Vanity

I’ve never considered myself a vain person. I like nice things but it’s not where I choose to spend my money, especially since having kids. I just recently dyed my hair for the first time in my entire life and the nicest things in my closet most definitely come from Target.

Because of my incredible lack of enthusiasm when it comes to my appearance, I never thought that a scar would bother me. At my first appointment with my surgeon, I let her know that I had looked up the hashtag for sarcoma (remember, I’m a rule follower and I was told not to Google it) and that I was fully prepared to lose my right arm. She smiled nicely and assured me that it wasn’t going to be necessary.

How can it be that a person who genuinely felt like they were prepared to lose an entire limb is having a hard time with a scar? The first surgery was easy. I don’t know if I ever even took the time to examine the scar. I’m not sure if it was the shock of seeing how much longer this one was going to be, or that Josh stepped on the toe that had previously been attacked by a pickle jar, but I couldn’t hang.

As a mental health professional, I know it’s not really about the scar. There is a lot to unpack, and I haven’t taken the time or the energy to do that yet. Part of the problem is absolutely that I don’t take that time. I had surgery on Monday and spent all of Tuesday trying to ensure Holden had the best birthday ever. Now, it’s Wednesday, I went back to work, I came home, cooked dinner, walked the dog and put the kids to bed. Everything was business as usual.

Everything was business as usual until I needed to take a shower. First, I was frustrated I couldn’t get the bandages off myself. I hate asking for help. It’s dumb and childish but as soon as I’m in a situation where I know it would be beneficial to ask for help my brain says “don’t do that, you can do it yourself.” Tonight I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it myself. THEN, Josh stepped on my already-very-bruised and disgusting-looking toe. I cried.

About 5 seconds into my incredibly theatrical performance, I realized that these tears had nothing to do with my toe. Josh felt terrible and apologized a million times while ripping the remaining bandages from my shoulder. The tears were so much more than a hurt toe. The whole time I was in the shower, I kept thinking it was about the scar and about how frustrating it is to only be able to use my left hand to wash my hair. I kept crying.

The tears weren’t about frustration. The tears weren’t even about what my shoulder was going to look like. The tears were about the constant reminder that will live externally from me. This reminder that tells a story without my permission. I’m lucky and I know it. I’m going to be fine and I know it. This scar is easy to cover and I know it. Something tonight just kind of clicked. No matter how far away I get from this phase in my life, it will always be attached to me. So maybe it’s not about vanity at all. Maybe, it’s really about learning how to carry something you never expected.

There’s a lot going on in the world right now. A lot of people are walking around with scars, both internally and externally. You don’t know their stories. But you can go out, and do good things.