"The wound is place the light enters you."
Rumi
I looked through the plastic mask over my nose and mouth as several last conscious thoughts flittered through my mind Wednesday morning "My children know I love them, right?"
I felt more than heard the response. I was washed with warmth from my toes up to my face.
"Yes, ofcourse they do..." the warmth reassured me.
I felt it from the sides of my face then, like a curtain across a stage. This curtain was emblazoned with my childhood home sitting atop a hill, with me, lying on the operating room table, looking over the mask while standing, somehow, on the sidewalk at the the bottom of the hill.
"Here we go!" I thought-said and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room.
This was my second time in a very similar circumstance. Facial surgery, same doctor, once due to melanoma, the second due to scar revision surgery.
The second was completely by my choice. I could have lived my entire life without this second surgery, but fourteen months ago I must have said something to my daughter, Katherine, about what might happen if my face didn't look right after my scar matured.
I was scared, ridiculously scared, for the first surgery.
This time I felt like a pro: sure, the usual slight moments of fear like the one right before I submitted to the anesthesia, but I knew what to expect. I felt pleased I was able to receive blood work which reminded me how ridiculously healthy I am.
I could even talk from first hand experience about general anesthesia versus local anesthesia.
I have now had two forms of skin cancer.
I have gone through two post melanoma body scans, once clean and the second with a cancer result - it was basal cell carcinoma that time. I know each dark spot or new spot on my skin these days. I notice itches and twinges and bring them to my medical team members attention.
This is a good thing.
This is a positive thing.
This is a strange thing.
Today I am two days post op, back in my living room recliner, typing in a chilly darkening November afternoon. I am wearing an oversized sweater with a blanket covering my legs and toes. Except for being tired and not being able to smile as widely as normal, all is well.
Not many people knew I was having this surgery. I had heard enough negativity in my own head about being vain and what if this didn't make a difference and nobody can see the scar anyway, what was I worried about it could be so much worse! and on and on and on. People who said these things didn't mean for me to take their words as a hindrance to my own choices, I have allowed their words to keep my wound in the darkness rather than let the light enter into it.
The well meaning people who talk like this are not me, though. They didn't walk around in my face and feel my face as theirs. It took Katherine to say to me, "Great. You can finally get done what you've wanted to get done all along."
This time, I took my own wisdom and put it into play without opting out of my power, and giving it to others. I am allowing my light to enter my wound. I am allowing my light to shine within and outside me.
I was surrounded by love of dear friends and family as I recuperated. I accepted each gesture with deep appreciation. Each offer, each text, each contribution be it prayer or presence, was just right.
The lessons are continuing today, three days later as I imagine they will continue.
There is power in Rumi's advice. Allow the light to enter your wound, whatever that wound may be.
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Julie Jordan Scott is a writer, performance poet, Mommy and mixed-media artist. Her word-love themed art will be for sale at First Friday each month in Downtown Bakersfield. Check out the links below to follow her on a bunch of different social media channels, especially if you find the idea of a Word-Love Party bus particularly enticing.
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