Stitched Together

Stitched Together Nov 2 2012

I was recently asked if I experience any resentment about my often chaotic childhood.  This is an important question because I spend my days working with adolescents, many of whom have faced unspeakable trauma and horrific abuse, and when you work with those who have known such pain, it is important know your own emotions.  

I answered the question with an immediate and very firm, “No.”  I did not have to think about the question because I had spent many years trapped in the emotional bondage of my past and I can honestly say that I am at peace with it.  But how did I go from that frightened, unhappy little girl to the confident, joy-filled woman I am today?  I learned to love and accept my scars.

And now I have a brand new scar that I’m learning to love.

Three months ago from this very day I underwent cardiac surgery to stitch up a hole in my heart.  In the spring I was told that my heart had a defect that was making it work far more than it wanted to, and they could see the beginning signs of damage.  So I spent my summer vacation having my sternum cut in two, my lungs deflated and my heart stopped so that a talented team of surgeons could play seamstress.

I’m not going to lie: it sucked.

There is nothing good about being cut open, and there is nothing fun or glamorous about spending 10 days in the hospital wondering if my heart was going to remember how to beat.  Recovery has been slow and steady, but I figure that I lived 43 years with a giant hole in my heart, I can pretty much survive anything.  I have learned a lot about the power of keeping a positive perspective and about sheer, undaunted determination.

As grateful as I am for the work of my incredible medical team for fixing my heart, there is still the matter of scars.  There is the giant one down the center of my chest, the triad of round marks on my neck where various IV lines and monitors were, and the occasional dots and dashes that decorate my midsection to mark the intrusion of tubes and electrical wires that kept me connected to lifesaving machines.  Each scar that remains was once a necessary incision that reminds me how blessed I am to be here today with a perfectly functioning heart.

Every single scar tells a part of the story of who I am.  Each mark is a milestone along the journey to become the person that I am proud to be, just as my emotional and mental scars are.  We are not whole and complete beings at birth - we are an amalgamation of our experiences stitched together with the ongoing threads of time.

My past has not always been pretty.  The days of my youth were smattered with physical violence and emotional damage that took a long time to heal, but I did eventually heal because I found a way to integrate those pieces into me without the feelings of guilt that can sometimes make us ashamed of who we are.  

I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination and I’m certainly not done growing up and figuring out the many different facets of who I am, and I’m okay with that.  I’m okay with not having had a perfect childhood because forgiveness of others is an amazing gift that only you can give yourself. 

I have lots of scars now; some physical and some invisible to the human eye, but I've grown to appreciate them because they are all a part of me and I kinda like me.  I like that I can empathize with those who have known tragic times.  I like that I have enough compassion to try and see people for who they are without judgment or prejudice.  I like that I laugh at silly things and that I can find joy in even the tiniest of accomplishments.  I like that the people who love me think that I’m worth the effort.

It’s been a long three months since I was cut open like a boiled lobster, but now I have the chance to be a lot more me, and that's certainly worth some pain and suffering along the way.  So here’s to another 43 years of scars, stitches, and becoming the best of me.