Always Something There to Remind Me
By LaTesha Sylman – Lee
His eyes closed, I watch him catch his breath and drift into a light slumber. He snores slightly and my mind wanders. I am now instantly annoyed. Not with him but the reality of what has just transpired. As my womb no longer houses a uterus, his ejaculation was carefree and fearless. Safe in the knowledge that I will never bring forth life with this broken body. His little swimmers are free to sit inside me with no real destination, no purpose. Useless, wasteful.
If I am being truthful with myself, I am a little annoyed with him also. He is compassionate to my plight but not fully capable of understanding it. He never wanted children anyway. So, this situation is a win for him. I don’t escape my mind’s pain, as there is always something there to remind me that I will always be childless.
Trace the trail of blemishes that run across my pelvic area and reach the northern regions of my abdomen. These undelightful little marks are my battle scars. Reminders of the great battle for my uterus and my future as a mother. A battle lost. No amount of cocoa butter, shea butter or vitamin E oil will erase what took place here. These scars speak of a long bloody war that spanned two decades. Each slice of the scalpel carved my flesh deeply, leaving me with staple repaired skin.
My flesh is not the only thing pierced. My innards scooped out in ice cream fashion. I hold within me a hollow womb surrounded by fibrous bands that form between tissues and organs. Its government name: Adhesions, aka Scar Tissue. These ever-growing scars wreak sticky havoc inside me. They do not stay put on the damaged area. Instead, they spread out causing an even bigger crime scene. Inside my body, I am constantly reminded of the lost battle with every sticky tissue.
Alas, the scalpel blade still cuts deeper and pierces my mind, my womanhood, and my spirit. IST (Internal Scar Trauma) affects the brain. These scars are the worst. The scabs are constantly falling away exposing the wounds. The memories of lost dreams live there, bringing a pain that never really goes away. It sits in my face, rests on my shoulders and lives in my heart. Am I actually the one holding on to it or is it holding on to me?
In the mirror, I trace the traumatic road map that is my body and say, “My battle scars tell the story of my survival.” I say it aloud so my skin will feel better. I whisper it and smile so my innards will feel better. I think it so my mind will retreat from self-pity…because I am Rahab, too.
I have to comment but have little words; I have not walked your walk to know but I felt the connection from the depth you were speaking from. Thank you and God bless you!