We are our scars
They tell our stories
Sorry if this image makes you feel sick. It’s my scar. Right there on my decollotage, about 4cms by 2cms. Yoohoo!
People did make distressed sounds about the wound after I had the procedure. ‘Ewww’ kind of things.
I told them to stuff it.
Now it’s not so gory, it’s settled down into what will be its final state and I don’t hide it with artful scarves and round necks, I’m happy to have it out for all to see, my scar.
I call it my Souvenir of Australia, because it was caused by eight years of the non-ozone screened sun that beats down on that lucky country leaving cancers and scars in its wake.
I put sunscreen on my face every day I lived there, but moronically didn’t think to bring it all the way down the front and ten years later a solar keratose permanent blister thing turned up. Like a festering wound that kept getting bigger.
I was so lucky it was only that. Just ugly, not malignant.
I like my scar much more than I liked that thing. Which did make me want to cover up, it was gross, and I’d put a sticking plaster over it in the sun, which wasn’t very pretty either.
I was a bit horrified after the excision, when I first saw the stitches, like a Year 3 sewing project of a spider, but now I think it’s quite decorative.
I have other scars too.
There are two on my left lower jaw where I had tumours removed forty and thirty years ago. They’ve turned out to be quite handy giving me a sharp jawline on one side, which I always turn towards a camera for that reason.
The cancer face lift.
Then there’s the caesarean one, which is a mark of glorious joy, where a small baby with a shock of black hair came yelling into the world, lifted by the doctor like Simba and placed into my arms.
And as well as the scars there are all the other signs of sun damage ageing.
The SPF I put on my hands in Australia washed off every day after a couple of loo visits so they now look like the liver-spotted chicken claws of a much older woman.
Whatever. I sometimes wear giant cocktail rings to attract attention to them. I like their claw-iness.
I have big liver spots on my face too and weird things happening to the skin on my eye lids.
None of it bothers me.
I love patina on buildings and objects and I like it on people too. It tells the story of our lives.
My scar is part of me.
Here's to our scars 🥂 I love the scar that runs across where my left breast used to be. It reminds me of how precious life is.
Sing it sister! I am weirdly thrilled that we have matching chest ornaments: mine has morphed into a ghostlike line, courtesy of a melanoma. My skin doc also removed one from my ankle, saying it would leave a bit of a divot, his term for the aftermath of a shark bite. I nearly fainted when I saw his handiwork, but all is healed now.
Those of us with the fair skin and hair of our ancestors don't do so well in the sun, but the damage is already done. I look at my gnarled hands and see my mum and grandmother working away, which is a nice trade-off.