My physical impairments, such as my restrictions on driving and lifting over ten pounds, and my limitations, such as reaching, twisting, and bending, may seem permanent to me now, but are temporary and will soon be a distant memory. The scar, however, a behemoth of a messy child's crayon line, may fade, but it will not disappear. The scar's line points into the past, reminding me of the accident, but it will never be just a memory. A scar is forever. Like a diamond, but not so pretty.
Scars. They are supposed to say something about their bearers. They add character, dimensionality. They can be mysterious or they can beg to be talked about, explained. And always, scars have a story. Freak lawn-mower accident. Fell off the trampoline. Big brother and a shard of glass from the '80s coffee table. Scars can even be sexy. A tiny nick beside the eyebrow. A raised pink line on a well-toned ab. Scars are even epic. I'm thinking Harry Potter.
My scar is none of these things. First and foremost, it is not yet a scar, but a painful jagged slice, suffocated in dermabond, running the entire length of my abdomen, cutting me, frankenstyle in symmetrical halves, save the crooked detour around my already "unique" outti belly button.
Furthermore, my scar is not an indication of something I have done but rather something done to me, over which i had no control. It doesn't say I'm a daredevil, clumsy with a lawnmower, or a wizard (witch, as the case may be). The most-maimed passenger in a high-speed collision with a semi-truck may be a title, but it is not a defining characteristic. There was no rhyme or reason behind this scar, or rather behind the accident which caused the damage which necessitated the surgery which caused the scar. Simple negligence and so-called highway hypnosis are not headline news, nor are they noble or proud.
I think about future intimacy, beach days, and short shirts casually rising as I lay down on a couch. It's not the kind of thing people won't notice. I hadn't realized how gruesome it was until I posted a photo of my stomach on facebook and seeing the responses. It is quite hideous. I'd become desensitized to its appearance. You kind of have to become desensitized the appearance of your own body. Imagine your stomach turning each time you looked down at your ingrown toenail.
Now, I know the scar won't always look this...bad. It will eventually fade, along with the memories and recollections of the accident, the time in the hospital, and the recovery. It won't be quite to graphic, quite so red, and it won't be accompanied by an intersecting seatbelt mark. Intersection. I have that intersection, that 90 degress on my stomach, as a constant reminder. Just below the navel is where the Civic careened into the tractor trailer at the red light, leaving a bloody mess. I can see the accident everyday, played out there, the large white tracks of the truck horizontal, the narrow line of the Honda, vertical. The 5 and 20. Even the swerve at the last minute, an attempt to avoid the inevitable, before colliding in unholy disaster.
A footlong scar doesn't just disappear, no matter how many creams or gels you use. It is a graphic brand upon my body and I want nothing to do with it. What could this thing possibly say about me? How will it mark its unwilling recipient in the years to come? Well.
It may not say I had an affinity for woodshop in high school. And it certainly won't label me The Boy Who Lived. But it may say something else, something that becomes big rather than small, significant rather than petty. When the big thoughts fight for space and win, my scar begins to say something worth hearing. It begins to mean something, to mark something. Unlike another scar that may just speak, this one yells, it screams, it shrieks. I'm just not sure exactly what it's screaming yet.
