Scars

I used to play a game where I would try to find the largest scar on my body. Of course, the answer never changed much because for all the times I fell down and all the times I scraped my arms and legs and face on a tree branch and all the times my knees swelled and my hands bled from volleyball, my injuries were typically minor and no scars remained. For some time, my largest scar was a small circle on my right (or was it left?) ankle from sliding into home in a softball game. After I graduated high school, I gained a more pronounced scar on my finger when I sliced my finger on the deli slicer while cleaning it at work. It wasn’t a good story, but the centimeter-long scar was visible enough that I was proud of it. 

A few days ago, I absentmindedly began to play that game again. I halfheartedly inspected my right arm, then examined my finger to see if the deli scar was still there. It was. Using that as a reference, I began looking over my body and trying to remember if anything significant had happened lately that might have led to a game-worthy scar. 

If I had looked at my left arm sooner, the game would have been much shorter. My left arm is a scar. When I realized that, I felt like a bit of an idiot for playing the game. My largest scar now goes from my left shoulder to the tips of my fingers. It is a reference point if ever there was one. 

Before I was discharged from Harborview, a psychologist talked to me about some of the effects of my injury and how I would handle them once I was out of the medical setting. 

“You are aware that you look different now,” she said. “It is not uncommon for people to stare or ask questions, whether or not they seem appropriate. You cannot control what other people do.”

“Yes, I realize that,” I said, thinking of my flights from Uganda to Seattle when my face was still swollen and my arms had thick bandages and gauze covered my chest. Fortunately, I was unable to put in my contacts so I could not see the stares I received. 

“What about children?” she asked then. “They might say things without thinking. Do you think you can handle their comments?”

I laughed. When I came to Noah’s Ark for the second time last July, the most common greeting I heard after the usual welcome was, “Ah, Auntie Katie, you have grown fat!” I became used to shrugging off potentially offensive words from both children and adults. They might not always make me happy, but children are children and I can’t help but love them anyway. 

Since returning to Uganda (which happened on July 9th), I have been pleasantly surprised at the children’s reactions to my new scars. When we arrived at the compound and I first stepped out of the bus, nearly one hundred people surrounded me but didn’t get close enough to touch me. They were hesitant. Many were scared—both of how I looked and of hurting me if they did touch me. In time, they became more comfortable. That is usually a good thing, until someone tries to wrestle me and grabs my shoulder or throws a cardboard book at my chest. 

To help them become more comfortable with me again (and perhaps because I am lazy and did not want to do this myself), I enlisted the children as my right-hand nurses (literally—they only help with my right arm and hand). Part of my therapy is to do scar massages. Most of my scars are raising as they heal, and apparently that is not a good thing. It is common, but not good. To prevent that, I am wearing a compression sleeve on my left arm and hand. On the rest of the scars, however, I have to do it manually by massaging the edges with my fingertips. It is supposed to be done on every scar for ten seconds every hour, which, when you look at how many scars I have, adds up to a LOT of time every day. Because the spots on my right arm do not pain, I taught the children how to press them and now they do my scar massages on that arm as often as they can. They press their fingertips into the red spots and slowly move them around while they count to whatever number seems appropriate at the time (usually somewhere between ten and fifty). When they remove their fingers, the pressure will have caused my scar to blanch, which elicits cries of, “Auntie Katie! See, your scars are removing!” Of course, they become red in a matter of seconds, but the moments of white are enough to keep the children working on it. 

In general, I would have to say ninety-five percent of the comments I have received are compliments and encouragement. As my nephew so nicely pointed out, since my accident more people have told me I look good than at any other point in my life. Now that I have been back in Uganda long enough for people to see improvement, almost daily I get a child, auntie or uncle telling me how different I look and how my scars are disappearing. If it were not for them, I would not be so convinced of my healing. One day ten-year-old Jonah spent some time standing next to me gazing at my face until he said in awe, “Auntie Katie, you are healing so fast!”

Even the young children who do not fully understand the reason for my scars are curious. Yesterday after school I was sitting outside the library when four-year-old Martha walked by. “Auntie Katie,” she said, “What burned you?”

“Fire from cooking,” I said. 

She changed direction and walked toward me. When she reached the step upon which I was sitting, she put her hands on her knees so we could see eye-to-eye and, enraptured, said, “Tell me the whole story.”

All scars tell a story. Sometimes it is as mundane as slicing your finger at the deli and sometimes it is as exciting as a freak accident with a dragon sneeze, but whatever the story, scars serve as that reminder. 

My scars remind me that God is good. 

That may seem like a strange reminder considering the circumstances of my accident, but there are dozens of reasons God’s goodness is the first thing to come to mind at the sight of them:

No oil entered my eyes. When I was in the ambulance on the way to International Hospital Kampala after I was burned, I spent the entire ride thanking God that I could still see what was around me. 

No children were in my house at the time. Gladys had left only minutes before. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened if one of those precious young ones had been near me when the oil caught fire. 

I was able to get medical attention at Noah’s Ark, in Kampala, and in Seattle. Combined, they did the best job possible. 

He blessed me with Ugandan and American nurses who not only cared for me physically, but emotionally too. They made me laugh. They told me stories. They checked in on me even when it was not medically necessary. With them, I knew I was in good hands. 

While in America, I was able to see all three of my sisters. This does not sound impressive until you know that I was in Washington, one sister lives in Oregon, one sister lives in Washington but was busy fighting wildland fires in that dry summer we just had, and the third sister lives in Virginia. And I got to see and hug them all!

By coming back to America for some time, I was able to connect with friends, family, and even strangers and share stories of the children here and the mission of Noah’s Ark. My roommates in the hospital probably got tired of hearing about children they had never met and sitting through videos and photos people sent me. I couldn’t help it. 

Since being in America, God has provided more financial support through friends and family, which is a bigger blessing than I can say. 

Because of insurance, I am able to remain in Uganda. For awhile I thought I would have to stay in America and get a job to pay off hospital bills. That prospect broke my heart. I rejoice in my new opportunity to be here. 

While in America, I desperately wanted to be back in Uganda. (My parents, sisters, friends, and even nurses and doctors can attest to that.) Though it was not fun to be away, and not for a good reason, missing the children and the work here affirmed in my heart that this is where God wants me right now. While at Harborview, some family and I were talking about our dream jobs. When it came to my turn, I shook my head and said, “I’m doing it.” It doesn’t look how I expected and not every day is perfect, but every day I laugh, every day I am loved, and as long as I don’t forget to look, every day I can see God working around me. Sometimes we have to go away to be sure this is where we want to be. 

Going away also gave me the opportunity to come back, and I had quite the welcome home when I returned to Noahs’ Ark! The children had shaded posters that were hung on my door and inside my house. They had drawn pictures that still hang from my ceiling. Thanks to my neighbors and friends, my house was cleaner than it has been in months (both in my presence and absence). On top of all that, they wrote a song about having their auntie back and some of the children sang it to me as I got out of the bus in front of my house. It was a special occasion. 

I could say more, but I think that gives you at least a glimpse into God’s goodness through all this. I would be lying if I told you I never looked at my scars and thought about what a stupid mistake I made. They are not always a reminder of the good. But God does not make mistakes, and He does work things out for the good of those who believe in Him and who are called according to His purposes. I made a mistake, and He is making much good. So. Much. Good.

Still a lot of healing to go, but compared to four months ago
at least my face is a normal size and shape again. :)

Some people see scars, and it is wounding they remember. To me they are proof of the fact that there is healing. 

-Linda Hogan