Scars & Bras [GRAPHIC]

WARNING THIS POST HAS GRAPHIC PICTURES OF SCARS!

SCAR IMAGES CAN IGNITE REACTIONARY RESPONSES THAT MIGHT MAKE YOU WANT TO SCREAM, RUN, FAINT OR YELL “SWEET MERCY MY EYES!!” AT THE HEAVENS WITH CLENCHED ANGRY FISTS. Consider yourselves warned!!

Doctors, hospitals, sternotomy, pain, pain pills, new pulmonary valve, healing, bleeding, bruises, hospital beds, IV’s, drainage tubes, stitches, surgical glue, scars. All of these are part of the journey of open-heart surgery and if you are lucky you go home, recover and move on with your life. I am, for the second time in my life, one of the lucky ones. Fortunately for me my guardian angels have nerves of titanium and are contractually bound to perform 25 hour per day shifts. Plus one of them once told me he looked like George Clooney, so clearly they must have a sense of humour. (But that is an entirely other story)

The nervousness leading up to and the discomfort of the immediate reality after OHS and the slow healing process are the hardest parts. But another, little discussed area for us women is when you delve into the really exciting territory of true horror: the first time wearing a bra. Hell knows no fury like a bra strap rubbing on a fresh Sternotomy scar. The double-edged sword is that at a size 36D bust, the problem of NOT wearing a bra is almost just as troublesome. Damn you both to a fiery grave, you large, unruly bosoms. When I was shy and self-conscious about my scar as a child, mum joked that my skinny flat chested frame would eventually hide my scar in big busted cleavage. She was right and I should remember to high five her for hereditary genetics the next time I see her.

I didn’t wear an actual bra for the first 2.5 weeks after surgery. The majority of my time was spent sitting, lying down and resting with the professional commitment of a corpse. I mostly wore those tank-tops with the built in ‘support’ piece for the first little while, which helped somewhat and mum and I even hijacked a string bikini top – while the front of that proved to be very comfortable the obligatory knot around the back and around the neck is infinitely more uncomfortable when you are sitting around indoors, in winter under layers of clothes and not lounging on a sunny beach or poolside. The bikini top was a failure and the tank top didn’t provide a great deal of support.

Having my first scar since the age of five created a deep emotional bond and fundamental associations of normalcy, because I was ‘wearing it’ for the better part of the last 31 years – I honesty can’t remember a time when it was not there. It was something that I spent many prepubescent childhood years trying to hide, until self-confidence and self-assuredness blossomed and I finally learned to respect it like the badge of honour that it was. F@ck swimming in a t-shirt over my swimsuit. Here is my scar, deal with it.

I was a tiny warrior at the age of five in my first surgery and as I grew my scar did too. Elongated with time, it stretched with the strength of my growing torso as I morphed from a small sized human into an adult. The miracle of the human body should never be discounted. During post surgery complications I had an emergency drainage tube inserted in my then tiny side rib, as I grew the scar moved to a new location under my right boob. So naturally I had a white ink tattoo run down from it. Because I can do whatever I want and white tattoos are excellent.

Having a 9″ scar down my chest was as much a ‘normal’ part of my body as it was an integral part of my identity. I had survived something remarkable and this was my trophy to prove it. I loved my old scar, it was imperfect and perfect and thick and thin and awesome and weird and flat and narrow in parts and wide at one little spot at the top where I would accidentally hit it on my desk at school. I could never look down or into a mirror without the reminder that it was there and as a result so was I.

Leading up to my recent surgery I was apprehensive about a lot of things. One of those things that jumped often on my carnival carousel of cornered thoughts and stressors was having to say goodbye to this ‘part’ of me and the wonder of what this new technologically advanced, non 31 year stretched version of my sternum would look like. The same lines but different. Sliced forever in permanence and memory. How to be sure I would recognise myself?

You would think I would have had more pressing concerns to ponder. The things we hold onto in sentiment are truly astonishing.

 

 

SECOND WARNING: don’t scroll any further if you don’t like scars!

 

 

 

The next pictures are truly horrible.

 

 

 

Seriously, I warned you. (this is my sister Trudy, she is rubbish)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ok fine, here are the real scar images….
This was my scar for 31 years.

 

 

This is my new scar through the various incarnations of healing over the last 5 weeks, I am learning to love and appreciate the reason I have it. We aren’t totally best friends yet because it is raw, sore, scabby and a delicate, fresh reminder that I have to heal and be slow. My love for it is reluctant to build, but I am grateful and we will get there. When it heals it will be ‘neater’ than my last one and probably a lot less weird-looking. Though oddly, I do secretly miss the haphazard, warped version of my old scar.

 

I probably always will.

 

 

The End.

I hope you are not blind.

 

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