“You shouldn’t feel a thing,” he reassured me as I stretched myself out on the white-sheeted table.
The doctor grabbed the scalpel from the metal tray, and leaned in toward my left shin. He pressed into numbed flesh.
He retraced the “Y” — opening an old wound. For he had to get at what was underneath.
A few hours before scalpel met flesh, the doctor told me something was wrong. You should have healed better by now, he said. It has been almost two months, after all, since the car accident.
But the trauma of a parking brake jamming into my left leg cut a wound bigger than I had known.
So this morning, the doctor told me he would need to reopen the wound, drain it, restitch tissue underneath and then close the wound once again.
I panicked. Tears tumbled down my cheeks.
I didn’t cry over anticipated pain.
I didn’t cry over fear of infection.
I didn’t cry over further medical complications.
I cried over the possibility that the “Y” would be gone.
He gave me a puzzled glance when I told him about the “Y.” I felt so silly, a grown woman crying over a scar.
So I told my doctor the story I’ve told here, about the Y-shaped scar imprinted on my leg.
“Doc,” I said, “I know this is going to sound strange, but that scar means a lot to me.”
He chuckled, but tenderly took my hands: “Yea, it sounds a bit strange, but I’ve probably heard stranger things. Go on,” he prompted.
“Well, right before my car accident, I was speaking the name of Yahweh, and I was singing a song with His name, and I was talking to Him, and that’s when the accident happened and … .” I tripped over my words, struggling to find the right ones to describe something so deeply personal, so deeply spiritual.
The scar, I told him, is more than a physical mark. I continued: “I don’t want to push my faith on you. But I know what I know: This is God’s mark on me. It’s a ‘Y’ for Yahweh. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think it’s God’s way of reminding me He was there. He protected me.”
He took my leg in his hands and traced the Y with his fingertips. “Not strange at all.”
And right then, he made me a promise: He wouldn’t change the Y, or destroy handiwork that I believed to be God’s.
“Most likely,” the doctor said with a grin, “when I get through with you, this Y will be more obvious than it was before.”
The doctor carefully cut along the scar. While I lay still, he asked questions about the accident. I told him about answered prayers. We talked a bit about miracles. Together, we marveled at how it all turned out.
He drained the wound, cut away some tissue, then stitched together the wound into a perfect “Y.”
A few days ago, I blogged about my “Y” scar.
Plastic surgery could fix it. Time could fade it. Pants, if long enough, could conceal it.
But I want to keep it.
The world finds a scar like this disfiguring, ugly. Yet I find it beautiful, a reminder of Yahweh’s protection.
This scar, I pray, will last all my earthly days.
I won’t have to wait until the last day to know if it lasts. Today, I received assurance.
Eight days ago, I feared my scar would disappear. Today, it was carved in deeper.
Beautiful irony …