This latest bout of surgery has granted me a fresh new set of scars – six from the laparoscopy (was supposed to be five – was there a bonus round?) and one from the chest tube they had to insert after my lung had issues. That brings my grand total to, um, no clue. I don’t exactly keep track. A few from the appendectomy, a few more from the cholecystectomy, one really big one from the hysterectomy, a smaller one from the catheter I had for that, and now the newest additions. A lot of scars. It makes me wonder what kind of picture I could make if I played connect-the-dots on my torso. I should find that out some day.
Having all of these scars made me think of one thing – wearing a bikini is a part of my past. It seems a logical conclusion. Even if I get my body back to where I want it to be – which I intend to do – I have so many scars that my body is not something I should want to show off. Right?
Silly me. I’ve been spending years telling the kids that they should be proud of their bodies, scars and all. Apparently the lecture has penetrated their brains and not mine. When I mentioned the other day that my time in a bikini was done, the HTR looked at me and said “So what if you have a few scars?”
Right. That. Exactly what I would tell them if our places were traded.
Guess I have a goal for next summer.