The Halfway Point

Today I turn 36-years-old. It’s not a “special birthday,” as a co-worker pointed out last week. It doesn’t end in a “0” or “5,” and I’ve yet to see a “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 36” birthday card.

But for me, it is a special birthday. I have now reached the halfway point.

I have spent half my life with and without the six scars on my face, the largest of which runs across most of my forehead. The remaining five scars are on my chin—three underneath my chin and two smaller ones on my chin. But the forehead scar is the one that reminds me.

I see it every time I look in the mirror. Others claim not to notice it. I’m not sure if I believe them, but I know where to look. After all, it is my face. The doctor who stitched up the gaping hole in my forehead took extra care with his work, and for this I am grateful. He left me with a white line that has faded over time.

When the wound was fresh and held together with black thread (not unlike Frankenstein’s monster), many would look at the white bandage on my forehead covering the wound and suggest “a nice haircut with bangs.” The bolder ones would mention plastic surgery. I often wonder what they would suggest if they saw the wound itself, but I always wore a bandage in public. The first few weeks after the car accident, I had white gauze wrapped around my head, a fat lip, chipped tooth, two black eyes and a swollen nose. It would be weeks before I would get the gauze removed and get by with a forehead only bandage. I had hair down my back then, much like I do now. The first thing I did after leaving the doctor’s office the day he took the gauze off my head was to go to the hairdresser to get my hair washed. When she mentioned there was blood in the water despite all my attempts to scrub it out of my hair, I told her to cut it off. It would be years before I would have long hair again.

The suggested plastic surgery was not necessary, thanks to the surgeon’s skill that long night in the ER. I haven’t researched it, but I sometimes wonder if technology has improved enough for a surgeon to remove the scar. However, I’ve had this scar half my life now, and I’m used to it. The scar is also a reminder. It reminds me of what I survived, how lucky I was to basically walk away from a bad accident. I think of how people pointed and whispered and stared when they saw my battered face and how I learned to stop worrying about what others think and to be more compassionate. My scars taught me words can be cruel and to be careful with mine.

When I think about what my scar represents, I am grateful for these lessons.