What Lies Beneath the Thin White Line

Lessons from scars on my skin and across my soul

We all have them. Scars. Small, large, deep, light, old and withered, fresh and pink.

Some scars are hidden beneath layers of protection, regret, and possibly denial. These are the ones we explore in the safety of our private space. Words and actions, whether born from others' thoughtlessness or cruelty or from our own internal dialogue, lash these scars across the fabric of our minds and hearts.

Then there are the ones that are physical, visible, and tell stories of grand (mis)-adventures. Puckered surfaces filled with stories from each rendering. These are the ones we may take great pleasure in relaying the stories beneath their creation or shame in calling them into existence.

As I tallied my scars and called from memory each of their origins, I realized each one carried a lesson or hid a memorable moment that shaped me. There is a little oval puff on the front of my right ankle from the time my brother pushed me into a pool. I caught my foot on the edge and bled profusely, turning the water into a scene from Jaws. The handsome young lifeguard on duty rushed to my side. I was instantly embarrassed and equally lost in his soft hazel eyes as he bandaged my ankle. He later became my very first boyfriend, which led to my first kiss. The small scar on my ankle brings a smile to my face as I reminisce about the moment we sat huddled under the tunnel at the summit of the playground slide. With the gentle rain enveloping us, a surge of excitement coursed through me as our lips touched, and I experienced his taste for the first time. I completely forgave my brother.

Then there is the pepperoni slice on the inside of my right calf. Like the love it once proclaimed, it is now all but faded. It is the memory of its birth that I’m really seeing. The wind on my face, taking my breath away as I pressed harder into the driver’s back and gripped my arms tighter around his waist. I clung to my first love as we screamed down the highway on his red-hot Suzuki motorcycle. When we finally stopped and disembarked from the bike, my skin peeled off on the muffler. My sky-blue mini skirt was completely inadequate for straddling the bike, let alone protecting me from the heat of the exhaust pipe. I had never even felt the heat that seared the salami scar into my leg, branding me with a tattoo of our love for all eternity. Love has a way of dulling our senses like that.

I have the usual collection of sundry scars. From the drunken stupor of my 21^st birthday that left a graveled ripple scar on my right knee, to various surgeries over the years — appendix, tonsils, and the starburst on my chest where they took a biopsy of a lump.

I have a growing collection of dog-related scars. My right wrist bears the marks of Salty’s teeth, where he clamped my wrist instead of Sage’s foreleg. In hindsight, I believe I was the better option. There is a six-inch white line that runs down my left shoulder where I now bear a plate and eleven screws. This ragged trail tells the story of the misjudgment of a young bulldog with no sense of boundaries. And the latest acquisition is a two-inch scar over the hump that has become my middle finger knuckle where I intervened in yet another dog fight. It is thin and covers the two pins that now hold my knuckle together.

Most of these scars tell a lesson of awareness—or the lack of awareness. Rushing in to break up a fight. Not paying attention to my surroundings. Not taking care of myself and allowing illness to fester until it’s nearly too late and only surgery is an option.

Even the scar that tells of the removal of my appendix hides the story of why I don’t feel comfortable in dresses. Being the youngest, with two older brothers, and a sister ten years older, meant my hand-me-downs came from the boys. It wasn’t until I was in second grade that my mother took me shopping for school clothes and I was allowed to pick out two dresses. I chose one style and selected a red and a blue one. And I loved them. Skipping to school, I felt like a little lady with my ruffle hem and sleeves. However, as the day wore on, my stomach churned, and I felt hot and sweaty. Our read-aloud session started just before lunch. I was sitting at the table waiting for my turn. Jack and Jane were throwing the ball for their dog Spot. And I vomited across the table. Not just a simple puddle in front of me. No, this was projectile, exorcist-style vomiting. And it continued all the way down the corridor to the nurse’s station, where I lay groaning and gasping until my mother came to get me.

When I finally returned to school three weeks later, the embarrassment of wearing a dress and vomiting over my classmates left a scar that has stayed with me for life. The little un-tanning streak on my belly and the one in my soul. To this day, I envy women who can wear a dress as casually as a comfortable t-shirt, pair of jeans and sneakers.

We see scars and know there was a wound. But we may not know the full story or the depth of that scar. Scars tell the stories of our lives. They remind us of the wonderful, sometimes painful experiences and wisdom we’ve gained along the way. They remind us of what it is to be human.

Have you earned any scars recently? What stories do they tell, and what lessons have they taught you?

My scars are gentle reminders of what it is to live and what it means to succeed in this life. To overcome adversity, to love, to forgive, and to feel gratitude for all that I have, all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve yet to experience.

Bring on the scars.

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What are the stories hidden beneath your scars? Do they conjure memories of fond adventures or are they painful remembrances best left hidden?

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