Curvilinear

One of the first steps of any autopsy is an external examination. We begin at the head, working our way down the body noting normalities and abnormalities. Injuries. And scars. I remember learning in my training all of the different ways you could describe a scar. Well-healed. Puckered. Linear. Each depiction representing the depth and shape of the cut that took place, and the different phases of healing. I remember being at the medical examiner and seeing a wavy scar that rose and fell like the ocean for the first time. I ran through my bank of scar terminology and could not land on any of them. I mustered up the humility to ask a Medical Examiner what he would call this not-so-linear scar. He paused, only briefly, but felt like eternity, as I did a quick permission to forgive myself for not knowing how to describe this scar. And then it melodically rolled off his tongue. Curvilinear, he called it. A type of scar that was not linear due to the location, the intricacy, and the type of closure necessary for healing.

It may be easy to read a blog like this and see a linear progression of events equals a linear path to healing. One post to the next, unfolding a picture of boxes checked, moving from the worst to best versions of your life. But just like the rise and fall of the ocean waves, our scars, our healing journeys, are never the same. They are intricate; never clear cut or well-defined. But our scars do tell a story.

Like the time I was in Austin, standing in a gift shop holding something that caught my eye and a man walked behind me wearing my then husbands cologne. I was traveling solo and wearing a new yoga outfit having just come from a local studio, feeling confident and zen. The scent of this cologne was too painfully strong. Without warning, my tears started embarrassingly and unavoidably flowing down my face. I could not stop them. Grieving had just started to really surface, and the sudden onset of crying in public was a new and uncomfortable experience. I rushed out of the store and back to my hotel room, as the rise and fall of my newly sutured scar whispered: I am so proud of you for getting out today.

Or the times I would sit on my kitchen counter in my little apartment as I heated up my aromatherapy neck wrap that I would routinely take to bed, placing drops of lavender oil behind my ears and on my wrists while swallowing melatonin and asking God for a peaceful night’s sleep. My puckered, healing scar whispering: Thank you for taking care of you today.

The time I was rushing home from work to go see a comedy show with my now partner, and the southern humidity had taken its toll on my natural head of curls. I stripped off my scrubs and into the outfit I had laid out, glanced in the mirror and could not bring myself to open the bathroom door. How could he be seen with me, with my hair like this? How could I have thought this would be okay? A soft knock and the door opened, as he reminds me dinner is getting cold and says, “Wow…you look amazing.” My well-healed scar whispering: You are beautiful, just the way you are.

Our healing is never linear.

There are many days, weeks, lonely nights and walks, drop to your knees crying sessions and faithful breakthroughs in between our scars healing, dear partner. But they do tell a story. What are your scars saying? Whispering?

I survived.

I am heal-ing.

I am here.