and drying and oozing and rubbing, itching and stinging and healing and scabbing. My scar is the evidence. My memories are the story. They make me sad, but they make me happy…because scars show that you survived and you learned something. I hope.