Scars

When I was little, I loved being outside. I was a tomboy inside and out. I climbed trees, I went barefoot, I played soccer, I played war, I pretended I was Batman, and I hated pink. Something I loved was scars. They were like trophies, how many scars did you have and how big were they? I have them from climbing trees, running into trees (yes my clumsiness goes back that far), and all the games I played. I liked them. It was like a road map of things that had happened to me on my skin! Cool, right?

Then I got a scar I didn't like. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't playing a game or having an adventure when I got. I was in surgery. I was 13.

It's surreal for me to remember my surgeries now. I kind of want to believe they didn't actually happen. Because I honestly don't remember a lot of them... I don't know if that's normal, and how my memory was before I had them, but I don't have many memories. Especially my first surgery, which I remember only a few flashes of. Like waking up after and being so thirsty my throat felt like sand paper, begging the night nurse for water and only getting ice chips. Crying for water. Pain. Intense, overwhelming, agonizing, ripping pain all up and down my back. My oldest sister visiting me (I just remember her standing in the door), my mom being by my bed every time I woke up. How much I hated the physical therapists... And being stiff. I can't remember how it felt to be able to bend your back, but I do remember how stiff I felt after that first surgery. And how it wouldn't go away. Days, weeks, months went by but the stiffness remained. I had to learn a whole new way how to do everything. How to get out of bed, tie my shoes, pick things up, balance, sit, and walk. I felt like a robot, so stiff and walking so awkwardly. I still feel that way sometimes.

Memories I have from after my first surgery are more painful. Painful, but not in just the physical way. I can remember how proud I was to walk back into church, I could walk by myself without blacking out! But I had to take 2 pillows, somehow the chairs had transformed into rocks. My sister Ruth followed me and helped me position myself so I wasn't in too much pain. I refused to look around and see if anyone was staring at me. I wouldn't even look at my friends. I was too preoccupied with trying to stand and sit when everyone else did, and standing so long was so hard! I remember the first time I went to church without pillows. Not because I didn't need them, but because I was stubborn. I was tired of carrying them, of reminding me and everyone around me that I was different. I slid out of the car and walked away as quickly as I could, leaving my pillow behind on purpose. The agony that greeted me during the service made me grind my teeth to keep from crying, but I was determined to be strong enough!

That need to be strong enough has been the most influential lie in my life. I have told myself time after time, as soon as the pain or tears start to come, I have to be strong enough. Pain is weak, tears are weak. Moaning about the pain or giving into tears doesn't help anything, it just makes me look pathetic. It makes people around me uncomfortable, and then they might avoid me. Even worse, they might ask about my pain. They might want to know. And I was tired of telling the story. I was tired of the reactions, the looks, the pity, the carefulness. Or the complete lack of anything, and the laughter. I hated feeling inferior, so I started covering the pain. Pills were for the weak, I would deal with the pain myself. If I just paced myself, I could do it. The problem is, I always push myself. A game at youth, I should sit out, but I don't want to be left out. If I just lay down during small group after, then I can do it! And I compromised myself into everyday pain, barely managed.

I can remember the first time I pressed my extra morphine button in the hospital, my “happy” button, and how much I hated how it made me feel. I felt like I was high, my brain was wired, I was strangely aware yet docile. So they changed to a different pain med, thinking the other one wasn't right for my body. But it was the same. I finally realized that was just the way that strong of medication was. I didn't like it. I would refuse to push the button until I was almost crying from the pain, I couldn't speak or move and I was in agony. My mom made me push it more often. But I hated that feeling that came with it. So just like the pillows, I started leaving it behind. When I went home, I purposefully missed a few hours in between medication so I could feel normal. Besides, those pills were made for horses. I wanted to be pill-free, I hated drugs and the whole process I had been through. But there was a problem. I could get rid of the pillows and pills, but that scar remained. Haunting me.

Daily I looked in the mirror and turned around to stare at my scar. So long and white, like someone was halving my back. I hated it. I hated the sight of my back but I couldn't go a day without glaring at it, almost crying in my anger and frustration. I was supposed to be fixed! A quick surgery and the pain would stop! I can't remember how things were before that surgery, but it seemed to me the pain didn't go away at all. At my 6 month check-up, my doctor noted that I was still having so much pain and it wasn't good. But he said I was healing fine and I was healthy enough to fly. So my dad bought the tickets and we prepared to leave. My depression and frustration grew, and my pain had no management. It was all because of that one scar. That one, long, hateful scar that I didn't do anything to get. I hated it and I hated my body.

So many hard lessons were learned from having my surgeries and experiencing such regular pain. I would say the first surgery was the hardest, because on the second I had given up hope. When they said they wouldn't take the hated rods and screws out, I gave up. I'd be a freak forever. Who would ever find me beautiful? I lived on that assumption for a long, long time. I just wanted to feel normal, to not be bitter when I saw how easily other people could bend over. I was embarrassed I had to bend straight from the hips, or else squat down. What was I, an old woman? After my second surgery, I accepted things more. But it wasn't good acceptance. Only now have I learned to push through the old lies I told myself, and started trying to preach the truth. It's rather difficult, the old lies were so believable.

Just the other day, I was talking to my sister about the medication she's on and she said she had vicodin before that but she was allergic. I said I'd always wondered how vicodin was, because that's what House was addicted to. And she told me, “Um you were on vicodin. That's the hydrocodone you had.” I was shocked. The hydrocodone? That's the weak stuff! The pills I take when I'm in a lot of pain, but not enough to warrant the strong pills. And that made me realize something. All the lies I told myself, about my pain not being a lot and I was weak to hurt so much, were truly lies. The pain I experience can't be reduced by some ibuprofen. Or even 5. But it can be controlled with 5. And because I can't operate normally with the high that comes with vicodin and the stronger pills (not to mention I'm terrified of being addicted), I just use the ibuprofen. A lot of it. Sometimes it doesn't help and I have to take more, and sometimes I finally just have to lay down and take the pressure off my back. But I tell myself every day now, that I am not weak. I am strong. I have been through hell. A normal 13 year old's hell is whether the guy she likes will notice her or not. Mine was searing pain. I'm not saying I've had a terrible life and you should pity me, don't pity me! Don't you dare. If you do, you're insulting me. I don't need your pity. I just want your friendship.

We all have struggles, we all have pain and hardship. I used to tell myself that at least I didn't have cancer, so I should suck it up! Well, now I tell myself that in a different way. I can thank God that I don't have cancer. Or a different problem that causes me more pain. I can imagine more pain, because I had much more pain right after my surgeries. I don't want to think of living life in that pain, but some people do. Some people bear unbearable pain every day. Aren't we lucky we don't! I honestly love hearing other people's stories, and I was hesitant to do a blog because it's so one-sided. But if you have a story, comment or message me. Friends share, and I love listening.

Uber long post, and I apologize for that! Kind of. You don't have to read if you don't want to so I don't feel all that bad...