Scars

I stood on the international podium and dared to share my Naked truth. I removed, piece by piece, my attire of unyielding strength, the apparel of my indomitable spirit and the covering of my ever sparkling smile, to reveal the nakedness of my fears, frustrations, confusions, weaknesses and feelings of insufficiency. I held the mike with shaking hands and with a trembling voice I began to sing my entire song because I knew that if I sang it long and loud enough, I would become fearless… And fearless I became. I knew that while I was afraid of the unpredictability of the reaction of my audience, I had to share my ultimate truth: That as much as I conquer, I struggle.

However, before I could even begin to fathom the idea of sharing my naked truth with the world, I had to be comfortable with my nakedness… Even with the lines that mark my skin.

I remember going on a scale at every opportunity I could find to see if I could make it to 110 pounds. I remember wearing two pants so I would not look very skinny in jeans. Then I remember how my excitement could not be contained when I finally reached 110 pounds. I remember feeling so comfortable in my own skin that the two pants idea became preposterous. I remember looking at my body in the mirror and thinking, “My body is perfect”.

Then Lupus came.

I remember moving from 110 pounds to less than 100 pounds after being unable to eat and having to be fed through tubes for a while. Even after improving to the point where I could eat and even after being put on steroids that made me crave everything edible, I could not stomach the insipid hospital food. Since juices and fruits were the only food-kind allowed, those were all I ate. Until, to my rescue, came my sisters and my friends who snuck food into the hospital (healthy food, of course) which I had to hide in my bedside table and under my pillow and sheets, and would eat in the wee hours of the morning after the nurses had turned the lights off. That divine intervention saved me from becoming skin and bones.

Then I remember moving from less than 100 pounds to 175 pounds. The combination of Lupus Nephritis and high dosage steroids blew me up like a balloon. Because both my kidneys were damaged, my body was retaining water. With excess fluid, coupled with 60 mg of Prednisone, I was officially a blow fish.

My skin was stretched in a way it had never been stretched before. While my immune system was attacking my internal functioning, while my body was trying to get accustomed to the steroids that were suppressing what should be its natural defence system, while my kidneys could not repel waste as effectively as before, while my joints and muscles were continuously inflamed, while I was eating like a pig because my brain was consistently telling me that I was starving, my skin was stretching and stretching and stretching. It had to, in order to ensure my survival.

Then my health improved. My kidney function increased. My inflammation decreased. The tapering off process began and my dosage of steroids was not as high as before. As a result, I was eating less. Consequently, I started losing weight. The more I lost weight, the more pronounced they got: These hideous marks on my skin. I looked at them with disdain and I bought expensive creams in an attempt to remove them. I would wear specific clothes, just so I could hide them. If ever they were revealed, even partially, I became preoccupied with the idea that when people were looking at me, they were only seeing my stretch marks. When I touched my skin, I felt lines that made me squirm… It was just too much for a 17-year-old.

Then I flared again. My immune system relaunched its attack on my internal functioning. My body became reacquainted with a high dosage of steroids. My kidney function declined and I began retaining water again. Inflammation took hold of my body and held on for dear life. I resumed my pig-eating tendencies where, on a couple of occasions, I had to be dragged out of the refrigerator… Once more, my skin was stretching and stretching and stretching. Again, it had to, in order to ensure my survival.

Then I improved. Then I flared. Then I improved. Then I flared. And each time my skin stretched then shrank, the number of lines on my skin increased.

Each time I had a major flare and had to be hospitalized, I met people with Lupus who never made it out alive. So each time I walked out or was wheeled out of the hospital and continued fighting and thriving and excelling, it became clearer to me: I was standing on top of my grave. I am indeed, a walking miracle. Experiences like those hold within them, the potential to change perspective. Of that, I am living proof. Coming to the brink of death repeatedly surely changed the way I perceive and approach life. I realise that I don’t have the liberty of focussing on the petty nor the luxury of taking things, people and time for granted. I cannot be like those who consistently see the cup as half empty instead of half full. I know how easily and how quickly it can all be gone and I have intimate knowledge of the fact that everything can change in one second.

So now, I honour my skin. I applaud its elasticity. I am awed by its ability to stretch and to shrink when necessary, in order to ensure my survival. I am in reverence to a Creator who has equipped us with such an amazing asset.

And my stretch marks… I now look at them with pride. I now touch them with dignity. For when I see or feel them, I am reminded not only of my journey but my survival. They are the scars I have from my battle with Lupus. They are the evidence that I went to war and I conquered. They are proof of my endurance.  They communicate hope to me. They tell me that since I survived the past, I can survive the present and anything that presents itself in the future.

So, I will wear my shorts and my sleeveless dresses and blouses with swag (in the appropriate weather and with sunscreen, certainly!). I will, like my friend Danika James-Hurtalt, continue to wear a bikini to the beach.

“Those who matter don’t mind and those who mind, don’t matter”-The truth is that the people who love us and stand by our sides may not even see our stretch marks. And if they do, they may very well think that they are just as beautiful as we are. That is, of course, if we allow them the privilege to see our Naked truth.

As for me, never again will I associate my stretch marks with shame. Because indeed, we should “never be ashamed of a scar. It simply means we were stronger than whatever tried to hurt us.”

My stretch marks simply mean that I am stronger than Lupus.

Shoyéa-Gaye Grant ©