Her story is written on her skin

Three and a half years ago, I stood looking in the mirror wondering what my stomach was going to soon look like. My stomach has always been one area of my body that never did what I wanted it to do. It was bigger and flabbier than I thought it should be despite a rigorous exercise routine and clean eating. As I stood there staring, I knew it was now going to have a new dimension to it making my dreams of a bikini-worthy body even more elusive. In a few short hours, a surgeon would take a scalpel to my stomach in an attempt to remove a large grapefruit sized teratoma from an ovary. What I didn't know then was that I would wake up with an incision that stretched the expanse of my entire stomach - one hip bone to the other.

Looking at the incision was something I couldn't bring myself to do for nearly two weeks after the surgery. It frightened me although I'm not really sure what it was that freaked me out. It took far longer for me to feel brave enough to touch it. When I did, it just felt weird. Everything about it seemed unnatural. But with time, as most things do, things begin to fade. Be it grief, loss, or scars, they all tend to fade and change. This scar was no different and began its journey of changing colors, textures, and sensations to eventually become a muted white line. My first outward battle scar.

Eighteen months later, I stood in the same spot staring at the mirror. The same thoughts echoing in my mind. Deja vu all over again. What would these new scars do to my already deformed stomach? Now, instead of one scar, I would have five little ones courtesy of the Da Vinici Robot. They wouldn't be neatly tucked away and easily hidden as my first battle scar was. These would be out in the open for all to see. There would be no camouflaging these unless they were safely hidden under a solid one-piece bathing suit.

I woke up with 5 more battle scars bringing the count to 6. As with the first surgery, it took me a while to get up the courage to look at these incisions. I guess there is just something deeply personal about maiming one's body? You instinctively do what you can to protect your body and keep it from harm and cutting it open just seems to oppose the natural order of life. Almost, in a sense, that you have betrayed your own body? Whatever it is, I wasn't comfortable with it, but again, as with all things, they begin to fade.

Eighteen months later, I stood at the same spot staring at the mirror. This time, I felt braver. Not because they would use the same scars this time, but because this time, I knew what those damn scars represented. They show much more than a deformed stomach. They show a hard-fought battle with an invisible enemy. They show strength that I didn't know I had. They show going forward when everything inside of me wanted to give up. They show a story of a lifelong war with endo. And you know what? I looked at those scars the same day.

Five months later, I stand at the same spot staring at the mirror. This time, I wonder how many new battle wounds I will wake up with. Will it be the same? Can I keep my battle wound count to a respectable 7? Or will there be more? Could I wake up with a new count of ten or eleven? I just might. But if I do? I will wear them proudly. They tell my story. They are my battle scars, and I have earned each one.

"Her story is written on her skin - an artwork of her pain."