Scar Tissue - by Sharon Floof Kasenberg

Scar:

The scar on my face tells the story
of how at eleven years old
a beach-combing jaunt became gory -
my face was a sight to behold.
A rock left a gash, badly sewn up -
a seam down the bridge of my nose -
which bothers me less now I'm grown up,
although I still know that it shows.
It was a freak accident really -
when stone tossed aside by a friend
hit boulder and veered willy nilly
to scar up my face in the end.
I know where it hit was a blessing;
an inch to the left or the right
would damage in ways more distressing -
an eye likely would have lost sight.
In fact, my scar grants me perspective -
the incident could have been worse.
Though marred my face isn't defective -
I don't see my scar as a curse.
This small battle scar from my childhood
has taught me a lesson or two.
I've learned there are times I'll not look good
no matter what I try to do.
I view others' scars with compassion -
we're all marked by trials we face,
and through the solutions we fashion
we foster acclaim or disgrace.
Each wound brings fresh wisdom as we're taught
no matter how each scar arrived -
the mark left behind shows that we fought;
we took a few hits, but survived.

By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2007

I can tell you a thing or two about scar tissue.

Sticks and stones can do damage, as proven by a scar I've worn down the bridge of my nose for more than forty years. I've also had a scar over my right eyebrow for the last seven years because I ran into my car door. As well as those two prominent facial scars I have a scar on my abdomen from surgery I had as an infant and another over my tailbone that I acquired sliding down some stairs as a child. (Splinters - ouch!) Of course, as a newlywed I jokingly told my husband that I was born with a tail that had to be removed. It made a much better story, and one that he passed on to our sons when they were young!

I've often joked that I could never get lost - I have too many distinguishing markings.

The scar on my nose started out really ugly. It was an inch long gash dead center between my eyebrows. The doctor on call made an unholy mess of sewing it up and the skin puckered and looked fierce and red for months. People stared and asked what happened. Sometimes they were tactless or even downright rude. More than one person wanted to know what was "wrong" with my face. After several months I toughened up and it bothered me less.

My friend who'd thrown the rock felt terrible. We both knew exactly how the accident had played out, and that she had most definitely not been lobbing stones at me. She had tossed the rock in the exact opposite direction, but it had glanced off a boulder and flown backwards to where I was seated about fifteen feet behind her  I sometimes think about that day, and how frightened she must've been as she left me with her brother and raced down the beach to get help. I blacked out momentarily, then came to and saw a very white face hovering over me. It occurred to me that he'd perhaps thought the rock had killed me, and I reassured him that I was okay. Oddly, I felt quite calm; more bothered by the blood on my face and swimsuit than by the pain in my head.  I very sensibly waded into Lake Superior and let the icy water wash me clean and slow the bleeding before the two of us headed down the beach towards my parents' cabin.

In truth, I think my friends were both more traumatized by the impact of that rock than I was. Certainly my friend flinched for a long time when she saw my scar, and often expressed  hope that its appearance would improve, and over time it did - a little. I finally had laser surgery on it in my late thirties,which I was told would make it look about 20% better. I could've had honest to goodness plastic surgery on it, but it didn't bother me much by then. After that point everyone assumed it was just a wrinkle, which was slightly irksome.

The scar over my eyebrow was problematic too. My husband handily applied a butterfly bandage and staunched the bleeding, but I had a black eye for a week. Again I got stares and questions. This time around there were reactions from uncomfortable passers-by who clearly assumed I'd been assaulted. (Those who know me well cracked jokes about "the other guy" faring worse.)

Two nasty gashes on my face left scars. I know they're there, and anyone who gives my face more than a passing glance probably does too. But here's the thing - they're just little marks on the surface. They don't hurt me, and even when the wounds were fresh and people asked questions, made assumptions, grimaced and looked away - I knew I could cope.

When I've noted reactions to external scars I've wondered how well we'd all handle being able to see the invisible scar tissue that results from hurt and wounded feelings - from words that hurt more than sticks or stones and leave lasting damage to our self-esteem and our ability to trust others. I've learned that those scars heal slower and can cause a lifetime of pain.

My face healed faster than my friend's feeling of guilt - even though she had nothing to feel guilty about. I learned that we can spend our lives obsessing about what's on the surface and ignore deeper and more meaningful problems. I learned that sometimes people make really stupid assumptions about what caused the damage we wear on the outside - and needless to say the hurts we carry where nobody can see. I know there were teenaged boys - as well as gossipy girls - who thought my scar was ugly. I learned not to care. I learned that the discomfort of others usually has a lot more to do with them than me. I learned not to worry about seeking approval from those who couldn't see past visible flaws.

I mean, if someone was willing to disqualify me as a friend (or a potential date) because of a scar on my nose (which I couldn't do much to improve) then how would they ever be able to cope with the deeper scars I had? Would those people ever be capable of empathizing with me or understanding  my insecurities? I doubted that they would, and thus my scar became a reliable litmus test. If a person could look me in the eyes and see past it, they were in. I learned the difference between those who asked about the scar to satisfy their idle curiosity, and those who asked because they genuinely cared about me and wanted to know what had happened.

Two nasty gashes healed - and left scars. What does a scar or two matter in the grand scheme of things? My first boyfriend asked about the scar on my nose, and then shrugged it off with a reassuring "I've got a few scars too - doesn't matter - we're both still good-looking!"

I adopted his laissez faire attitude and never looked back. There are scars on my face. I have a few scars inside too. I can accept these obvious imperfections. They're part of my history - they're part of my present. They are identifying characteristics, part of what makes me the person I am, but they don't define me.

Scars on the skin's surface are evidence that some sort of trauma was experienced, but healing took place. External scar tissue doesn't hurt.

It's the scars on the inside that cause us the most discomfort.