Tracing Scars

Last night I sat on my red couch with the cushions in need of re-stuffing, my bare legs folded to the side as I leaned my weight to my elbow as it rested on the squishy arm. A thick book lay open on my lap, a glass of ice water on a coaster within reach. I fingered my scar as I read, feeling the divot grow deeper and more pronounced the farther back I reached. I traced the bumpy ridges that betray the titanium plates that lay under a shallow layer of scalp, holding my fractured skull in place as it heals. A couple thick hairs grow straight out of the scar, short and spiky as they twist their way through the former home of staples and gauze. Overall, I can't believe how much my hair has grown since it was shaved in January, my scalp dyed yellow from the surgical iodine, scabs forming over the spots rubbed raw from the vice that held my head in place as it was sawed open. Today, my scar isn't even visible unless I pull my hair to the sides, away from its severe middle part. It curls its dark brown way over my ears, ending just below my earlobes. The scar feels deep and dramatic to my fingers, though I suppose most cuts and scrapes do, all looking much less impressive when finally viewed in a mirror.

It hurts to touch my scar for long, pain spreading to the growing bone beneath, so I drop my hand and turn the page. The incision is really the only part that hurts these days. I can't lie on my left because it's still too tender, but as long as I avoid pressure, I'm mostly okay. The skull remodeling itself around the plates and screws does still hurt. Two or three times a day, I make my way to the basket of pills in my bathroom or the bottle of Advil in my purse to ward away a quick, sharp pain or a low, dull one, my bones creaking and scraping together like the wooden floors of an old house expanding in the summer heat. Fortunately they're working, quieting my mind and smoothing out the winces on my face in a matter of minutes. It's been a month since the last time I was put out of commission and relegated to my couch for hours. I'm starting to see that I've turned a corner. Just five more months until I can get off another medication; five more seizure-free months until my chance of relapse is less than ten percent. At the same time it's gone so slowly and so quickly. It feels like only yesterday I was in my parents' home, the timer on my phone set to my daily Percocet regimen.

An hour later I woke up to a shoulder wet with drool, still sitting with the book on my contorted legs, my limp fingers brushing the back of John's shirt. "Honey, wake up, it's time to go to bed."