I Am No Super Human Void of Pain and Suffering

The last few days have been hard. I’ve been swept away by a lot of heavy feelings of grief as the reality of the next few months sets in.

Although I’m grateful I’ve had more energy the last week and the bone pain is gone, the fatigue I feel is something hard to explain. It’s deep in the layers of my skin, down to the bone. It’s hard to get a good flow doing much of anything and right now, my workdays look a bit like scattered dust blowing in the wind.

My hair is starting to fall out too. I’m lucky I have a lot of it but every time I get out of the shower and run a comb through it I’m met with having to say goodbye to a good handful of my identity.

Oh the weight gain and muscle loss. I’ve always been very active. I’ve climbed the tallest mountain in the lower 48 and finished 3rd in my age group in triathlons. Now I can barely recognize my body in the mirror and get winded walking up the stairs. It’s a hard adjustment. To look in the mirror and see a stranger at times.

I’m angry and sad. I find myself kicking and screaming inside that my life has to be paused in such an extreme way once again.

I was just getting back on track from my last cancer (6 years later) and from my hysterectomy two and a half years ago. I was finally able to grow my hair long. I found a way to move my body and was seeing older versions of her here and there. She was coming back alive.

I don’t go to this place often anymore because despite all of it, I’ve learned to find a lot of joy in the life that I now have.

But these feelings, This grief, it’s important too. And I’ll let it wash through me. And I’ll honor its purpose.

Because I’m human.

And cancer treatment is traumatic.

All of this is traumatic.

And I am no super human void of pain and suffering.

I am, grieving.

This Too Shall Pass

On Friday, January 13th, I began a journey I would never wish on anyone. I had my first infusion of chemotherapy and immunotherapy. This week, to put it bluntly, I’ve been a little worse for wear.

It’s funny, I had these grand delusions that I would be back up and working in just a few days. I can do this I thought. I’ve been to hell and back before and I always bounce back quickly. I will with this too.

This beast however, is one I have yet to experience before. This beast, has annihilated me, leaving me question so much already.

I’ve been dealing with neuropathy that is so painful I don’t quite have the words to describe it other than feeling as if my nerves are being ripped apart by electrical shocks and waves every few seconds. This began Sunday evening and has yet to leave. And that alone is terrifying. To think of a life riddled with this kind of pain.

I hear the second week is better though and the third well, I welcome that with open arms as it teases me with thoughts of being “almost normal” again. Yet, I know when I finally make it to week three the clock starts ticking again until I’m sitting in that same chair, in that same cancer center, getting those same drugs pumped throughout my body. Round two.

And the cycle begins all over again.

I’m doing my best to hold on to little moments of joy, although few and far between, and my mantra, although hard to fully believe, this too shall pass.

This too shall pass.

And I pray that it does and that this time next year I’m pain (and cancer) free.

I hope the rumors are true though and next week I’ll feel better and the following more like myself and I can get back to work in whatever way that may look like for the foreseeable future. I miss my craft. I miss creating and putting my thoughts into action. I miss the chatter of a podcast playing in the background while I get lost in my shop.

I think one of the most uncomfortable parts of all this is the not knowing. Not knowing when life will feel normal again. Not knowing if or when I can work again. Not knowing if this pain will subside enough for me to do the things I love dearly. The things that make me who I am.

All I can do is the very thing I’ve been trying to figure out how to do my whole life. Surrender.

Surrender, surrender, surrender.

And wait.

And just be.

And that, my friends, is an art in and of itself and I haven’t really learned that medium yet. But like with all my other artistic paths, practice makes me better and better. So, I’ll practice this too.

And eventually, this too shall pass.

xo, amanda

P.S. - Ongoing help is probably going to be vital until I figure out my new flow with work. I’m so grateful to you and to all who have supported me in the various ways laid out in my Cancer Gift Registry. It’s truly lifted me up and made me feel so loved.

You can find that registry here.

Depression, Menopause and gasp, anti-depressants

I don’t think the healing process ever ends. I just think there comes a time when you decide that your wounds aren’t going to stop you from becoming the person you want to be. Self-love is a lifelong journey and sometimes it’s harder than others. You just have to commit.

- Unknown

I’m not sure why my writing is the first to go when I get busy but it’s as if something turns off inside of me. The free-flowing spout of words turns to a light trickle until the last drop drips from me and the well runs dry. By the time I realize I am parched for meaning and context again six months have gone by.

I’ve also been pretty depressed. Not your run-of-the-mill ever so often blues. More of the “it’s hard to get out of bed and find joy about much of anything these days” version.

It’s no secret that I’ve struggled with depression since I can remember. Sometimes I like to  joke that I was just born sad. It’s confusing though because through the waves of sadness, I have a lot of memories of being a really joyful and enthusiastic kid too. I was always just wanting to make people laugh and be in the spotlight.

Over the years I’ve experienced a rollercoaster of very high ups and very low downs which, through a lot of therapy have come to deduce as the result of traumatic life experiences (ie: cancer, cancer, divorce, and then more cancer), a very volatile home growing up, and more than likely some off chemistry in my brain that I never wanted to admit to myself because then I’d also have to admit that I was not perfect. 

I developed a pretty significant eating disorder at the age of fifteen that I thought was just normal because it seemed like every other girl I went to school with had some variation too. We were all fighting our inner demons and the pressures of thinness equating to being loved and accepted or whatever our reasons were. The last time I purged my food was at age twenty-six but it really just turned into me being somewhat obsessive about eating gluten and dairy-free or vegan when I was one, or making sure I got my work out for the sake of “staying healthy.” It would be years later when I would realize it was never really about the weight or the food or the workouts and that the struggle would always be living just below the surface waiting to say hello again.

I think one of the harder parts of dealing with mental health, besides just everyday life, is the shame that comes with it. Like, get over yourself, Amanda. Snap out of it already. You are missing it. Life. It’s passing by so quickly and you are too busy being depressed. What do you really have to be depressed about anyway? I’ve always wondered, why can’t I just “fix“ myself as the wellness world touts so easily can be done?

With the yoga and meditation and breathing exercises coupled with the raw, vegan green potions and inner child work I’ve done, you’d think I’d be walking around levitating right there with Jesus with a rainbow-colored aura. But alas, I still can not walk on water.

Over the last year, I found myself thinking, “I’m done with this spiritual stuff. It doesn’t work. I’m still just as broken.” But healing isn’t linear and maybe there is something bigger at play here.

It wasn’t until the last few months when even the things that brought me back to life in the past, like my art, were not doing their job any longer that I started to get worried.

No sugar coating it. No skating around it. No fluffy filler words to lighten the hard edges of a not-so-pleasant part of being human. This was more than just passing sadness and it has been going on a lot longer than the last six months.

And I have felt and still feel terribly guilty that I feel this way because I have a really good life. Despite the hardships I’ve experienced, I have so many things to feel happy and grateful about. I know this. However, the thing about depression is, it’s confusing.  Sometimes it makes no sense to your logical mind.

If you struggle too then you understand this well. Most of the time you don’t get why you feel the way you do and because mental health is only now becoming a more mainstream topic of conversation, for a very long time you probably suffered in silence just like me and so many others. There is a whole lot of fear of being judged, fear of losing people, losing jobs, losing status, credibility, being labeled attention-seeking or dramatic. You name it, I’m scared of it.

I can’t help but think of all the lives that could have been spared had mental health been as natural to discuss as your physical health. Like, “Hey, I’m heading to the gym to do Zumba then I’m going to my therapist to talk about my trauma and attachment issues. I’ll be home by 8!” Followed by a response that sounds like, “Okay honey! Hope you get to the bottom of it and have a major breakthrough!”

What I’m currently experiencing is actually a mix of grief and depression and the extreme mental backlash of menopause. Maybe you’ve heard people joke about women going through menopause feeling like they are going crazy and I’m here to tell you it’s true. But nobody who's actually gone through menopause tells you this. Mainly because they can’t remember it because what comes with menopause is a whole lot of brain fog and forgetfulness. And dry eyes. God the dry eyes are horrible too.

My brain feels both flat and overstimulated and fuzzy all at the same time. This is never a good combination because what follows is a lot of confusion, a kind of out-of-body experience, and a loss for words. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in mid-conversation over the last six months and I can’t remember what I was talking about.

So yeah, I guess you could say I’ve been a bit depressed and trying to adjust to a body that doesn’t even feel like mine any longer and I haven’t really known what to write about because I’ve been in this very confusing metamorphosis of some kind. I am no longer the person I was but not sure who is left standing in her place. And I can’t help but wonder: Is this depression, menopause, or is this what so many refer to as a mid-life crisis?

Or worse, what if it’s actually all three?!

The last six months have looked like a whole lot of denial and trying to convince myself that this will just pass. I’ve doubled down on therapy and well, hoping all the “tools” I’ve acquired over the years will help.

Some days I wonder if I’m not really depressed and I’m  just bored because I’ve been practicing not buying into and contributing to drama and my mind and body haven’t quite adjusted yet. Once I realized how addicted I was to it I realized that I had to change it.

Sometimes I’ll call up my good friend Rachael and say in my super melodramatic voice, “Raaaaaaaaaaach, I’m itching. I’m itching for a fix and drama is my drug!” and I always draw out the draaaammmma part to give it, ya know, drama and she’ll laugh. Oh I love her loud laugh which makes me remember that I am actually kind of funny, and then well, we laugh together because she has the same addiction that I do and we remind ourselves that we are done with the drama. Drama = bad. We are better than drama. And we are in drama recovery.

So, I stopped writing because I’ve been dealing with the reality that this has been going on for oh, about thirty years now and maybe it’s time to really confront my depression. Maybe I really am a depressed person. I mean, really.

I stopped my podcast. I stopped sharing from my heart because how do you really write about this stuff anyway? Plus my art started taking off and I got scared that if I was really transparent, people would think I was crazy and stop buying my art. I found myself folding into the space of safety.

Until about a month ago when I started hearing that ever so quiet voice coming from deep within. No, not those voices. This one is just the voice of my intuition. It whispers, “Let me out. You have to share me Amanda because I am part of you and people will get it because a lot of people are experiencing this too.”

So here it is:

Hi, I’m Amanda and well, I have depression. Real, bonafide, not just the blues depression.

And I think it got a lot worse when the dust settled from having my hysterectomy and menopause hit me like a mac truck going at full speed. 

Things have been tough and alongside the handfuls of hair that’s been falling out the heavy layer of grief has felt heavier than anything before and for the first time ever, I decided it is time to go on antidepressants and that both excites me and scares the shit out of me.

After six months of zoom therapy, two weeks ago I sat in my therapist’s office face-to-face because we had both been vaccinated and I stared at the business card scribbled with the name of a Psychiatrist to call about getting on medication and the truth is, all I could think was: “Am I really this person?”

The next morning I woke up with a thick cloud of unexplainable heaviness and the dread of starting my day and thought, “Yes Amanda, you really are.”

So I called. All my friends who I knew were on antidepressants and I asked about their experience with them just to affirm to myself that I am not alone on this antidepressant journey. Then after about the fifth call from my mom who would casually, not so casually ask if I’d called the Psychiatrist yet, I realized that I think I really need to do this.

I called. And turns out they don’t actually take my insurance which inevitably had me putting it off for another few weeks until I realized that if I don’t do this I’ll never know if there really is a light at the end of an often very dark tunnel and I thought, “Amanda, what if this IS the thing that will help? Don’t you owe it to yourself to experience a little peace?”

So I sat with my doctor and explained it all to her with brutal honesty. The darkest thoughts I’ve ever had were no longer a secret.

And I felt a tad bit freer.

I don’t really want to go on antidepressants. I just want the broken bits inside to fix themselves. I really wanted green juice and reiki and the crystals I have lined around my room to transmute the sadness. I wanted to find the hole that makes me feel this way and stuff it full of whatever I can so that I don’t have to take a pill to make me feel better. I want to be able to fix this myself. I didn’t want to be an actual “depressed” person.

The truth is, for a very long time I quietly judged others for going on them. And I hate nothing more than a) that I did that and b) being a hypocrite.

So now I’m a judgmental hypocrite and a bonafide depressed person. 

Great.

Or, I’m human. I don’t know yet. All I know is that I’m definitely not a green juice drinking, levitating Jesus type with a rainbow-colored aura.

(Yet.)

So, here I go.

Saying it out loud feels both freeing and terrifying and I’ve been telling those close to me as if it were some dirty secret as I nervously say, “Hey, I need to tell you something….”

Turns out it’s not really so dirty of a secret because I can’t tell you how many people I know who respond by saying, “Oh, I’m on them. They really help,” Just as matter of fact.

And like so many other things in my life I’ve made this bigger than it needs to be. There is nothing wrong with going on antidepressants.

So this morning I twist the cap and shake out the first pill into the palm of my hand and stare at it and I can’t help but wonder, were you the answer all along?

Bottoms up I think as I swallow it with a little bit of water along with my estradiol for hormone replacement two hours after my taking thyroid medication and laugh at the irony that this organic, green juice drinking, yoga-practicing, reiki getting, inner child soothing, gluten-free ex-vegan now has a shelf lined with prescription drugs.

And I head out to my shop to get some work done and realize that hope is resting just below the surface for the first time in a very long time.

What You Need to Know About Having a Hysterectomy and Medical Induced Menopause

Something that I’ve been thinking a lot about is how when you are a ‘sharer’ and you put your stuff out into the world, it always seems to land in the laps of those who need to read it. In the moments when I want to close up and fight the calling from deep within to share more of my story, more of the raw and precious parts that I often want to hide, I remember the random emails and DM’s that find their way to me that say, “thank you for sharing your story. I’m going through this too and needed to hear this.”

It’s been four and a half months since I had my hysterectomy and I’ve had countless people reach out to me because they found this post I wrote about deciding to have mine back in July. Most of them are Lynch Syndrome too and every time I read the parts of their story they share, I find myself overwhelmed by how many people are walking this earth and how every single one of them is going through their own stuff. Their own worries and fears and pain and healing.

Truth be told, I haven’t regretted my decision at all. That’s not to say I haven’t had my moments of deep grief and reckoning with what this type of surgery really means and the reality that, there is no going back. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. There is no going back to my doctor and saying, “Um, doc. Ah, can you like, put it all back in me now cause I think I made a mistake. I, um, I think I actually do want to try for some kids. Yeah, I think I made a mistake”

I think that has been the hardest part. Really accepting that I no longer have a place to grow life. I no longer get to dream of growing that life inside of me. I will never know what that is like. I will never feel a first kick or feel that rush of excitement when my water breaks. I will never be consumed with the complex emotions when the life is pulled out of me and placed in my arms. And well, that makes me sad and I’d be lying if I said I don’t have moments when I succumb to those harsh realities, curl up on the couch and mourn what will never be mine. And that is okay. I will do that for as long as I need to.

But I don’t regret my decision because something deep within me knew it was time and a few weeks later I got the confirmation that had been whispering to me from deep within. Upon hearing that the pathology report showed premalignant lesions (pre-cancer), I smiled behind my cloth mask back up at my doctor and all I could say was, “I knew it. I knew something wasn’t right. I f*&king knew it.” And then I apologized for swearing.

So now that a bit of the dust has settled I figured it was time to answer some of the more burning questions I have gotten about the surgery and menopause.

Ah menopause.

With this surgery I had my uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes and cervix removed. It’s all gone and it’s honestly still weird to think that those organs that lived in my body for thirty-nine years are sitting in a trash can somewhere.

Without the female reproductive organs I have no period and no hormones that were developed every month from that area. This is an automatic admission into the very stage of life we, as women, are taught to fear from a very early age.

It’s suppose to happen naturally, with age not medically induced and this was something I really struggled with. It felt so preemptive for so long to me that I had a really hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I would officially be in menopause, something I felt like I was years away from.

In reality, because of the radiation treatment I had in July and August of 2017 due to my metastatic cancer diagnosis, I was already partially in menopause which was confirmed by my doctor when he visited me in the hospital the next day. My left ovary was completely menopaused and my right had endometriosis and there was a shit ton of scar tissue. It also confirmed that I would have never been able to have kids naturally.

Know It’s Forever

I’m in several Facebook groups for Lynch Syndrome and one for Menopause support and sometimes I can’t believe how cavalier some people are about elective surgeries such as a Hysterectomy. Part of this, in my opinion, is because of the nonchalant attitude you get from a lot of the medical community, mine included. Although I really like my surgeon, at times I felt he was very dry about a very serious subject. When I asked about menopause he didn’t have a lot to say other then the fact that I can go on HRT (hormone replacement therapy) and that because of my age, I’ll probably be fine.

And then there is what I mentioned above. There is no going back so chill for a sec, take a breath and take the time to really think this through.

Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT)

At the time of my surgery I was thirty-nine and my biggest concern was being stuck with gnarly hot flashes so I opted to go on HRT. I’m on a patch called Estrodial and it’s time released. I wear the same patch for a week. I honestly don’t know that it works but wearing it does something to my brain and makes me think it actually works. So I wear it. I currently need to schedule an appointment with my oncologist and discuss it further because like I said, I’m not sure it works and the ones my insurance pays for are big and ugly. Not the cute little see through ones that put on in the hospital.

Hot Flashes

I started experiencing hot flashes after I finished radiation therapy. I remember sitting on the couch and being overcome with this intense feeling of my body being on fire and having to rip my shirt off. Yes, it was that dramatic. Sweat came out of nowhere and was chilling out under my boobs and dripping down my back and chin. Hot flashes are not fun. The first week after surgery I laid in bed and just waited for them to hit like everyone talks about but it was actually a slow progression which may be due to the fact that I was already in partial menopause. I hear that for some women, especially with medically induced menopause, they hit like a freight train. For me, it was more like the Spirit of Washington dinner train, slow and steady chugging along to insure you really get the full experience.

I mostly just get them at night. Actually, I only get them at night. When I’m suppose to be asleep. During the witching hour. I wake and it feels like my skin is on fire and I want to crawl out of it but can’t figure out how so I rip off all of my clothes and lay there naked only to find myself freezing five minutes later putting it all back on. If anything is touching me I feel as if I will cry. It doesn’t last long but it is intense.

Mentality

I can’t say this enough - this is a NO GOING BACK surgery. Once it is done, it’s done. I feel like surgery is just thrown at us so often these days that it’s really important to really think about the consequences and where you are at in your life. If you have the luxury to sit on it for a bit, please please do so and talk with a mental health professional first.

Pain

You are going to feel like shit for a few days but not like the worst you could feel, just super uncomfortable and full of air. My surgery was robotic which was nothing compared to when I had part of my colon removed and they cut me open from the top of my pubic bone to my belly button. That was literally the most painful thing I have every experienced, besides the infection I got from that surgery.

Here’s an image to show my incisions. If you look close, you can see my other scars too! My stomach is cute but it also looks like Freddy Kruger and I got caught in a wrestling match.

The pain from this surgery comes from all the air they pump in you to get the robotic arms in the five small incisions. Once that subsides, you mostly feel like you got hit by a truck for about two weeks. I was working out again about that time. Oh, an they pull all the organs out through your vagina so that didn’t feel too great afterwards either :)

Insomnia

This sucks. There is no other way of describing it. As someone who cherishes sleep greatly and needs a good amount of it, the 1pm wake ups that last anywhere from 1-3 hours have been gnarly. Mainly because regardless, I still naturally wake up between 5 am and 6 am. Some things that have been helping:

Mary Ruth’s Nighttime Minerals

Natrol Melatonin Advanced Sleep Formula - I think I got this at Whole Foods.

Edibles - honestly, this one is rare but if need be, I just get a little baked before bed and sleep like a baby :) and I mean, I live in Seattle so they are everywhere.

Mood Swings

Honestly, this hasn’t been an issue for me. I was already a moody person ;). Kidding. Not really but seriously, I’m actually WAY more chill and calm post surgery. I think mainly because I had already started the transition process after radiation, my hormonal decline wasn’t as dramatic as it would be had I not been in partial menopause already. I’ve also been working with a therapist for the past two months and doing EMDR therapy and I feel like that is providing a lot of help with addressing things that would normally cause the pendulum to swing. I also think because there was so much damage to that part of my body that all the scar tissue and the hormonal imbalances were messing with my mental health.

Hair Loss

It’s all making sense now. After radiation my hair started falling out in clumps and breaking and I have had a really hard time getting it back to healthy ever sense. It’s slow to grow and it frustrates the hell out of me. I want long hair damnit! But alas, it barely reaches my shoulders after three years.

In July I stumbled across Organic Olivia’s Mane Magic and decided to try it and holy hell, it is literally one of the only things that has actually worked. I also got more compliments on my hair the next month then I have in the three years post treatment. Surprisingly, I got the most compliments about my hair when I was going through treatment. I also was told I was glowing all the time to which I would laugh out loud and say, “Well, I’m in the middle of radiation so that may be why.”

Nettles and Hibiscus Tea - I also drink this every day and I think it adds a softness to my hair. You can get this pretty much anywhere.

Weight Gain

Honestly, this was a HUGE fear of mine. Partly because I have had pretty bad body dysmorphia in the past and had an eating disorder for about fifteen years. Well, not even partly. That is like, the whole reason. And even though I am in a great place with my body now and have done a lot of work around my fears of gaining weight, this experienced triggered me and I had a bit of a resurgence.

For whatever reason, I thought I was going to wake up and magically put on twenty pounds. I think my ‘people’ grew really tired of my obsessive worrying about this. It’s been four and a half months and I have actually lost weight. Something to take into consideration is YOUR body type, activity level, and diet. I’m naturally small and petite. I work out regularly, I don’t adhere to a diet per se but I do eat mostly plant based but if I want a burger, I eat a burger.

Bowel Movement Changes

Maybe this is TMI but hey, when you have part of your colon removed at twenty-four and are left with a temporary ileostomy bag you just don’t give a shit anymore. Ha! See how I did that. I’m so puny! Anyway, I went from being chronically constipated to free flowing after surgery. My surgeon told me that I had an extreme case of scar tissue through that area so my theory is that it was creating issues for my bowels. Once that was all out they were like, “cool, now I can finally do my thing again…sixteen years later.”

Fatigue

This was very challenging for me. I’m a natural “go getter” and I like to do. I love bouncing around throughout my day either in my shop or working on other projects and the fatigue has been hard for me. I’m tired. A lot. Like, all the time. Not just tired but T.I.R.E.D. Even four and a half months later I am always tired. Listen to your body and rest. Even though this surgery is mostly robotic, it’s still major surgery and your body is getting used to living without those parts, a hormonal decline and all the mental stuff that comes with it. Sometimes I go to bed at 7 pm, other times my body is like “Hey! It’s 9 pm! Let’s get this day started!” Like right now.

Sex

It feels really weird to talk opening about my sex life on the internet but it is a huge part of this experience. You are told when you have this surgery that nothing can go inside you for twelve weeks. I take these things very seriously because I have heard horror stories which I will spare you but if you want to know them just shoot me a message. I am single as well and not currently dating anyone and not into casual sex (no judgment! Just not my thing) so this one has yet to be explored but I will say this, I am extremely nervous about it. Sex is great. Like, REALLY great and I hope my body doesn’t throw a tantrum when I try it again. To be continued…

Well, I think that is a good place to end it. As I think of more and experience more I will add it to this post. I think something important to remember is that everyone is different. I’ve heard that you should look to how your mom responded to menopause (if you have that privilege). My mom said she barely had symptoms and she also was thrown into medical induced menopause at forty-four because of a hysterectomy.

As always, you can reach out to me to talk. It’s not an easy decision and definitely not one to be taken as lightly as it often is.

Amanda’s Email: amandawhitworthcreative@gamil.com
Find Me on Instagram: @_sawdustandsoul

The Stories That Lie Just Beneath

Sometimes I stand staring at my naked body in the mirror running my fingers along the scars that scatter my stomach as if they were braille and I was trying to read the stories that live buried deep beneath them.

I try and remember the intimate details of memories from a long time ago. All that comes to mind are vague and scattered ones. Only bits and pieces, sounds, and smells.

The beeping of the machine that connected the pic line into my inner bicep that pumped the three different liquids into me fighting to keep the infection at bay and keep me alive. I remember the day the technician came into my room to insert the pic line and how while she was inserting the line up my arm she told me that if the line went the wrong direction she could blow out my eardrum and how I started crying and demanded that she stop and asked if there was another way and how they wheeled me down somewhere else to finish what she started.

I remember another procedure in a cold room in the basement of the hospital a week after my first surgery when they asked me to lie on my stomach and how I looked at them as if they were crazy and around the room realizing I was all alone and had nobody to defend for me. I sobbed because I was so scared of the pain. My stomach had been cut open and they were asking me to lie flat on it and I still could barely even walk by myself. They gave me valium to calm me down as they inserted the plastic tube into my left butt cheek and deep into my pelvis to help drain the infection that was trying to kill me.

Then the muffled voices of doctors and nurses shuffling around the hallway. I remember Chris the Charge Nurse and how I loved her and everyone that worked on the Swedish seven southwest surgical floor.

I remember watching my mom sob uncontrollably at the end of the hall as they wheeled me back for emergency surgery right after my surgeon told us he was going to have to give me a temporary ileostomy bag. She sobbed for me because she knew my biggest fear was coming true but I was too sick to care. She cared enough for both of us and that image of her crying as she watched me roll away is burned into my mind.

And the mixed smells of sterilization and illness that wafted throughout the halls and the taste that filled my mouth as they injected certain drugs into my line.

I remember waking up in my room from the first surgery, eyes fluttering open, head still foggy from anesthesia and pain meds. The pain I’ll never forget. The excruciating pain and staring up at my older brother looking down at me with his big hopeful smile as I whispered, “Am I going die?”

I trace the smooth six-inch reminder of this time knowing these memories will never go away. These memories will always be there teasing me with the complicated emotions that come from a trauma like this. That one time when someone else’s mistake cost me something great and how what I didn’t know then was that I’d never be able to have children because of it.

There are other memories too. Ones that make me smile. Like how if it wasn’t for that time in my life my older brother would have never met his wife and I wouldn’t have my niece and nephews. She was the nurse that happened to be in the hall when my mom rushed to find help as I stood sobbing naked in the bathroom after the seal broke on my temporary ileostomy bag and everything starting leaking down my leg to the ground below. I remember the door opened and she was backlit by the sunlight and I couldn’t see her face, I could only hear her sweet, comforting voice and somehow I just knew she’d be in my life forever.

Or how every night my dad would come into my hospital room and curl up on the reclining chair next to my bed and we’d watch a documentary about the Green River Killer or the latest on the aftermath of the Tsunami in Thailand until we both fell asleep and how the nurses never asked him to leave. In the middle of the night, I’d have to pee and he’d jump up and we’d fall into habit, helping me put on my socks with the sticky grips on the bottom and unplugging and untangling the cords from the wall from my machine as he slowly pulled me up from the bed.

I remember this one time I needed to feel the January sun on my face so he and I snuck out a back door of the hospital and into a concrete garden and stood there, hand wrapped tightly around the machine pumping different liquids into me as I closed my eyes and felt the sun for the first time in days.

And how after work my older brother would come to sit beside my bed and read the writings of C.S. Lewis to me as I drifting in and out of sleep. I don’t remember a single word but I do remember thinking how his love for God would be enough for both of us.

Then this one time I was sitting on the edge of my hospital bed crying about something I can’t remember what. My mom stood in front of me trying to help me get up. She was growing impatient and I was feeling sorry for myself. I don’t remember why but suddenly we looked at each other and both started laughing and it hurt my stomach so bad but I didn’t care because it felt so good to feel joy for that brief moment. That’s my mom and I for you with our secret language and understanding and perfect timing.

And then there was the day I went from bad to good. From sick to healing. From walking a thin line to turning the corner. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was day seven. I woke up and felt better. I felt the life come back to my cheeks and I ate real food for the first time in a week and saw hope for the first time too. My surgeon came into my room and said he could take out the drain in my butt cheek that had become almost unbearable at that point because of where it was and he said, “okay, count to three.” I was so scared it was going to hurt but by three he had already taken it out and I felt nothing but a relief I had been desperate to feel for a week.

I went home two days later but that is a story for another time because those are the stories from only two of the nine scars on my stomach.

Most days I just see the scars that scatter my belly but sometimes, these are the memories that come rushing back when I look at my stomach as I think about how scars are these crazy visual reminders of stories from our lives and nobody ever knows until you open your mouth to tell them.