Tag Archives for change

Surgical Scar Struggles

I started writing this post in early September of last fall, after taking a long look at the 11-centimeter (just over four inches) surgical scar that starts at the bottom of my belly button and makes its way down my lower abdomen on to my pelvis. When I started writing it, I was feeling optimistic because it was starting to shrink and fade, but my mood shifted as I started to think about it being a lifelong reminder of what I continue to live through. I forgot that I had started writing it until recently when I read a post on Nursing Notions site titled ‘Not Yet Defeated’ about her experience with surgery and healing.

As I wrote last September, it hit me that my scar is more than a thick, raised, itchy, line in my skin that will never completely disappear. It is a constant reminder of so much. This vertical line is evidence of the most significant attempt to resolve the suspected cause of my chronic abdominal pain and the pain that grew from it and now radiates down my legs, out into my hips, and up my back. It is a reminder that a surgical team led by one of the most skilled surgeons in my city sliced through layers of my skin, fat and muscle that protected my abdominal organs to explore the space cradled by my pelvic bones to find the growth that shouldn’t have been there and remove it. My fading surgical scar will always remind me that although the surgery wasn’t as invasive as expected and the growth was cut out, it failed to get rid of my pain.

That may be the worst thing about having to look at my scar each time I undress or every time I touch it to scratch the itch: I remember the failure. The itch tells me the scar is healing, still shrinking, while my pain remains the same. Eighteen months after my surgery, regardless of how liberally I massage rich moisturizers into my skin, the itch won’t go away. Before the creation of my scar, I had already been through so much. Now, while it sits so prominently on my lower abdomen, I continue to live with the pain and more failed treatments. I thought that was more than enough. That was until I started planning a trip where I’ll have a chance to submerge my body in saltwater then allow myself to float to the surface towards warm rays of sunshine. Then, for a moment, I felt something unexpected…

Apart from my doctors, some family members, and a few close friends, I’ve taken comfort in not having to show my scar to anyone. The thought of having anyone stare at my scar is unsettling, and I’m not ready to have it become a conversation piece. When I pulled out my swimsuit bottoms recently I unexpectedly felt overwhelmed with self-consciousness. I’m no exhibitionist but I’ve always worn fairly conservative two-piece swimsuits because a one piece/maillot reminds me of high school gym classes. This means that to enjoy the water the way I’m looking forward to I need new swimwear because everything I own puts my once scar-free abdomen on display.

After anxiously searching online for hours, I finally found bottoms that cover my abdomen all the way up to my belly button completely hiding my scar. I know that in the grand scheme of all I’m living with this probably sounds vain and superficial, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. However, it’s a big deal to me because it’s another thing, more change, for me to adjust to. My life changed the day my pain started, it changed after each inconclusive test and invasive procedure to get to a diagnosis, it changed again with the first slice of the scalpel into my flesh and each stitch to close me up, and it continues to change with each failed treatment and every handful of pain medications I swallow daily.

My scar will always be with me as a symbol of what I have to live with because of my illness. My frustration is not knowing when or how deeply, coming into awareness of more changes will affect me in the future. However, I must believe I can find ways to live with it all: this time it’s in the form of spandex and nylon swimsuit bottoms. And I’ll do whatever I can to adjust to the next change when it arrives.

New Swimsuit Bottoms

Reminded Of My Interrupted Life

A few nights ago, I went to a dinner where a dear friend of mine was one of a number of honourees recognized for her career-long contributions to our country. I felt very proud being there to witness a celebration of her achievements. She has accomplished so much in her life it takes my breath away just imagining the commitment and hard work it took for her to meet the goals she set for herself and how she kept reaching higher after meeting each of them. Her humility is also inspiring because she doesn’t see herself as having done anything exceptional beyond what was required of her to contribute to society and give back because of opportunities she was able to seize.

In my life, I was motivated to work hard and make my mark, because of what I’ve seen her do with her life. I learned from her that I could pursue a conventional 9-to-5 career, but also volunteer my time and find creative ways to use my knowledge and skills to help others. It has been wonderful learning from her example that as an ordinary person I could do so much with just the willingness and desire to make a difference. My friend is someone whose life and work I’ve been fortunate to be influenced by and I can’t think of anyone more deserving of the honour and recognition bestowed upon her at that event.

Reminded Of My Interrupted Life

However, as proud as I was to support her, being at that event was difficult for me physically and emotionally. In the three years since I’ve been ill, my career and plans have been on hold. The issues I had chosen to focus on and put my efforts and energies behind to make changes within are moving forward without my contributions. The few moments where my work gained recognition seem so far behind me. With each painful passing day, I am losing touch with people and the progress they are making to affect tangible changes in the world. All of this was amplified as I ate my dinner choice, while trying hard to focus on all the conversation and activity around me for a painfully long four hours.

It’s been hard to accept that the life I planned for myself has changed so drastically. Instead of days bustling with activity to deliver services and resources to people in need of them, I now spend my time working hard to stay awake through the haze of pain medications and building tolerance to bear my pain. I’ve been trying to figure out ways I can still contribute and affect change, without breaching the contract of my disability benefits, but that isn’t really my biggest obstacle: my body is. How can I take part in the industry I wanted to change so significantly without working as hard as I know is required? How can I clear the fog from my mind long enough to work on lengthy projects or deliver coherent presentations or research issues? Just thinking about the demands of the work exhausts me and raises my awareness to the presence of my pain.

Furthermore, I don’t know how long I can be away from my career before what my education and experience taught me become obsolete. I don’t know when I will fade from the memories of the many people I worked with, shared ideas and helped to stay hopeful. I don’t know if I can be satisfied with my past contributions knowing I may not be able to make more. I don’t know when this unexpected interruption in my life will end, but I do know that when it does, it will be hard work getting back on track to where I was once projected to go.

 

McFadden & Whitehead – Ain’t No Stopping Us Now

 

I Have No Ass

This may be the vainest thing I have or will ever write. I have no ass. I just discovered this while trying to find an outfit to wear to a family dinner later today. Since becoming ill my weight has fluctuated quite a bit. I’m a small woman to begin with – average height and slim athletic build – so losing weight is not something that I ever strived toward achieving. My weight has held steady all these years to what I weighed toward the end of high school and at university. I’ve always been active and never gone on a diet, but I’m always mindful that I can lose weight with a bad bout of the flu or extreme stress, so I’ve always tried to eat well. I’m also hypoglycemic, which adds another layer of concern about always keeping my body fueled.

Last year a friend I’ve known since university came to visit me while he was in town for a few days. He told me some months later that after he left my home he cried. He cried because of how thin I was from my illness. He said the shock of seeing me so thin and sickly overwhelmed him, and his emotions overcame him. It surprised me when he told me that and it frightened me a bit too. Surprised because in all the years I’ve known him he never once before told me of any situation that made him cry; and frightened because I obviously wasn’t seeing what everyone else was. I knew I’d lost weight because my clothes, especially my pants and jeans, didn’t fit well and I was always pulling them up, but I didn’t’ think I looked so thin it could evoke that kind of reaction from someone.

Now I’m not as thin as I was last year, but as I try to find something to wear, sorting through my clothes to find clothing other than jeans, sweat pants or shorts, it’s upsetting that I can’t find anything that doesn’t make me look like a pole. I’ve lost the shapeliness of my body. I no longer look fit and athletic. Realistically, I probably haven’t looked that way for a long time. The fact is, because of my pain I’ve been more concerned with comfort than looking attractive when I dress over the last couple of years, so noticing how my body looks as I try to find clothes that fit well today is a bit of a shock.

My body has changed so much and it happened right in front of my eyes without me noticing.

 

Thomas Rhett – South Side