I've decided that my memoir should be titled "A Little Bit Bruised." I like it. Sounds like a Sheryl Crowe/Adele/Carrie Underwood song. Strong woman survives, even thrives, but there are marks on her. I'm not sure that this world is designed for unscathed women. In fact, if one gets to fifty years old without some kind of trauma, how much has she lived in this world? Come to think of it, who among us hasn't been beaten up, either literally or figuratively, by the end of freshman year of high school?
Life is difficult. It's an obstacle course, a gauntlet, and only those who cheat, avoid it, or refuse to race escape without a few scrapes. I don't think it is truly possible to escape the obstacle course of life; it's always there. It's not a race against each other, or a goal of getting through unscathed. It's a mindset of "make it through the element, learn from it, become stronger, and go onto the next thing." Along the way there are cuts, bumps, and bruises. The wounds heal and we take the scars with us.
By the age of fifty-one, I definitely have the marks of a veteran soldier. The current wound I am working on healing is part of a larger scar from a big battle. Seven months ago my appendix burst and I had emergency surgery to remove the debris, part of my colon and intestine, and any infection. My surgeon tried to do the surgery laprascopically, but ended up needing to cut an eighteen inch incision in my belly-- from the middle of my front stomach to my right side.
I call my stomach Frankenbelly, as I was ready for Halloween on October 29 when they released me after nine days in the hospital. Those nine days involved:
- seven days without solid food
- an injection of Narcan after a bad reaction to pain medication
- vomiting three times with staples across my abdomen after a premature attempt at liquids
- three days of an ng tube up my nose to pump out the contents of my stomach
- Covid-19 staffing and supply shortages, regulations, and visitor restrictions
I took home my Frankenbelly fully knowing I was in for a long recovery. I had old and new scars. Four and a half years earlier I had gone through a complete hysterectomy after a tumor burst on my left ovary. That surgeon couldn't do the simple, three-cut, laparoscopic surgery he would have preferred due to the size of the tumor. Instead the procedure he used was similar to a C-section, and I have a question mark shaped scar to commemorate my battle with cancer. Add to that as small, almost now indistinguishable scar above my right breast for a Port-A-Cath that was inserted for chemotherapy delivery. (I am glad to still have this technology, as it is still a big benefit.) Last fall, three more scars from the attempted laparoscopic appendectomy (one near the hysterectomy scar), a pea sized scar where my JP drain was inserted, and the eighteen inch monster were added. Add the purple, green, and yellow bruising, the swelling, and numbness, and my core was generally beat up inside. My organs had been shoved out of the way, rearranged, and reassembled.
Within 24 hours of my release I was back in the hospital. My incision had begun to ooze the fluid that comes with an internal infection. The nurse practitioner in my surgeon's office poked and squeezed out the gangrene they had missed when I was discharged. After surgery and the bad reaction to the pain medication, I never had a fever or needed pain medication other than the liquid extra strengthen Tylenol they piped into me. So this infection was difficult to catch until it forced itself out of me. I spent three more days in the hospital mainly to figure out how to manage my wound care at home. There was now a three inch or so section of that eighteen inch scar that was an open wound. It needed daily care that I couldn't do. Nor could I ask my husband or parents to try to do. I couldn't bring myself to look at the gaping eye of Frankenbelly. How could I ask my non-medically trained loved ones to do that?
Seven months later I am still working on healing the wound in my side. It's almost done. It doesn't hurt anymore, and is mainly an annoyance at this point. I'm trying to avoid a third silver nitrate treatment. It does drain some fluid, so it isn't closed up, but the tissue is healthy and not infected. It's just taken so long. (It's likely been drawn out by the blood thinner I've been on for six months to treat a blood clot that developed in my leg.
I've looked back on the challenges I've had to face these past seven months and come to the conclusion that I am one tough, badass woman. As things are about to close up, I am pushing myself not ask anymore "Why me, Lord?" I had spent most of this year's Lenten Season contemplating my wound. I asked Jesus, who has his own wound, "What about my wound, Lord?"
He came back with, "What about
MY Wound, Dawn?"
I'd not meditated on the meaning of the wound in His side. His Body sustained the wound when the Roman soldier thrust his lance into His side, and blood and water flowed forth filing the Holy Grail. Traditional belief says that like my wound, Jesus' wound was on his right side. When the Risen Jesus appeared to the doubting Thomas the Apostle, our Lord invited him to put his hand in His wound. Why? To prove that it was Him, that the Divine and Human Jesus Christ had risen from the dead. I believe that Jesus has conquered sin and death. I believed before I saw the wound. Perhaps I am not to know why for my wound.
Instead I am asking "What does this all mean? What have I learned?" I am way tougher than I ever thought I was. When I know that Christ is with me there is nothing that we can't handle. He gives me the grace and strength to navigate these elements of life. My past battle with cancer taught me that, and I've leaned on it again this past year. With God's help, I've managed to retain my spirit, my optimism, my youthful approach to life. I've learned to take things one day, one element, at a time. I've learned lessons in humility; using a walker for two weeks will do that. I've lost much of my pride and vanity; hospital gowns and going without a shower for a month (sponge baths only) are good for that. God provides what I need, including angels to lean on, help with healing, and show the way. Life is good, and it is up to me to choose joy. I count it all Joy. I will not let these elements on the obstacle course of life rob me of all the Good Stuff God has planned for me. I am a prayer warrior princess and I proudly wear my scars for the glory of God and His Kingdom.
