Beautiful

Beautiful (adj.) beau·ti·ful \ˈbyü-ti-fəl\: 

Having a quality or aggregate of qualities

 that gives pleasure to the senses or 

pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit

In case you didn't know, I'm a cancer survivor. Every cancer is different, but the particular kind of breast cancer that was discovered at my (fortunately) very early diagnosis almost 10 years ago now is aggressive, destructive, and fast-growing. As a result, treatment for me was comprehensive. Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, drug treatments--whatever we had, we threw at it. I'm luckier than many; my prognosis was good, and my chances of recurrence are low. But my body still bears the marks of the battle.

I've graduated now, finally, to annual follow-up mammograms. It's nice to go less often, but even so, I have been there so much that the routine is familiar. You put on the gown, and answer all the same questions. And then, before the 20 minutes of freezing cold and pain and pressure and holding your breath first because you're told and then because you can't breathe and then again until you hear someone say cheerily from behind the screen of images "Looks good!", there is the moment when you will mark your scar. To clearly identify your scar tissue on the scan, lest it be mistaken for something more ominous, a tiny wire will be shaped and taped along the length of your surgical scar, marking it out for the techs and doctors who will view the films.

At my latest appointment, not that many weeks ago, after the gown and the questions and the rest, the nurse who was prepping me finished her notes, packed up her paperwork, and said briskly, "All right, now let's see your scar."  I lifted the gown in the now-familiar motion, turned and gestured so that she could see, and her businesslike bustle came to an abrupt halt as she drew in her breath and just stared for a moment. "Oh my god," she said. "That's beautiful."

It isn't the first time someone has had that response to my scar. Actually, it's never once been shown to a nurse, doctor, lab tech, or any other medical professional without getting that response, and it's because they know what they are looking at. But if you are not a scar professional, if you don't know what you're seeing when you look at my scar, or at any scar, you might be tempted to look at it as just the opposite of beautiful. Scars are just one of the many things that we often view as physical faults or imperfections--things that destroy beauty.

In my past, I was given that message--that the scar was a flaw, a blemish, something to be ashamed of, something that ruined me. That it made me unlovable. That it destroyed my value. But I am learning, slowly, over time, that it is a thing of beauty. I have had great love and care given to me in my life, have walked through deep valleys, have experienced enormous good fortune. The scar tells all those stories. If I foolishly wished it away, I would erase with it all the power and love its story holds.

I know this is true, because it is true for others besides me. I think of the little one dear to me, and the birthmark that is simply a testimony to the miracle of her existence. Of my own two boys, and all the bumps and scars and faded marks that are the witness to the adventures of their childhood. Of the partner in my life now, and those deep, crinkly laugh lines around his eyes, which cannot come overnight, but tell the story of a life lived oriented toward joy. The marks on our bodies are the marks of our lives. All these things we view negatively, and too often, we can begin to view ourselves negatively because of them, yet all the imperfections that we believe mar us, mark us, are actually the things that illuminate us.

Once upon a time, I was often told that to find me beautiful would require changing the definition of the word; and this, unknowingly, was a profound truth. There is a distortion running deep in our society, a stunted definition of beauty that revolves around an artificial, superficial flawlessness. But if we cannot see beauty in those around us, we are using a faulty definition. A true beauty is found in the stretch marks that tell the story of the birth of our children, the calluses and bruises of hard work done well, and even the generous waistlines that speak of good food, warm hospitality, and time well spent with family and friends. It's found in scars, those stories of battles that have been fought and won, and of those who carried us through them, of things greatly dared and bravely endured, of adventures that have changed us and that define us. These are moments and memories that could not be traded for a superficial snapshot or a slimmer silhouette. These are the beauty marks, the marks of all that matter. This is beautiful.