Scars: Life's Memories Markers

Recently, I was at a new doctor's office and he touched my left hand and questioned me about a rather large scar that I have worn for almost all of my life. When I explained how I got that scar and what it represented to me, I gained more appreciation for the love and care I have received all of my life. My hand's scar wasn't the first one I received and it sure wouldn't be the last in my long active life. Funny thing is that each scar helps me remember my adventures and keeps those memories fresh for me.

I will start with the first scar that I was born with and before it healed, it caused many people immense amount of pain. My stomach was covered with an angry, blistered, birth mark that required radiation treatment and boric acid poured on for the first three weeks of my life. Even though I was a newborn, it took my mom and my Godmother to hold me down for those excruciating treatments. Being a mom now, I can only imagine the heartbreak that those two women endured for my benefit.

My left hand scar occurred when I was a toddler. Back in the days there were only glass milk jugs and during the confusion of unloading the car of the bottles, I got hold of one. The burden proved to be more than I could carry and I hit the bottom of the bottle on the outside step. I actually remember watching the blood spurt up onto the pink siding of the house. I don't remember the pain, just a lot of people rushing around and taking me to the doctor's office for help. Later, I learned that the doctor tried to talk my mom in letting him amputate my hand, because he said that I would never have control over it again. You see, back then, if you severed arteries and ligaments, the chances of complete recovery were slim to none. My mom wanted as full of a life for me as possible, so she refused the amputation and hospitalization. She watched the doctor retrieve the ligaments with a long hook and stitch up the arteries and everything else under local anesthesia. We went home that night and she laid next to me to make sure that my hand was kept on the ice bag and perfectly still all night long. Bless my mom's heart, I know that she carried guilt for years that I slipped out of her sight and found the glass danger that caused so much damage. My scar healed and my hand is completely useful. Thanks, Mom for believing you knew what I needed and going against the doctor's advice. Quite amazing for the early fifties, because most people were intimidated by professional men.

I will not go into such great details about all of my scars, but they each carry part of what makes me who I am.

There is a c-section scar which was made to save a premature baby girl, who has now given me the most precious grandson.

Knee surgery scars help me walk better.

Of all the most recently acquired scars that I treasure are the ones I got this year from back surgery. Because of the surgery I can walk longer and with less pain, but what I take away from those scars are the memories of the care that I received from my husband. You see, my husband passes out at the site of bodily injuries to the ones he loves...I mean literally passes out. When I came home from the hospital and my stomach and back had surgery wounds that needed daily dressings, we knew that he was the one who had to take care of them. We laid everything out and then he knelt down behind me. I questioned him why he was on his knees by the bed and he explained, "If I should faint, while I am doing this, I don't want to fall so far down and get hurt." At first I thought he was joking and then I realized that he was serious. So each day, he would help me shower and we would lay the new salve, gauze, tape, etc. out and he would pat me dry and minister to my needs.

All of my scars mean more about love than any card Hallmark could ever print for love never ending. People have helped me heal from physical pain and all the pain that only they could see. I will be eternally grateful for all the care and love my healing process has received from my friends and family.

Where this year has brought me.

This week I visited my surgeon for a follow-up visit and discussed some options with him. I sat there and listened and it finally hit me that this time last year I was anxious for the surgery that would enable me to live my life without so many limitations. I had never had such intensive surgery before, so I didn't really have a clue about how much pain and how long the recovery would take. Sure I had researched the surgery and the doctor had explained everything in great detail, but the experiences I had after surgery were few more painful and stressful than I had ever imagined.

Before my surgery, my back pain had gotten so terrible that I basically couldn't walk more than ten minutes and I would have to sit down with my back curved and my head tucked between my knees. My family was very supportive by pushing me in my wheelchair during vacations and shopping trips. Looking at the world from the wheelchair and depending on someone all the time took a large emotional toll on me. My family never complained, but I didn't feel like a contributing member of our family. The surgery wouldn't take place until I had been on bone strengthening medicine for six-months, so that pushed the surgery to January of this year.

It would take pages to describe the exact surgery that took place in January, so let me just state that I now have more hardware in me than some Lowe's stores. Because of a previous surgery, the "anchors" couldn't be connected to enough stable vertebrae to keep everything in place, so another surgery was done in February to rework some "anchors" into my hip. That second surgery gave me more hope and dropped the pain from "having my leg step into a bear trap" to a level of about a two. Ten days in a physical rehab facility got me on my feet again. I started over with ALL functions from self-care to literally learning how to walk, again.

My husband came up every weekend and stayed to encourage me at the rehab center and when I got home, he was there to make sure that I had everything that I needed to get stronger (both physically and emotionally.) You see when a person has been living with constant pain, it becomes a very desperate situation and depressing for the person. I didn't start having hope until I realized that my pain was lessening as my strength and endurance was increasing. My daughter came to stay with us to encourage me as I healed and she was comforting in her "new role" of the caretaker. Friends brought me food and sweet cards, as well as gifts from the heart. I felt bolstered by the love and concern so freely given to me during this time.

Within two weeks of being home I traded the walker for a cane for stability and then no extra support was needed. Physical therapy three times a week for eight weeks and exercises helped to get my strength back and the pain medicine's dosage lowered. I had to wear a huge back brace and a bone stimulator twenty-four hours a day until this week (eight months.)

Now, I have pain that doesn't stop me from living and enjoying my hobbies, my family and friends. Walking isn't measured in twenty-feet or ten minutes increments. I park way far away in parking lots and shop until I run out of money (which usually happens quickly these days.)

I will have another cat-scan in February to make sure all the hardware is staying where it is suppose to and then we decide if we want to remove some of the screws. If everything is where is suppose to be, I have already decided that I really don't want to remover anything. I don't set off metal detectors and my old bones are kind of slow growing, so they need the extra support.

If I could clone my doctor I would and I would make sure that if ANYONE needed a smart, kind, caring doctor, they would have my doctor. He listens to his patients, he doesn't hurry when you asks for explanations, and he acknowledges the part the patient plays in the recovery process. He is a rare young man and I am so blessed to have him as my surgeon.