Internal and External Scars

I am two years into cancer
Or rather –
Cancer is two years into me –
and my body is Scarred.
No,
Not just where they sliced open my neck and removed the cancer
(twice).
No,
not just where they implanted a port into the middle of my chest,
just below my once-cushioned
(now-protruding)
collar bone.
No,
Scar tissue is
where my heart is
and
Scar tissue is
where my words are
and
Scar tissue has taken over
the Happiness Center in my brain.

Sometimes,
(frequently)
there are weeks that go by
when my entire body hurts.
An unhealed incision,
a sharp stab,
a dull ache,
an overwhelming,
all-encompassing
pain.

Pain,
but not because of malignancy.
Pain,
but not because of the poison that has saturated my veins.

But,
pain,
because
the spaces that were once filled with
Strength
and
Positivity
and
Joy
have been replaced by
Scar tissue.

Scar tissue
made from
Tiredness
and
Worry
and
Heartache.

Heartache,
from a heartbreak,
from a broken heart,
because the Scar tissue replaced
“Old Me”
with
“New Me,”
and
I never got a chance to say goodbye.
It was a breakup I didn’t see coming.
The devastating end of my longest-lasting relationship.
If I had only known
that the last day spent with “Old Me”
was,
in fact,
our very last day together,
I would have done it all differently.
I would have taken her out on more dates,
treated her better,
bought her flowers,
complimented her,
and romanced her
like
she
so
deserved.
She really was wonderful;
I regret not telling her that more often than I did.

Some Scars are the mark of a deadly wound,
recounting the Shakespearean tragedy
of the sudden death
of the main character in our own story,
of the untimely murder
of the protagonist who shares our same name.

My internal Scar
is a daily reminder of
the death of who I was.
A raw wound
unable to heal itself,
ripped wide open,
every time
You
Or I
eulogize
“Old Me.”
“Before you know it, you’ll be back to your Old Self in no time.”
(No,
I won’t.)
“In a few years, this will all be past you.”
(No,
it won’t.)
No matter how healthy I get,
how benign my body is,
how cancer-less I stay,
I will always bear Scars that
separate
“Old Me”
from
“New Me”
and
all versions of “Me,”
from
You,
forever.

Scars are battle wounds, “they” say.
Tough, “they” say.
Badass, “they” say.
They and “they”
have turned me into a walking
– sometimes crawling –
adage
of
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,”
or some other bullshit cliché
“they” tell you so “they” can
cheer
you
up.

“Cheer up!”
Scar.
“Keep fighting.”
Scar.
“Your hair might grow back totally different!”
Scar.
“My brother had the same kind of cancer…but he lost his battle.”
Scar. Double Scar.
“Why are you putting your body through this?”
Scar.
“You’ve lost so much weight!” “You look amazing!” “We need to fatten you up!”
Scar. Scar. Scar.
“You’re so brave! You’re so strong! You are a warrior!”
I’m so scarred. I’m so scarred. I am scarred.

They say words have weight
but I’ve found that some also have razors.
Sharp,
accidentally-injurious,
unintentionally-damaging,
invisible razors,
made from sing-songy,
go-fight-win,
spirited
shards of glass,
that hang in the air long after they slice right through you.
Box-cutters with a hidden blade,
disguised as kind,
supportive, and
innocuous
doses of medicine.
A warm blanket
that suffocates us
and doesn’t let us
JUST BREATHE ALREADY!!!!
I know, I know….you didn’t mean to hurt me.
It was an accident.
You’re a well-meaning child running with scissors.
Please don’t do that;
You’re going to hurt someone
(me).

The words
“Brave,”
“Strong,”
“Warrior”
imply that we had a choice.
Voluntarily enlistment
and active duty
in an internal battle we never knew existed
until we were dropped onto the front lines,
face-to-face with the artillery
created by our own bodies.
I promise you,
absolutely none of us
so-called
“warriors”
volunteered to fight this
battle.
Instead,
we were
drafted,
we “fought the fight,”
as you proudly boast,
only to be held as
Prisoners of War
in our own bodies.

Our forced bravery has left us
marked and maimed with Scars,
the most devastating of which dwell internally.
And yet, it is our external Scars
that grab your attention
and gain your sympathy.
The
Bruises,
Blown veins,
Balding hair,
Emaciated face,
Brittle bones,
Atrophied muscles,
Discolored nails,
Sunken eyes,
and
Vomit-stained shirts
are the wounds we scored from
a battle
that we
were
not
ever
meant
to
win.

But we did win, right??
Isn’t that enough?!
We reign victorious in
the fight against our own bodies.
Shouldn’t we be proud of ourselves??
We roll up our sleeves,
we pull our collars aside.
We reveal our
Scars,
created by
the skilled knife work of
our surgeon,
the delicate needle work of
our nurse,
and the nervous handiwork of
an apprehensive medical student.

You view these Scars as
our service ribbons,
detailing our
“heroic journey”
line
by
line.
We view our Scars as
visual reminders
that our bodies went through hell,
and are still going through hell.
We view our Scars as
threats
that our bodies could go through hell
once
(or twice)
Again.
PTSD.
But we sure are brave, aren’t we?

Most of our Scars were created
as the result of a forced, game-time decision.
A choice that was made
as our body clock was running out;
a Death Timer that was set
by someone other than,
bigger than,
ourselves.
Tick,
tick,
tick,
tick,
tick,
tick,
tick, tick, tick, tick…
Hurry up!
Quick!
Make a decision!
So we made a decision,
trapped, with our backs against
a wall
that was built from our family and our conscience.

Most of our Scars were made by
the hands of people we didn’t know,
in a hospital room we’d never been in,
to eradicate a disease we didn’t know we had.
Most of our Scars were given to us
before we ever had a chance
to autonomously,
independently,
approvingly
make our own decision
to change our own bodies
and the rest of our own lives
forever.