I wasn’t really vain, but I was careful not to wear anything that showed my stomach even though the scar wasn’t noticeable. My second scar came on the inside of my arm. I had an implant put in that regulated my hormones, as the CP may have tampered with that area of my brain. However, the implant was exchanged six times, so I grew very familiar with that scar.
Over time, I’ve had eight or nine surgeries, and this most recent surgery was the most major, with the exception of my first one. The femoral osteotomy gave me eight scars—one for each year I’ve had chronic pain with two to spare. Not all of the bandages have come off yet, but when I saw the first scar from the surgery I was taken aback. It was rather large, and knowing that I had been cut open and stitched back together unnerved me. As I looked at the scar, I had the thought that I needed the scars because my legs were so flawed.
I looked at the rest of my scars in frustration and wondered how my body had gone so wrong. But as I have healed, I realized that my scars aren’t about my flaws—my scars are the way that I have gotten better.
These scars on my legs make me sad because I hate that surgery was the only option to “fix” me. But my scars have made me stronger.
The scars hurt. I think that they are ugly. But after all this time, and all this pain, the scars will take that pain away. The scars are a symbol of hope. My scars do not show my suffering; my scars show the overcoming of that suffering.
This surgery is a new beginning for me. The scars on my legs show that I was brave enough to take a chance—even though I don’t know where that chance will lead. I will have a better quality of life because of this surgery, and if that means I will have scars, so be it.
The scars are hard for me to look at and touch. But what they mean is worth so much more than how they look. The scars mean I am not stuck in pain with no other choice. Though my legs are frustrating, I think they are beautiful—just not on the outside. My legs have held me up for fifteen years even though my bone was rotated. And through the pain throughout those years, I have walked. I have lived my life with legs that needed a little help. And through these scars, my legs got the help they needed—and so did I.
My scars are ugly. I’m not going to say that my scars are beautiful. Rather, what my scars represent is beautiful. I had to be cut open and stitched back together. Those stitches left scars. But those scars mean hope. And with hope and faith, I will walk—no matter how my legs look. My legs are better now, inside and out, not despite the scars but even because of them.
My scars mean that life gave me an obstacle meant to bring me down—and I didn’t let it.