Counting My Scars

What remains after the worst thing happens

Like most cancer survivors, I’ve collected my fair share of scars since being diagnosed.

Before, the only scars I bore were a ridge above the heel of my left foot, the result of stepping on broken glass when I was 5, and a tiny indentation on my forehead, a remnant from a childhood bout with chicken pox.

But in the last two years, I’ve quickly added to this collection.

I’m surprised by how at peace I feel about these new marks on my body. I used to place an inordinate amount of pressure on myself to look a certain way, to be considered “pretty”—a painful and obsessive concern. Over time, I realized I would never be pretty enough, because the goalposts were always moving.

Cancer forced me to release the control I thought I had over my outward appearance, and it’s been freeing. Now, when I look in the mirror and see the scars left behind from treatment, all I see is someone who is still here, still alive. Without those scars, that wouldn’t be the case. Seen in that light, being pretty fades in importance.

Here’s an inventory of my scars. Maybe you’d like to share yours, too?

My Mastectomy Scar

My daughter’s bear keeping me company during treatment

About 6 inches long, starting near the center of my chest, just below my right breastbone, and stretching across to my right armpit.

I see it every day, when I take off my top to get in the shower, when I get dressed in the morning, and when I change into my swimsuit at the local pool. It’s turned white over time, a streak of lightning.

I let my children see it, too. At first I worried it might be strange or disturbing, but I decided that it was nothing to be ashamed of, and I wanted them to know that. I don’t parade around with the scar on show—I simply choose not to hide it from them if they happen to be nearby.

I hope it sends the message that you don’t need to be perfect to be loved. If I choose to get reconstruction, which is still a big if, my scar will still be there, cutting across my new, silicone breast. But I don’t mind—the scar is the reason why I’m still here. That makes us friends for life.

My Chemo Port Scar

This one is a small horizontal line, right above my left collarbone.

Before you start chemotherapy, a surgeon places a port in your chest. It’s a small device inserted under the skin that gives doctors easy, repeated access to a vein without constant needle sticks.

During my mastectomy, my surgeon made the small incision above my collarbone, before snaking the circular port and tube downward, where it rested for nearly two years.

Last month, I finally had it removed. I used to absentmindedly run my thumb around the outline of the port, which would bring me comfort and also make me feel a little queasy. Now it’s gone, but the scar remains. Instead of feeling for the port, my fingers now trace the raised path that got left behind.

My Biopsy Scar

A small discoloration, a muddy puddle, on my lower back.

After I’d completed chemo and was in the midst of radiation, my white blood cell count remained worryingly low. This was an issue that plagued me throughout treatment, and forced me to delay chemo at various points in an effort to get the count back up. If your white blood cell count is low, your body has a hard time fighting off infection.

My oncologist was convinced the low count was due to my body still recovering from the harsh chemo drugs, but there was a very slight chance it was a sign of blood cancer. In rare cases, chemo can cause leukemia. [Yes, you can treat one form cancer but create an entirely new one as a result]. Cancer is a grab bag of surprises.

So she sent me to an oncologist specializing in blood cancer. He looked over my blood tests and decided there and then to take a bone marrow biopsy from my back.

A spontaneous biopsy is not something I’d wish on anyone.

I was instructed to lie face down, and he proceeded to give me a shot to numb the pain. It worked, but I was uncomfortably aware of him digging deep into my lower back, scraping out my cells. Although it only lasted five minutes, it felt much longer, and I was relieved when it was over. For days after I hobbled around, my back aching.

Luckily, I didn’t have leukemia, but the scar from that biopsy remains.

My Oophorectomy Scar

This is a new one, just 5 weeks old. It’s a purple crescent moon inside my bellybutton, accompanied by two tiny slits, like what you might find atop a cherry pie, on either side above my hip bone.

My mother died of ovarian cancer, so my oncologist suggested I remove my ovaries to both lower my risk of breast cancer recurrence and reduce my risk for developing ovarian cancer, which is notoriously difficult to detect. Once it’s finally discovered, it’s often too late.

My ovaries and fallopian tubes were removed via my belly button, while the two small incisions on the sides served as entry points for the camera and instruments used during the surgery.

All three of these scars will fade and disappear over time.

My IV Scar

A permanent bruise sits in the crease of my left elbow.

Even though I’m done with active treatment, I still have blood taken every 2–4 weeks to monitor my counts, and a PET scan every six months—which means another IV each time. I had cancerous lymph nodes removed from under my right arm, which makes it more vulnerable to swelling and infection, so I can never have blood drawn from that arm again.

That leaves only three usable veins in my left arm, and they’ve been poked and prodded dozens of times. Techs often struggle to find one that will cooperate, but it’s the only option they have.

I think of those veins as tired and damaged, and during a draw I look longingly at the bulging vein on my right arm, ripe with blood.

The Scar No One Can See

What most people don’t realize is that cancer isn’t over once treatment ends. I remember very clearly the day an oncologist friend told me that cancer is akin to managing a lifelong chronic illness. My heart sank at the news. I thought I would beat it and move on with my life. But there are the years of pills, the annual scans, the monthly blood tests, the ever-present fear that the cancer will return.

Alongside all this is the long, slow process of picking up the pieces of your life following treatment. My oncologist likens it to the aftermath of a hurricane.

Something I’m learning is that I wouldn’t wish any of these scars away. I’m not sure I would go so far as to say I’m glad I got cancer, but I also can’t imagine who I’d be without it. I’m clearer now, more sure of what matters and what doesn’t. And when I look in the mirror, I see a survivor, and I’m grateful to see her still standing there.

What scars do you have? What stories do they tell?