A Scar That Burns by April McCloud

Photo by Hannah Grace via Unsplash

The thing I remember most about dying, is how much it burns.

Gasping for air, returning to life, the pain is exquisite. Everything else is burned away as the heat and fire overwhelm me. There is a narrowing of thought and awareness to each blessed new breath, even as it scorches to inhale. In many ways, those moments were perfect exemplars of Zen Enlightenment—the crystallization of the present into all that ever has, and ever will, exist. And in so many ways, I have grown to intimately understand the Zen of living and dying.

Many years before I died for the first time, I was staring at myself in the mirror, at what was to become the symbol of my disability—a scar, and a small battery, just visible as a bump beneath the skin. In that moment however, I had yet to remove the dressing and see the wound and device that would, several times in the future, save my life.

I took in a deep breath, set my t-shirt on the bathroom counter and lifted my eyes to my reflection. My left bra strap was hanging off my shoulder so it wouldn’t press against the wound on my upper chest, beside my collarbone. The dressing was covered by what looked like medical-grade saran wrap, surgical tape neatly framing it. Despite it having been on for a few days, it was only lightly frayed and I suspected the task of pulling it off was going to be hard. 

Still, I’d been anxiously awaiting the moment where I could see what had happened to me, see what I would look like, going forward. While I’d researched photos of ICDs online, most of them had been on older men and I was a thirty-three-year old woman. The scars and devices had ranged from uncomfortable-looking to squirm-inducing for those that protruded obviously. The life and death nature of the implantation aside, I’d been far more fixated on what it would look like and whether or not I would be some sort of bionic monstrosity. And with the thick bandage over the wound, I hadn’t yet had even a glimpse into my fate.

Well. My nose scrunched up. There was only one way to find out.

I fought to get my fingernails under the tape and grunted as the adhesive yanked and pulled at my already inflamed skin. Despite the struggle, I was able to get the bandage off but needed a chance to catch my breath from the pain.

Lifting my gaze to my reflection, I found angry red skin encircling the raised, snake-like wound. Everything I’d read said it would shrink as it healed. But even so, it didn’t seem that terrible, even if it stayed the length it was. Turning side to side, I compared the shape of my wound with my untouched side. On my left there was now a subtle rise above the top of my breast, but it almost seemed intentional. The swelling was far more noticeable than the device seemed to be. And that would surely calm down, as it healed.

“Okay.” I let out a relieved breath. “Okay, I can live with that.”

I had no idea then how prophetic my words would be.

***

More than once when I’ve died, I’ve ended up on an otherworldly journey. The second time, in particular, tasted of eternity—and I learned that eternity leaves a mark.

The sound of the doorbell was a nuisance I wanted to ignore.

“Who do you think that is?” I muttered something at my boyfriend about how I really didn’t care.

But when the second doorbell chimed, it forced my eyes open.

As he went to look out the window, I distractedly put my feet on the floor. It felt as if gravity were exerting extra force as I made my way to stand; I really was overtired. Taking the turn around the corner of my bed I caught the weakness in my muscles, the unsteadiness in my gait. But when my vision began to narrow, I knew something was wrong.

I managed to sit on the bed, but was unable to manage even a whisper of a call for help before the world went black.

I remember the feeling of sinking into something else, something that felt very real but also something completely different. There was light and sound and there are still vestiges of those moments, teasing on the outskirts of memory. But more than anything, it felt like eternity, as if I’d lived an entire other existence.

And just as suddenly, my ICD revived me.

At first upon awaking, all that existed for me was fire. Choking on volcanic air; molten lava burning my left arm. The searing heat ached all the way down to my bones. Another second and the pain ebbed enough for me to remember myself, to question what had happened. But this torture was no longer new, and the warmth radiated tellingly from my upper chest.

My trembling fingers ran over the waxy scar. It had gone off again, hadn’t it?

“April?? Are you all right?”

I was only able to gasp in the silence, his voice taking on a tremor of fear. “Was it your heart again?”

“I think so…” My throat hurt. “How long was I out?”

“Maybe forty-five seconds. I’m sorry, I was looking out the window…”

I grimaced, squeezing my left hand into a fist to try to ground myself in my body. My whole arm tingled while simultaneously feeling numb. I let out a shaky breath.

While I was only unconscious for a minute, I had felt as if I were being yanked from eternity to return to find myself in the center of a forest fire.

I wouldn’t realize until later, but the electrical current had grounded in the underwire of my bra, leaving a half-moon shaped burn.

Eternity leaves a mark.

***

The cool, early spring breeze was a hint chilly but the warmth of having my best friend beside me was all I needed.

The photographer lowered her lens, briefly. “Perhaps, put your hand on her shoulder?”

Elise’s hand landed on me.

A few clicks of the shutter.

I reached up to take her hand, smiling over at them. “Our matching BFF rings can show this way.”  But I saw how our clasped hands were now resting over my ICD. “Aww, right over my battery!”

We descended into a fit of joyful laughter that resonated around the park, but also through my spirit in a way it never had before. There was no one in the world who was more accepting of my ICD and my disability than Elise; possibly even more accepting of me in my state of constant near death than I might even be. Meeting after we had both become disabled, there was no “before” us to compare to. There was only the us that existed in our current bodies, that were, more often than not…uncooperative.  

Her fingers squeezed mine.

But in so many ways, that our friendship defined who we were in our new bodies, only made our connection that much stronger.

The camera lowered once more. “Do you want any other photos?”

I glanced down at my scar with a hint of nervousness. I made myself ask. “Could you take some photos of my scar?” At the photographer’s confusion, I gave a weak smile. “I write a lot about my disability and…” How could I explain? It was one thing that my photographer was a Ukrainian refugee with limited, but still incredibly impressive, English.  But trying to explain to anyone the nuanced relationship I’d grown to have with my scar was intimidating. For years I’d kept it covered out of equal parts shame and a desire not to have to try to explain my disability to anyone. But now that I was writing and my creative nonfiction was getting published, I wanted it to be visible. I wanted to be proud of what I’d survived.

But how to say all of that, simply?

Elise was at my side. “It’s very important to her to have a photo where her scar is seen.”

And I instantly felt seen, too.

“Of course.” My photographer came closer, almost seeming to squint. “I’m not sure the scar will even be visible in the photo…”

As she lifted her camera, I was struck by how strange it was to think someone could consider the scar that was at the heart of my cardiac disability to be nearly invisible. At times it felt as if my entire body were my scar, as if my battery were the biggest thing about me. While I joked that I was one percent bionic, it was also a way to remind myself that what was barely visible beneath my skin was not all that made me who I was.

Taking in the waxy, pale scar it really hit me. My scar was nearly nine years old. It was simultaneously still new to me and also had been with me for nearly a decade. Someday, when my battery ran down, I’d need another surgery—adding a new scar when it was replaced. I had no idea how many surgeries, how many batteries—how many scars my body would hold. In time, there would be additions to the map of the death I’ve avoided, to the testament of the lengths I’ve gone in order to stay alive.

The giggles of Elise’s daughter carried to us like the smell of the fragrant, early spring blossoms she was playing amongst.

I’d now narrowly escaped death six times. 

Elise gave her daughter a giant hug, their laughter intermingling. I hurried over to join them, being wrapped up in arms and warmth.

And my scar would continue to be with me, for everything that came next.

April McCloud [she/her] is a 1% bionic human who worships her cat and hopes to be reincarnated as a red panda. A librarian, educator, and opinionated black belt, she hails from Rochester, NY, and enjoys plotting, be it a book, vacation, or a heist at a GF bakery. Find out what she’s working on at www.aprilmccloud.com and follow her on Twitter/Instagram @mccloudwrites