Scars

I have gone “under the knife”, aka had some type of surgery, four different times. Chronologically it was the neck catheter, chest catheter, fistula and finally the donated kidney. Each time the doctor has walked in and drawn a little black x where he was going to cut and has done whatever work needed to be done.

One of the more major surgeries was when my chest catheter was put in for dialysis. I basically had a tube sticking out of my chest for 6 months. It was incredibly dangerous for a number of reasons one of the biggest being I had an open port that went straight to my heart for any bacteria or virus that wanted to hitch a ride.

After I got the fistula they pulled the chest catheter out and the open wound healed pretty fast. What they didn’t warn me about was that on the right side of my chest, where the port originally was, there would be a constant reminder that it had been there and had made an impact on my life. It’s called a scar. Every time I change my shirt I get a subtle reminder I got through that portion of my journey.

I’m given that also with the scar on my neck that was from my emergency dialysis, the multiple on my left arm from  dialysis and lastly the one on my hip from my kidney transplant.

I have accumulated 7 very definitive scars in the past two years. A majority of them are hidden 98% of the time, but I still know that they are there. I also know the story of how they got there, when, why, and even what other things transpired the same day for a few of them.

As I start rounding the bend that will mark this journey at two full years in August, I realize I’m still gaining scars. These scars are ones that not even I can see but yet I still know that they are there.

These scars a made from those days I didn’t quite have the energy or the strength to do anything but still powered through. They come from when dialysis took every bit of everything from me but rather than go home, I went on like I wasn’t hurting. They come from when everyone and their mother and also my mother asked me how I was doing. Of course I would reply with “Fine” or some funny response to try and distract from the fact that we both knew that my answer wasn’t the truth.

Although I can’t see them or run my hand over them they still exist. One day when I am going through an even harder situation I will be able to use these scars as a roadmap to a journey filled with valleys and low places that I had ultimately made it through.