Long and angry, the scar stretched for several inches. Its puckered red skin imitated the grooves on lips pursed together in a kiss. Except this was death’s kiss. One I narrowly escaped through sheer lucky timing.
The blood clot had formed over more than a year. Every time I reached overhead it grew another cell longer, until it finally had nowhere else to grow. Coagulating inside my vein until it stopped the cells from reaching my hand at all. The day it clogged for good I was supposed to be in Istanbul. If I had gone, I never would have made it home alive.
At first, I was on too many pain killers to notice the scar.
“What happened to you?” The grocery check-out clerk asked after I’d been home from the hospital a week.
“Blood clot,” I replied, “then had my rib taken out so I won’t get another one.”
He nodded as if he understood. “Sounds painful. You should tell people you were in a sword fight.”
“That would have been cooler.” I paid for my groceries and left.
The scar was supposed to be an outward sign of survival. A bright red slash across my shoulder like a military rank bar.
And yet I was ashamed of it. Embarrassed of the weakness it displayed, of complete strangers using it as a conversation starter. Why couldn’t people stick to something simple like the weather?
So I covered it. I wore high neck shirts, dabbed makeup on its rough edges. Protected it from the sun with long bandages as close to my Snow White skin as I could find. If there was no red drawing the eye, there was no need to talk about it.
I don’t recall when my opinion of The Scar changed, but at a wedding a few years ago I wore a strapless dress. My rank and survival on full display. No one said anything. I stopped covering it up, but I also made no effort to highlight it. Ignored it completely for years. Then dabbed a hint of concealer on top when my friend asked me to be a bridesmaid. And otherwise it faded into memory.
Does it matter when I stopped covering it up? Or only that I did?
— jthrill
The blood clot had formed over more than a year. Every time I reached overhead it grew another cell longer, until it finally had nowhere else to grow. Coagulating inside my vein until it stopped the cells from reaching my hand at all. The day it clogged for good I was supposed to be in Istanbul. If I had gone, I never would have made it home alive.
At first, I was on too many pain killers to notice the scar.
“What happened to you?” The grocery check-out clerk asked after I’d been home from the hospital a week.
“Blood clot,” I replied, “then had my rib taken out so I won’t get another one.”
He nodded as if he understood. “Sounds painful. You should tell people you were in a sword fight.”
“That would have been cooler.” I paid for my groceries and left.
The scar was supposed to be an outward sign of survival. A bright red slash across my shoulder like a military rank bar.
And yet I was ashamed of it. Embarrassed of the weakness it displayed, of complete strangers using it as a conversation starter. Why couldn’t people stick to something simple like the weather?
So I covered it. I wore high neck shirts, dabbed makeup on its rough edges. Protected it from the sun with long bandages as close to my Snow White skin as I could find. If there was no red drawing the eye, there was no need to talk about it.
I don’t recall when my opinion of The Scar changed, but at a wedding a few years ago I wore a strapless dress. My rank and survival on full display. No one said anything. I stopped covering it up, but I also made no effort to highlight it. Ignored it completely for years. Then dabbed a hint of concealer on top when my friend asked me to be a bridesmaid. And otherwise it faded into memory.
Does it matter when I stopped covering it up? Or only that I did?
— jthrill
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