Wounded

I once fell while out for a run. It was 8 yrs ago, when LSJF and I lived on Grand and Summit. It was a gorgeous late spring/early summer day and I was running on the sidewalk, up a hill. There was a stoplight ahead and I was watching the light to see if I could make the green. That was my mistake- not watching where I was going and before I knew it, I was flat on my face, wondering how I got there and how many in their cars had just seen it. I sat there, wondering how something so great could go so wrong. I then saw where the sidewalk had heaved- something that I never saw coming as I ran blissfully. I still have the scars from that fall. The wounds on my knees were so deep that I could see the white tissue that I could only assume were ligaments and tendons. It took a long time for the scabs to form and several times throughout that summer, I accidentally hit my knees on something and the wounds would open up and start to bleed all over again. I think it was October before I could safely say that my knees were healed. It took my body a long time to release itself from the memory of that fall and when I look at the scars on my knees, I know that the fall will always be a part of me.
It's been 365 days today. A whole year since the recent fall, this time from the bliss of a first pregnancy, during which I never looked down to see if the sidewalk was smooth and safe. When there's so much to look around and marvel at, who wants to look down and always be careful and wary? Who wants to believe that they might fall? All we could do was marvel that we had gotten pregnant in the first place and the memory of hearing that heartbeat was so fresh in our minds. The ultrasound was just to make sure things were ok and to check dates. It was like watching that green light while running, trying to make it through so as to not interrupt the run. How were we to know about the heave in the sidewalk?
I tried to find the ultrasound photos today, something I haven't seen in many months and I panicked when I couldn't find them. That last remaining physical piece of evidence that he existed was carefully tucked away, so well that I couldn't find it. If this was lost, would it mean he hadn't existed? To my relief, I opened a folder and there they were. Teeny little head, butt, arms. Heart, but no heartbeat. Yikes, I think I hit that wound and opened it up again. The scars have started to form, but the scabs are still there too, still fragile, though thankfully smaller than they used to be.
Unlike the scars that formed on my knees, the scars that form on my heart take longer to fill in. I am reminded of the 101 times that this wound has been accidentally bumped and opened fresh to bleed again. Finding out that yet another friend is pregnant, a due date that went by without a baby for us, rejoicing over yet another friend's child and being reminded that they have what my heart desires, accidentally finding the ultrasound photos when sorting through old mail, driving past the hospital where we would have delivered but instead went to have a d& c- all of these bump that wound just hard enough to make it hurt and bleed. And make me cry. When I was young, I used to pride myself on not crying, to count how long it had been since I last cried- days, weeks, months. Now I find comfort in it. I have days when I stare at the wounds and wonder why they aren't healed up yet. I have had moments of "Woman, get over it!", as I imagine that it's what others might say to me or think about me or what I would maybe think about them if they were in my position. I have had friends say "I forgot that it would bother you" when they are all talking of someone else's pregnancy- a reminder that this is my fall, my wound, not theirs.
I know that at some point, this memory, this experience, this little boy will no longer hurt, but instead be a scar. The wonderful and ugly part about scars is that they are still visible- they never really go away. The beautiful part is that I know that a scar means healing, the ugly part means that something painful happened to create that scar. But just as I look down at my knees and see that the scars have just become a part of who I am, I know that at some point, I will see the newer scars as yet just another part of me.