What's in a Scar?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
I am sitting almost cross-legged on my couch. The comfy gaucho pants that have become a nighttime staple for me throughout summer have fallen above my knees.
For some reason, the sight startles me.
I have, what are quite possibly, the most unsightly set of knees of someone of my age. Or, of someone of any age, for that matter.
But these knees and I have a special relationship. As unattractive as they might be, I’ve never shied away from them. Never did I refuse to wear a skirt or shorts or a dress – even to prom. Never have I apologized for their appearance.
Usually I don’t give them a passing glance. But just as when a word that you’ve used your whole life suddenly looks foreign on the page, the knees suddenly looked that way to me.
Perhaps it’s because, tonight, the summer tan that usually helps to mask them has long since faded, and the many scars – a finger’s width and length each – that surround these knees stand out even whiter now against my skin. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen them less and less with the onslaught of recent cold weather. Or, perhaps, it’s because I’m going to be expecting a whole lot of them in the coming year.
As I trace the unsightly scars with my fingers, I think about the two surgeries I had on one – a scope to remove cartilage and then a reconstruction of my ACL and MCL – and the three on the other – a scope, a reconstruction, and then another surgery to remove a screw, designed to keep “new” ACL in place, that in a move of independence, wanted out.
I think about how, after blowing out my first knee, I ran disjointedly around one of the top floors of the Embassy Suites in Green Bay before my first appointment with the surgeon, trying – irrationally – to convince myself that if it didn’t hurt all that much, then I wasn’t injured that badly. I think about waking up from surgery each time, my leg in a mechanical cradle that bent it up and down to encourage range of motion – the pain of which made me alternately sick to my stomach and whish that they’d just taken the whole thing off altogether. About the torturous early morning and afternoon sessions of physical therapy that seemed to last an eternity. About others questioning if I’d ever ski race or run or do any number of things again.
And about how it was something I never seemed to question. I always believed, even in the most painful of times, that these knees would work again. I was diligent in my physical therapy until my knees became useful again, at which point I purposely treated them poorly. I didn’t take Advil when they ached and didn’t ice them nearly as much as I should have. I stopped wearing my braces far sooner than was recommended. I tried not to go out too soft for their sake during dryland training or in those first few ski races back.
And they rebelled. They screamed at me, day in and day out. But eventually the screaming became more of a whimper, until lately, when it has died out all together.
This year, I trained for a marathon, all the while expecting them to quit on me. But they easily carried me through five months of training, and then the marathon itself. They were dependable and they were strong.
It wasn’t until then that I had enough confidence in them to commit myself to an Ironman. But they seem to be on board now. And in return, I’ve made a promise to them – to gain a greater appreciation of swimming and biking so as to help deliver them from the pounding of frequent runs as we grow older, together.
Singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen wrote that “Children show scars like medals…a scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.” These scarred knees are my medals – a record of where I’ve been and who I am. They are mine, and I am glad for it.
Posted by Erin 1:39 PM