I remember my mother always telling me not to pick at my scabs.
I was a wild, outdoor child, and always had scrapes and cuts. I was fascinated at how my body could heal. I would pick at my scabs, trying to lift them up to see how they formed and how the skin underneath was healing. It was exhilarating the day that the skin was fresh and pink underneath, and no longer bleeding.
It is four months after my baby’s death, and I feel like the pain of her death has scabbed over. To many it might look like a small flesh wound, but I know that this wound goes to the depths of my soul. It passes through all of my flesh; it pierces my heart.
I try not to lift the bandages I have put over it. I try not to think of my dear, innocent daughter throughout the day. However, like a scab that pulls at your skin as it dries, the pain of my daughter’s death is ever-constant. It starts to itch, and I try to ignore it. As soon as I give it any attention, it becomes all-consuming and must be dealt with.
When I think of how much I miss my daughter, I can see the hole in my heart. It is expansive and cavernous. At this point, the greatest depth of my wound, the blood still gushes.
I try to clean this wound, to keep it as healthy as possible. It is not festering, it does not stink. Friends, family and doctors check up on me, making sure my wound is not life-threatening. It is healing, perhaps slowing, but healing all the same.
Sometimes I pick at the edges. I am fascinated and sickened by the pain. At other times, someone else punches me, or scratches me, or advises me to use a harsh, stinging chemical.
My mother always said not to pick at my scabs, because then it will leave a scar. My body has many scars on its surface, whether I let the flesh wound heal on its own accord or not. The wound that is the pain of my daughter’s death will slowly heal with time. Eventually, the scab will break away as the new flesh becomes strong enough to not need the extra layer of protection. I know, however, that this, this will leave a scar.
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5 comments:
This is a very thoughtful post. Your analogy is poignant and sad and I'm so sorry for everything you've been through. :(
I thought about something when I read this. Years ago, I used to ride horses. We had a rather foolish, flighty mare, who got spooked, and wound up with barbed wire embedded in her chest. It was horrific, and bloody. But, when we cleaned her up, the punctures were quite small.
Strangely, they healed much more slowly, because they were so deep. In fact, part of the treatment was something called wound debreidment. We removed the scabs, so to speak, so that the underneath could heal.
I wonder, maybe loosing a baby is much like puncture wounds. The wounds look small, but they are so terribly deep.
Wonderful words, thank you for sharing them.
Really interesting analogy. You've made me think tonight!
Thank you for putting your thoughts to words. I get it. I can relate. You do justice to what I feel. Thank you.
I get this. A lot.
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