Anyone who knows me decently well knows I am a classic first born child: achiever, leader, organizer, responsible, and perfectionist. As I have gotten older, a few of these traits have developed into spidey-senses, like my vision for imprecision. I can tell when a picture is crooked (and I will go straighten it; where appropriate), when a wall needs the paint re-trimmed (and I will go grab the paint & brush to smooth the line; where appropriate), when my hand-lettering isn’t on point (and I will attempt to correct it or start over; this is always appropriate), or when I notice someone who put pink eyelashes on their car but one is missing (and I will not do anything; this is never appropriate). Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate asymmetrical things too – like the seven hydrangea bushes surrounding my porch but only the three on the east side are blooming. I also enjoy things that are worn, tried, and in need of repair – like the pallet wood sitting on my porch ready to be reworked. In the end, when I see things, I also feel things – aesthetics brings joy, encouragement, beauty, and even pain to the beholder.
I felt a lot of things nearly two months ago when I was in post-op recovery for a surprise…wait for it…hysterectomy (see The Binder.). I don’t remember too much from that stay and I am sure even what I do remember isn’t how it really happened (thanks, morphine). But this is how I recount one, excellent memory:
After two nights in the hospital, I finally managed to get up and use the restroom…by myself! I was cognizant enough to want to check out my incision and still drugged up enough to want to check out my incision. I was significantly swollen and my larger-than-ever belly would have to be repositioned a bit so I could see the damage. After carefully moving it, there it was – stitches, glue, and all. And it was off-centered. Immediately, I yell, “OH NOOO!”. My sister rushed to the door and asked me if everything was okay, to which I loudly replied, “It’s crooked!!”. Yep – the incision was not centered. Not just sort of, but at least a half an inch or more. It’s almost like they had opened me up 7″ then realized that wasn’t enough so went ahead and kept going. Why not?!
This may not seem like a big deal to some, but to someone who loves exactness – this was the worst. I can’t really correct it, smooth it out, or start over, so what was left? Laughing was what was left. Sure, why not have a forever scar that will constantly remind me to relinquish control and expectations of perfection – even things I had never thought of or considered?! I feel like there were other ways to learn that lesson, as it has been one I have been experiencing over and over again this year. But, I am also stubborn and hard-headed so I probably do need this sort of measure, no pun intended, to get my attention.
Even as the stitches dissolved, the glue washed away, and with Mederma being applied daily – it is still crooked. It will always be crooked. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. This scar of mine shares a beautiful story of perseverance, faith, and a God who is faithful. And it’s funny.