Scars 2.0

Tonight I looked in the mirror and I saw my port scars.

Most days I don't see them anymore. Sure, they're always there. They live on my chest. And yes, they're very obvious if you aren't me or if you aren't used to seeing them. But most days I don't even see them anymore. They're just part of me now. Just like the scar on my leg from my surgeries there. Or like my tattoos. In a weird way, scars kind of are like tattoos, aren't they?  Weird tattoos that my body has given me as reminders of a struggle. Or maybe as reminders of strength. Whatever it is--however you want to look at it--I don't notice them most days.

But tonight I saw them. And I felt like I got punched in the stomach. I tasted the taste of a saline flush in my mouth. If you've ever had IV treatment of any kind you know what I'm talking about. And my whole body got hot thinking about the day that my port was manually flipped from outside of my body to try and save me from surgery. It was a weird flashback. And I don't know where it came from or why it happened tonight. But it hit me hard.

And as I stood there looking at my scars, more things started rushing back through my head. The day I got my diagnosis. Being so sick in college on new meds, just trying to push through til graduation. Then finally making it. Getting my first port. Crying to my angel of a home nurse at 7am most Friday mornings as she stuck a new needle in my chest. Meds and more meds. Hearing that my port wasn't salvageable after an awful day of trying to save it. Getting a new port. Passing out in the nurses arms at my post op. Even more meds. Having to get rid of my port. Losing my doctor. It all came back tonight.

And as it cleared, and I noticed the tears running down my cheeks, I started thinking about what those two scars on my chest have been through with me. And I guess I can't be mad about it. I can be sad. Because it's not something I would even wish on my worst enemy. But I can't be mad. Because I am a million times stronger for it. Because of what I've been through with those scars, I'm a better Leigh.

I know how hard things can be, but I know how beautiful they can be, too. I know how much pain my body can endure, but I know how great it can feel to know that you made it through that pain. I know how ugly a scar can look from the outside, but I also know how strong it can make you feel on the inside.

So tonight, I saw my port scars. And my heart broke a little as things came flooding back to me. And it broke a little more as I realized how much further I have to go. But I also saw my port scars and felt a little stronger knowing that they got me this far and there's absolutely nothing that I cannot do.

So if you're feeling sad tonight, too--if you're feeling like there's a mountain in your way that you can't climb--know that you aren't alone. My battle feels big tonight. But I have two permanent marks on my chest to remind me that I'm strong enough. And if you don't have something like that, let me be the thing right now to tell you--you are strong enough. You can do it. I just know you can.

Just keep waiting for your lizard.

I’ve found myself in a few situations lately where I’ve been talking about my Lyme to new people in my life. Some new friends. Some new doctors. And, after a long time of living with Lyme you’d think it would get easier. You’d think it would get to a point where I would just be spurting off the same information. And, I guess, in a way, it is like that. I’m telling the same story time and time again.

“it started with headaches when I was 11…”

And the gist of the story never really changes.

“I had a few years of IV treatment…”

“yes, I really do hurt all of the time.”

And we always end up in the same place.

“…yep, I really am still sick.”

“It’s okay. I'll be okay! Thank you!”

But there’s still the sting that comes along with the fact that the story I’m telling is my own. The words that I’m repeating are not made up for interest; they are my truth. There’s still that punch in the stomach that happens when I stop talking about my story but continue feeling it. And there’s still the anxiety that comes with the “oh my goodness” realization of “that really is my life.”

I wish I could just close a book and have the story stay within the pages. And I wish telling the story got easier with time. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t get easier. It doesn’t hurt less. And it doesn’t make me hate it less the more I say it. If anything, it’s the opposite. Every time I tell the story, the words sound uglier. Every time I write it, they look more mean. Every time I talk about it I want it further away from me.

But, every day that I add to my story holds the possibility of being the day where the little green lizard with the giant cute eyes comes in. (Because who really cares about a knight in shining armor when you can have a cute little lizard?) So I will keep adding to it.

And yes, telling my story sucks. And it hurts. And it feels bad every single time. But if it can make even one person feel less alone, it's worth it. If it can make even one person understand someone else in their life, it's worth it. If it can make even one person realize that the things they've been feeling are real and legitimate and help them get their diagnosis before it gets to the point where mine is, it's so worth it. And, even if it's just me telling a new friend because that person legitimately cares about me and wants to know about my life, then that's worth it too.  

So no, it doesn't get easier. Or at least it hasn't yet. But I will keep telling my story with the best intentions, no matter how hard it is. Because, like I've said time and time again--Lyme is tough but I am tougher. And, if you are feeling like your story is tough right now, be it a Lyme story or otherwise, know that you are tougher, too.

Everything will be okay. Just keep waiting for your lizard.

I'm back!

Hey. Hi. Hello. Remember me? I'm the one who writes this blog. I know it's been a million and a half years since I've written anything here (actually almost four months--but it might as well be a million and a half years) but I'm back. Still me. And still super Lymey.

I can't wait for the day when I can write the blog post telling you (assuming there is still someone reading this) that I'm Lyme free! But today is not that day. Tomorrow's not looking good either. But I'm working on it!

I've been trying to think of what to do for Lyme awareness month this year. And I think I have a good idea! Stay tuned!! This will be my third year of blogging everyday in May for it! How crazy. What a journey. Thanks for sticking it out with me!

If you have your health today, take a second to say thank you for it. To whomever or whatever you want to.  Your health is not the only thing--I still have quite a wonderful life without it--but it sure is a big thing. And I'd give anything to have mine back. And do something today to make you happy. Because even without your health you can hang onto your happiness. And that's nothing to ever take for granted.