The Truth About Scars

Sitting on our bathroom counter, staring into the mirror, my five-year-old ran her fingers along the scar on her forehead.

“Will my scar ever go away, Mama?”

“No, baby girl. It will keep fading, but it will not.”

She ran her fingers along the pink, tender area, smiled a few times, furrowed her brow, stuck her lips out like a duck goofing around, and then darted out, “Do you have scars, Mama?”

****

I had let them stay up late that night to watch just “one more show”. As the credits rolled across the screen, I was about to say, “Time to go potty and brush teeth,” when she twirled around and fell.

It was but a nanosecond in time.

Her back was to me, but I heard a scream that still echoes.

I saw her clutch her face.

When she turned around, all I saw was blood.

“Mama!”

Reaching for her, I heard my voice come out of my mouth, calmly telling my oldest daughter, “Go get some paper towels now, and call Nonnie.”

Fluidly, calmly, I sat cross-legged and began searching through the blood smeared across my three-year-old’s face. The screaming, hers and her terrified siblings… and so much blood. My hands, covered in blood. Her hair, her little eyelashes, soaked with blood, as I attempted to find where exactly it was gushing from. Her eyes? Her mouth?

Her forehead.

She had a gaping hole in the middle of her forehead.

The hospital.

The doctors.

The paper they placed over her eyes so she could not see the stiches going in. The way she gripped my hand as they did. The nurse who said, “Don’t worry. She’ll forget all of this.”

Me, on the other hand…

Nearly three years later, she doesn’t fully remember the horrific event, or the hospital.

She doesn’t remember my calm voice instructing her sister. She doesn’t know that I was most likely in shock – inside, I was frantic, scared and screaming, too. She doesn’t understand why I told my daughter to “call Nonnie”. Or, how I immediately knew this was bad, and instinctively sought my own mom even though my partner was in our home.

She certainly doesn’t remember me watching her as she slept that first night, on-my-knees-thankful that she was okay, yet fearful… for what she might encounter. This wasn’t a scraped knee. This was her beautiful, precious, never-to-be-the-same-again face. Would it be a big scar? Would this change her?

She doesn’t remember how we were suddenly catapulted into… reactions. People who unabashedly pointed at her, meaning no harm but still blatantly and outright asking, “What happened to your forehead?” She doesn’t remember the unintended ignorance, and she’s unaware of how many times my lip quivered or I stuffed my hands deep in my pocket so as not to physically swat the finger-pointers, squash the questions from small children in her preschool to full-grown adults.

“Ooh, that’s a nasty cut you’ve got there. What happened?”

She doesn’t remember how she would look down at her little feet, unsure of what to do or say in her new reality.

She doesn’t remember how her father and I tried to help, tried to give her an understanding suitable for a 3-year-old, tried first, to answer the questions for her, defend her – but soon realized we’d need to equip her with her own answers.

She doesn’t remember us naming her red mark her “strawberry boo boo”, or the day we bought bright, loud, pink, Barbie Band-Aids, or how they drew attention to her forehead in a manner she was comfortable with, that helped her find her voice; recognize her story.

“That’s a pretty/bright/pink Band-Aid you’ve got there,” people would say.

“Thanks! It’s my strawberry boo boo,” she’d respond, “It’s part of my story.”

She doesn’t remember the morning she decided to not wear the Band-Aid anymore, or the strength she showed that first day she walked into preschool – no Band-Aid, no shame, no fear.

She couldn’t know how I pulled over on the way home that day, the road dangerously blurry from my tears. The whole experience washed over me. She was okay. Scarred, and okay.

Nearly three years later, Hope’s scar has faded to nearly unnoticeable. People no longer point and ask. I no longer feel the need to defend. Yet, I think of all of our Mamas and parents and children whose scars are far more extensive than my daughter’s. Whose scars will not fade as Hope’s has. Parents of children with autism, who will always feel the finger-pointers. Parents of children with disabilities, or those who have been drastically maimed or bullied… parents of ill children, fixing wigs and offering what little they can to help their children feel anything like they did before everything changed. Parents who visit a grave, yet still grocery shop in the aisles amongst us.

Hope carries a physical scar from a horrific nanosecond. As her parent and protector – as her Mama – I, too, was wounded that evening; scarred for life with graphic memories I’d rather not have seen or heard or felt, and peoples’ actions I would rather have never experienced, glimpses into yet another of the uncontrollable circumstances parents persevere… functioning the only way we know how.

We were granted an escape. Her’s turned out to be a very minor scar, and as it fades, so do mine.

Others’ scars don’t fade. Others’ stories aren’t just glimpses. Others are far beyond pink Barbie Band-Aids and strawberry boo boos…

****

“Sure, baby girl, I have scars. Everyone does. Some you can see, and some you can’t.”

Jen is a freelance writer, parent to three, and she’s been a stepparent for over 15 years. She is well-equipped to discuss and write about the details of all-things-parenting. Along with spending quality time with her family, Jen enjoys music, chocolate, camping and relaxing. And laughing! You can find more at Jen’s Zen.