My chest is sliced open from the top of my sternum to the bottom of my bra line.
I can’t move my arms.
I can’t sleep in my bed.
I can’t walk standing up straight.
I can’t lift anything heavier than a pencil or open a car door — or even sneeze.
For nearly two months — TWO MONTHS! — that was my life.
Nothing in life is more inconvenient than open heart surgery.
Well, I mean that’s kind of an obvious statement, but what else can I say about how that
surgery turned my life upside down? And the only good thing about that experience? I ate ice cream for three days straight because ice cream was the only thing I could stomach without throwing up.
And for those two months, I would tell myself things to keep myself in a good headspace — and to prevent myself from spiraling.
Spiraling because I felt so alone. Who could I possibly talk to about how my heart is gonna be on bypass for three hours. Or how my life could possibly never be the same again if my doctor so much as sneezes at the wrong time. Or how I’ll miss a huge chunk of my junior year. I felt like no one in the world knew how I felt, and I was completely and utterly alone.
Two months before the surgery, during a Monday night band practice, Mr. Sutton was repping this one specific set. It just so happened to be the set where I ran up the stairs of our prop. Every time he said “All right, let’s do it again,” I felt my chest tighten and my breathing become harder.
I decided I needed a break and sat down on the side lines, watching my peers do something I excelled at — something I loved. Even through the humid air I felt tears roll down my cheeks as the realization hit me. This might be my last time doing something I love.
And after my surgery, one of the big things I’d tell myself — “wounds heal.”
I tell myself “wounds heal” when I looked at the gaping red line down my chest, or the
suture scars in my wrists and neck, or the humpback I developed from sitting in a recliner for a month.
Even after my chest healed, and the scars faded, and my humpback went away, I’d still tell myself “wounds heal.”
Wounds heal.
Wounds heal.
Wounds heal.
They’re not healing.
They’re still here.
I’m stuck.
I needed a new phrase.
“Wounds heal, but scars stay” — a saying to make me come to terms with the fact my
heart surgery wasn’t gonna go away in a few days.
No, my heart surgery will be with me for the rest of my life — whether I like that fact or
not.
And my little saying — instead of having a positive effect, — made me feel awful about myself.

My first prom picture — scar. My last homecoming — scar. My wedding day — scar. My
18th birthday — scar.
Every moment I was looking forward to since I was a little girl erased from the white board and redrawn with a scar — a reminder of trauma.
At the end of my junior year, my perspective changed again.
During my first swim of the summer, the sun’s blazing, and the UV index is at least 10.
I’ve taped on this UGLY scar tape down the center of my chest to prevent my scar from
becoming disfigured whenever I am out in the sun.
I finish my swim, pull off the tape, feel the adhesive sting as it yanks from my scar.
Weird.
Weird because until that pull, my scar felt numb from the damaged nerves.
And weirder — I feel happy, feel glad my scar stings.
I can feel my chest again — my wound’s healed.
Now my scar’s a reminder — not of the trauma I went through.
Now my scar’s a reminder that I survived.
I SURVIVED
I think back to the last day of school before the surgery. I wasn’t nervous — up until the very last class period. I’m sitting in the uniform room with Addison Fry. We’re sitting on the floor talking to each other, then the bell rang. I put my head in my hands, looked up at her and started bawling.
Through sobs I said “I can’t do this.”
I’ve known her since the second grade, and she’s gotten me through some of the hardest parts of my life.
I hadn’t opened up about my fears to anyone yet, but she held my hand and told me — “You’re so much stronger than anything that scares you.”
And as usual, she’s right.
I’m okay — I’m more than okay.
And I’m thankful, so thankful, I can feel my scar on my chest — feel it when I want to.
No more Advil to make the pain go away.
I’m not in pain anymore.
I’m not sad anymore.
I’m not resentful toward the surgeon who cut me open, toward my parents I crazily
blame for my heart problems, toward God for putting me through this trauma.
I’m content — with the life given to me.
And I thank God everyday that my wounds healed, but my scar stayed.