One of my favorite scenes from the 1975 movie “Jaws” involves the three main characters comparing scars. You know the one. Chief Brody (Roy Schneider) rubs a bump on his head. Quint (Robert Shaw) says “Don’t you worry about it. Won’t be permanent.” At that point shark hunter Quint and young shark expert Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) exchange stories of their scars, one upping the other and adding a bit of humor to the scene. Hooper shows bite scars: one from a moray eel and another from a bull shark. Quint explains his scar resulting from the removal of a tattoo depicting the USS Indianapolis on which he served. The US Navy heavy cruiser was sunk by a Japanese submarine in shark infested waters. Quint shares the details of the sailors’ lives lost to the sharks, foreshadowing his own death later in the movie.
I am somewhat fascinated by scars and their stories. I have my own — the ones from the spring 2021 lumpectomy and lymph node removal and those from the winter 2022 broken hip and rod insertions. And there’s the scar where my chemo port was put in spring 2021 and removed a year later.
I’ve been thinking about my scars and those of others a lot lately. I recently spent a week with my sister Mary in Centerville, Ohio, after her panniculectomy, a surgery performed to remove excess fat and overhanging skin from the abdomen. The need for this surgery followed gastric sleeve surgery in November 2019 and massive weight loss. Her 26-inch incision from hip to hip will leave quite the scar and has replaced a scar left from the anterior removal of a disc and the scar left from her hysterectomy. This new one is the pinnacle of her scar collection.
Her collection includes scars on her right foot from joints being replaced and a fallen arch sewn up, scars from breast reduction surgery to relieve back pain, scars on both knees that are evidence of knee replacements, and other scars from minor accidents and holes from arthroscopic surgeries.
We have found medicine to sooth her worries and the pain before and after. And the best medicine has been humor. For years we’ve referred to her lovingly as a modern day Frankenstein’s monster of the female persuasion. And recently we realized between the two of us and our weight loss efforts, mine through Weight Watchers, we have lost what amounts to a sister. Her 124 pounds (8 pounds, 1 ounce of which was removed the day of her panniculectomy) and my 49 pounds added together could certainly be a sister. Before Mary’s surgery, we gave that “sister” a name — Flabbigail. She won’t be missed. Another touch of humor caused us to refer to that one-day weight loss of fat and skin as “cracklins.” If you grew up with or near pig farmers, you’ll get that. I know … it’s gross.
Mary cautioned me the Wednesday we came home after surgery, “Anna, you can’t crack jokes for the next few days.” She was trying to avoid taking the Percocet prescribed for pain. Too many belly laughs would aggravate the 26-inch incision I came to know intimately through helping her shower and changing her dressings. I decided by Saturday I could share my observation of that incision. I told her “Mary, you look like a magician’s trick gone bad. You know — the one where he saws his assistant in half.” It’s tough to get through life without humor.
I asked Mary which scar is her “favorite,” the most memorable for whatever reason. She quickly responded, “It’s the stretch marks from carrying each of my two boys for nine months.” For one, they involved no cutting. She called them “good” scars.
I would be remiss if I wrote about scars without considering the invisible ones. Those that result in a broken heart or a shattered mind are often the most painful. I speak from experience. In 2003 when my eighteen-year-old daughter died of cardiac arrhythmia (“a heart fart,” the coroner explained when I asked for clarification), my heart shattered. It’s just not natural for a parent to bury a child. Eighteen months of grief counseling and supportive family members and friends helped me put my heart back together, but the scars remain. The humor that soothes those scars are memories of the good times and laughter we shared during her eighteen years with us.
Here’s the Thing: It’s difficult to get through life without a scar or two or way more. But all those scars tell a story and contribute to who we are. They are evidence of medical procedures and life-extending practices that weren’t available to our ancestors. Modern medicine is a gift; psychological counseling is a gift; humor is a gift. And for those gifts I am grateful.
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — Ken Ballinger, Jean Harper, Billy Kreigh, Marianne Darr-Norman, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
