Scars

Well, it’s official. I will be getting at least one new scar on my body to add to my collection. The opening act (so to speak) of my second go-round will occur a fortnight from now. A surgeon will make an incision, go in with a camera and some sort of tool to remove what was found on my liver, then send a sample of what he cuts out to the lab for analysis so a follow-up treatment regimen can be suggested. Good news or bad news, I get at least one new scar on my torso to add to my collection.

The first scar (discounting my circumcision) came about when I was roughly a month old. The connection between my stomach and my small intestine was not opening properly, causing me to throw up whatever I was eating. The doctor went in through what is now a 4-6 inch scar just below my rib cage, corrected the fault, then sewed me back together again. Through the years, I’ve been a little self-conscious about that scar, thinking at one time that it would be a deal breaker when it came time for me to “Go a courtin'” the young ladies.

The next time I went under the knife was in May 1992. May 8, to be precise. I recall being home the next night, zonked out of my gourd, trying somewhat successfully to watch Bruce Springsteen’s network TV debut on Saturday Night Live. That journey started in the early morning hours almost a week earlier when I was in exquisite pain from what turned out to be passing a gallstone. Long story short, my doctor sent me to a surgeon who performed laparoscopic surgery to remove my gall bladder. Four smaller scars, only one visible yet today. Aside from the scar, I gained weight (about 30 pounds – typical of patients whose gall bladder had been removed) and I gained an Ob/Gyn. Seems that at the time, Ob/Gyns would pick up a few extra dollars by running the camera inside the patient.

The surgeon doing my next procedure was highly amused when I told him the story.

After moving to Texas, I got another scar on the front of my torso from having had a hernia repaired. It’s a scar that can hardly be seen right on the “Bikini Line.”

There are two other scars, both on or in my backside. I had a cyst removed by one of the least personable doctors I’ve ever met. He was one of the best surgeons available where I was living. Hands down. He had no bedside manner, though. I recall a couple of things from that operation – the phlebotomist installing the line used to feed my anesthesia bent a needle getting me set up – and telling a nurse trainee who had come in to give a talk about proper nutrition that one of the most important food groups was Tabasco. I may have been in pain, but I still had fun.

I had not seen it, but considering what I felt, the scar left from taking out the cyst is the largest of the scars on my body.

The most recent surgical scar can only be felt, and only the surgeon has felt it. I’ll just leave it at that.

So, there’s another scar coming. I’m prepared. What happens afterward, well, I suppose I will find out in the next month or so.

Be Seeing You!