SCARS

by

Helen Beer

I am the tiny scar inside your lower lip. Do you remember? You were so little then, it's doubtful. But you've heard the story time and time again; the memory's imprinted, if secondhand, of how your lip split, spilling blood, when you tripped on the back stairs of that old house in Florida. You were only three then, but very brave, nonetheless. Years later your sister admitted, in passing, that she'd been the cause of it. Yes, she'd chased you, taunted you, made you fall. She found it so amusing-that fear she'd instilled in you, that control she'd exercised over you. Do you remember what she said in answer to your mother's worried inquiries? "She fell." That was it. You didn't contradict her, for you had fallen, after all. You'd have done anything for her approval; but it never came.

I am the short, jagged scar running for an inch down your outer right calf. I am raised, and wider than I should have been, for you wouldn't stop picking at me. I am the result of that ornery pony's attempt at unseating you; he ran you up close to a barbed wire fence. It tore at your jeans, it tore at your flesh. You stuck to his back like a cowboy, ignoring the searing pain, biting your lip, tugging hard with your arms to pull him away from the razor-sharp barbs. You won your battle of wills against that little Thelwell reject, didn't you? You wear me proudly, like some hard-earned battle scar.

I am that thick spot near the tip of your right middle finger. That's where Mr. Shoun, your seventh grade biology teacher, stabbed you with a three-pronged lancet during that blood-typing unit. You were his designated guinea pig. Your sister had been teacher's pet in his class before you came along; he picked on you mercilessly, comparing you to her at every possible opportunity. You never quite measured up. Even now, when you close your eyes, and rub your thumb over the tiny rough spot where I interrupt your otherwise smooth fingertip, you can conjure up his sadistic grin, can't you?

We are the collection of perpendicular gashes over the veins of your wrists. No, you weren't serious-just curious. We didn't have the desired effect, though, did we? Your mother never noticed us. But we're here still, like tiny crosses, reminding you of troubled days and even worse nights.

There were some relatively calm years, in a physical sense at least, as you settled into a routine of studying and drinking and having sex-though not necessarily in that order. We're not so obvious, are we? We're hidden within some dark recesses of your collective consciousness, reminding you, nagging you, chastising you, judging you; we don't want you to repeat those old patterns, for they nearly killed you, didn't they?

I am your episiotomy-you thought I'd never come. After twenty-eight hours, four separate shifts of interns, residents, nurses and med students, the looming threat of a C-section, I didn't fail you. I am that thickness you can barely feel, that tiny line you never see.

I am the scar tissue that surrounds your jaw, enveloping it like an unwelcome visitor; I make it lock when you're cold, nervous or afraid. As that outward scar by your eye has lightened, faded, I've worsened, tightened my grip. I make you wear that mechanical contraption to bed, that appliance, that horrible metal and plastic thing that you hate and resent. I remind you, don't I? I remind you of that night he was trying to kill you, of that punch that connected with such might that your head left a concave dent in the sheetrock behind you. No, others can't see me; I hide from them, they aren't accosted by my presence. It's you and me, Babe; you may have left him, but you couldn't leave me behind, could you?

I'm the inch-long scar on the outside, lower quadrant of your right breast. That's where they excised the lump, and surrounding tissue, leaving you with a bit of a pucker. It's noticeable only to you, isn't it? It was just a fibrous mass, completely benign, innocent. You touch me often, though, reflecting on the alternative. I still have the power to scare you, don't I?

We are the spider webs of scar tissue that work our way around your ovaries, your fallopian tubes, your uterus. We're endometrial tissue, ravaging your insides, making you infertile now for many, many years. You managed to have your son before we established our stranglehold on you, before they assaulted us with their lasers, before we grew back with a vengeance, populating the very incisions they used to attack us, remove us.

We're the crisscross patterns in your navel; we're the only outward sign of the three times they tried to rid you of your endometriosis. They failed, didn't they? But you know now that it's pointless to try again. You wait it out, hoping for an early menopause. They've tried to convince you to rip it all out; but you resist. You haven't the time, you tell yourself. But the truth is, you don't want to admit defeat to your body. You don't want to lose your womb, empty chasm that it is. You're afraid you'll lose that deep, pounding vibration that comes with your orgasms. Who's to say you won't?

You're hardly perfect, are you? No, you're a sum of all your scars, both visible and invisible. We will be with you, always, whether you choose to acknowledge us or ignore us. But if you accept us, you'll accept yourself. Not such an easy thing, is it?

§ § §

Helen Beer lives in the country with cats and horses and, that most domesticated of all beasts, a computer programmer husband. She sells for a living, and writes; she wishes the converse to be true one day.

She can be reached via email at:hbeer@carolina.rr.com.

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