Saturday I went running through town, down along the bike path, out to the pier and back. When I returned, there was an angry red line on the edges of the nubby, knotty tissue that makes up my thyroidectomy scar, usually hidden in plain sight from all but the most adept and studious observers. It felt raw to the touch, like it had been rubbed and whittled down to lose all texture so as to match the surrounding smooth, pale skin once again. I had lathered on the SPF 50 Sport all over my face and neck, plus I donned my wide-brim blue hat for insurance. So it couldn’t have been sunburn.
When I arrived at the pier, sweaty and famished, I stopped for iced coffee and a snack. Once inside the cafe, I removed my hat and let it hang down my back, the cord tight across the front of my neck. It was busier than usual, owing to a beach volleyball tournament going on below, and I must have spent 15 or 20 minutes inside, which combined with my intra-run sweat, must have rubbed the scar and created the burn. I never felt it. Instead, when I arrived home, I looked in the mirror and saw my private scar go public yet again, announcing itself with anger on the edges of my strap muscles.
I always see my scar when I look in the mirror. It does not matter if I am in a fitting room, at home, the gym, or in the bathroom. It is the first thing I see when I look at myself. My scar hurts. If I touch it and push on it, I physically recoil. I want to jump out of my skin and scream! I pat it dry, no rubbing, ever. The interventional radiologist wanted to put his biopsy needle through it seven years ago to gain access to a lymph node, and I refused to allow it.
When I initially acquired the scar, I put Mederma on it everyday,with the wish and the hope that it would disappear. The first time I saw my therapist after the surgery, she claimed to not be able to see it. She had been away in Australia for so long that I was biopsied, diagnosed, and operated on while she was away- nothing about me physically seemed amiss. Perhaps she was being polite, or was just clueless. Six months after my surgery, I was introduced to my new boss; she looked right at my scar and was not at all covert about it. I was taken aback but appreciated her honesty.
Owing to the excellent placement of the incision in the ring of my neck, my keeping it out of the sun, and perhaps my copious, daily use of Mederma, my scar all but disappeared from public sight. This was what I wanted. It was what I thought I wanted. To move on, “to get back to what you were doing before,” as Dr. Overinvolved said at the post-op, to make it fade so light and so far it would be just like it none of it ever happened at all.
I wish my scar was loud and obvious, announcing itself and my misfortune to the world. Then it would be a fleshy carved billboard that excuses my underachieving, my loneliness, my inertia to the outside word. It was the only physical manifestation of thyroid cancer my body would ever bear and it seemed I couldn’t even do that right.
The edges of my scar are peeling now, little bits of dead skin roll of it when I touch it, and it has faded from red and back to its mottled, nubby, knobby, touchy self. Sometimes I get a sharp pain on the far right edge of it. But it’s just a little kick, as opposed to the bold electric shocks I felt for the first year that would jolt my entire body into attention. This was the sensation of the nerves regenerating, according to my medical textbooks. My nerves, if you will, did not regenerate as everyone else wanted, nor did I “get back to what you were doing before.” Those nerves were tenuously reunited. Every once in awhile enough electricity flows through them that I seem daring and brave, but inside I know the truth.