It spans across my lower belly: a thin line of translucent
white, fringed with red, curving slightly upward on either end. It stretches
and contracts with the gentle rise and fall of my breathing, widening like a
smile.
And I can’t help smiling back.
Because when I look at this scar, I don’t see a flaw.
I see perfection. I see a portal to another world: a place
filled with love, life, security—a nourishing utopia, where you formed your
perfect little nose, your perfect little cheeks, the perfect little wrinkle
between your eyebrows, all ten perfect little fingers, and all ten perfect
little toes.
I don’t see deformity.
I see beauty. I see a tattoo that extends all the way to my
heart and connects it to yours. I see your soul, your vibrancy, your
life—carved into me.
I don’t see the mark of someone who had it “easy,” someone
who “didn’t really give birth.” I don’t see inferiority.
I see a literal birthmark. I see the spot where they slit me
open while I cried and prayed, hoping that I would hold your tiny living body
in my arms when it was over, yearning to feel the warm touch of your skin
against mine and the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat against my chest,
sensations that I’d grown to know so well internally. I see the mark of
quintessential motherhood.
I don’t see weakness.
I see strength. I see the jagged edge of love and fear,
protruding from my skin like braille. It says life. It says
perseverance. It says you and me—we’ll be together at the end of all
this—whatever it takes.
I don’t see failure.
I see triumph. I see a battle scar, marking the ground where
we fought—together—when you decided to come 10 weeks early. I see will and
determination. I see victory.
I don’t see the cold cut of surgery.
I see the tender swell of life. I see a landmark, a historic
site where you breathed your first breath, cried your first cry, opened your
eyes to the outside world for the first time. I see the precise latitudinal
line of where you went from simply living to being alive. I am
forever marked by your coordinates.
I don’t see regret, or the disappointment of having a
nontraditional birth. I don’t feel disconnect.
I see a property line, extending to my heart, where you
first staked a claim, and where you continue to rule today. I feel the memory
of the gentle tug as they lifted you from my body—your grasp on my heart never
wavering— and the familiar pull on my heartstrings whenever I picture your
fragile, red little body rising to meet me. I remember the warmth of your cheek
against my lips, and I feel the unique, undeniable magnetism of a mother’s
love. I feel connection.
I don’t see detachment.
I see intimacy. I see a doorway, housing the first chapter
of your life, locking in the memory of every kick, every hiccup, every flutter
of your tiny, miraculous heart. I see devotion. I see it etched in my skin like
a signature on a contract, a promise of love and responsibility. A promise of
motherhood.
So I will not be ashamed. I will not be made to feel
inadequate. I will not feel insecure or embarrassed.
I will not drape a towel or wrap over my bikini line at the
beach. I will not turn away from the mirror when I step out of the shower. I
will not cover the mended flesh that brought so much beauty into this world.
I will not mask my pride.
I will not be told that I “had it easy,” or that I “didn’t
do any of the work.”
I will not feel weak. I will not feel like less of a woman.
I will not feel like less of a mother.
I will not allow the loose, slightly puckered skin
surrounding this scar to make me feel ugly. Because it is beautiful, and I am
beautiful, and you are beautiful.
I will not feel marred, or “butchered,” or broken.
Because I am whole, and it is this scar that has made me so.
It is a poignant paradox, a line marking the spot where I was both ripped apart
and put back together; and when I look at it, I will remember the day when you
were both taken from and given to me.
And I will be grateful.
© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first appeared on Mamalode
