When I look at my scar, it says “remember”.
Remember how you waited your whole life to give birth to a baby…and then didn’t get to.
Remember how you joked with the doctor that you didn’t know what a contraction feels like…and still don’t.
Remember how happy and comfy and unstressed the baby was in your belly, for all that she was head up and had “low” fluid levels.
Remember how much you cried about not being able to have a natural birth.
When I touch my scar, it says “I know you didn’t want me, so I will try to hide. I will heal smooth and soft, thanks to all of that vitamin E oil you rubbed on me. You will not be able to feel me except where the skin feels new. I will not pull on your insides when you move, I will only be a little bit numb, I will not hurt.”
It’s too bad that the hurt is still there, inside.
On The Shape of a Mother, I called my scar “a badge of membership in an exclusive club.” My words made others feel better about their scars. But the truth is, every time somebody I know gives birth, I still feel the bitter ache inside that I did not get to experience that. Their innocent comments about labor and pushing are like knives in my heart. Every time I think that I have accepted the cesarean, the hurt just comes sneaking back. I am consumed with the thought of a VBAC, impatient with having to wait two years to find out if I can do it.
I did not realize until I took this picture that my scar is all but invisible. It is not the scar I have a problem with, it is the surgery that put it there.