New Scars

I didn't want to be there. I did not want to be sitting in the waiting room of the UCI Chao Family Cancer center yesterday awaiting my turn to reveal my freshly healing Frankenstein scar on my right thigh to my doctor. I already knew he told me everything was going to be fine. "We got it all," he said. This, along with his glee at what a beautiful work of art he and his gorgeous plastic surgeon side-kick had created. I am truly surprised they did not think to tattoo their names around the landmark, being that proud.

Well, in truth, for me, everything is not fine just yet. I am glad they are confident there are no lingering cells growing in the site of my surgery, truly I am. But for me, the truth of his "we got it all" statement but in the sense that in taking out the growing cancerous tumor, they also removed a little piece of my youth and left a souvenir of my mortality, left me with an obstructed view as I try to move forward from this. It's like one of those stone-hit-my-windshield damages that you cannot ignore as you are trying to drive in rush hour. It is always there in front of me now, like it or not. Gone forever are the expectations of having perfect thighs which in the past might have been funny, but now as I say this, I want to cry. This bruised, red, inflamed gauge in my leg is there to remind me of that now every day.

I heal up well, though. I am pretty sure that Dr. BradPitt who aspires to a career in Orange County plastic surgery did a gorgeous job on an area of my body that seldom ever sees the light of day. Just the same, a year from now it will be a faded, light pink mark, lacking feeling around its perimeter which is, apparently, another "normal" new-normal. It joins the ranks of my rotator cuff incision, appendix, c-section, abdominal surgery and other landmarks. I am officially disqualified from the Perfect Pageant. I should be relieved that the pressure is off, but to be honest, I am sad about it.