Brush Strokes - My Body is A Canvas of Scars & “Scars” - 11/16/22

My body is a painter's canvas stretched on bone, not wood. My scars are its brush strokes. A collection telling a story of strength and resilience, as well as the trials and tribulations of my life.

Some strokes were created accidentally, but others with purpose. They were very well-intentioned and deliberately made by Doctors' hands. I own each of them. As I run my fingers across them, tracing the change in the texture of my skin, I can recall their particular stories. Some are healing strokes. Others are more invasive to rid my body of a disease that found its home in my breasts. They were created to save my life and hopefully prevent the disease from returning.

However, some brush strokes on my body illustrate my adult life. They are a part of my canvas and tell an additional element of my life story. A story of my emotions, feelings, and personal growth. So why do some people frown and shake their heads at such artistic scars? They must not understand why someone would want to scar themselves in such a manner. Reflecting raw emotions and experiences from within themselves onto their body with such stunning beauty and meaning forever. These brush strokes heal differently.

A set of double black lines twist and intertwine as our lives have over the years. We started as two and eventually became one. The flowing lines do not stop, and they have no end. They form a beautiful heart that symbolizes the love and promises that we keep. Two small circles reside in the center of the heart. They are the two lives we created and are charged with nurturing and protecting. They are our purpose, our reason, and our whole world.

My rock, my friend, and always my guardian. As he took his last breath and his soul left this world, I held his hand, looking into his beautiful brown eyes. His death created an extensive void in my heart that will never be repaired. Yet, I carry with me a reminder of his love. Beautiful script loops of his penmanship make the words "my love, Pop" forever on my wrist. It is a reminder that he is always with me and words that have helped me through some challenging parts of my life.

A butterfly symbolizes transformation and hope. A metamorphosis from a caterpillar and its drab existence into a gorgeous creature. In many cultures, it is a symbol of rebirth. It signifies the emergence of life after an incredibly dark time. We struggled as a family, endured his pain together, cried, and supported him as he fought the demons in his mind. Slowly we emerged out of the cocoon of protection we had created around him as we began to see the light. Its colors are bright and bold. Yellows, oranges, and reds. A beautiful creature with wings opens wide, gently and gracefully flying away, taking the ugly past with it. The veins in its wings form the handwritten initials of our names.

Badges of distinction. A prize that was my focus and something I held in my sites for a year. They are a way to mark the day's importance. The day I could say, "I am a one-year Survivor." They signify that I am stronger than I ever thought I could be. I am a member of a club that no one ever wants to join, yet we are thrust into its membership. I am a lifetime member of a sisterhood. These strokes prove that I did not succumb to the threat that tried to kill me and robbed me of every organ that made me a woman. So, there are not one but two! Because if you're going to do it, why not go all out?

Carefully chosen script adorns each of my forearms. Their reflections are seen in the mirror- daily reminders. I am not in charge of my future and accept my fate. I keep going no matter how many times I fall down, and like a lotus flower, I have risen from the darkness as a beautiful bloom. I am alive and will continue to be until the very end.

My canvas is still in progress. But that is the beauty of it. I am a work of art that will continue to grow, evolve, and change. As my life unfolds, my canvas will become even more beautiful. Brushstrokes will be added and collected until the final one is made, and nothing is left to tell of my story.