Scars

Scars make you tougher.

I just finished a piece about the flooding in Louisiana and a couple of the comments reminded me that yes, Louisiana will be OK. But they will be scarred.

I know a little bit about scars. A friend of mine asked me recently if I had any tattoos. I replied, “no, I do scars instead.” And boy do I ever — I have 80 of the darn things. Most of them are nearly invisible now (the gift of a great plastic surgeon), but they’re there. I feel them when I work out. When the weather changes. And when I stretch the wrong way. I have one that is several inches long on my back. I used to tell staring swimmers that it was from a shark attack.

If you can’t laugh at things that drive you crazy, you’ll go, well, crazy.

Most of my scars are from bad moles. I’ve had one malignant melanoma, two melanoma in-situs and nearly 70 dysplastic nevi. I’m darn lucky to be here. And when I forget that? I rub my scar.

Because of my scars, I appreciate life in ways I never did before. I am more empathetic, too. There is nothing quite like your own skin trying to kill you that will make you less self-centered.

Scars are bookmarks for your life story. Whether it is a great loss, a broken heart, cancer, heart surgery or an accident, they represent that moment in time when you had to make a choice. “Will fight or will I give up?” Your scar is proof that you fought — and won.

I wouldn’t trade a single one of my scars. Not a one. Although the I do mourn the loss of my career as an international back model. But somehow I think I will survive.