They are angry.
Purple, raised, asymmetrical.
Shockingly dark against my pale skin.
Four marks on my lower abdomen, a sort of connect the dots drawing a rather crooked X pointing to the source of my shame. A treasure map leading to emptiness.
They are the visible stigma of my ordeal, the proof I am not whole.
My hysterectomy scars.
I trace them with my fingers, often. The one on the left, slightly more raised than the others. The one on top of my navel, long and thin, the one that took ages to heal.
I refuse to look at them. I do not know why, considering I have no problem exploring them with my fingers.
But I will not look down. I will avert my eyes in the mirror. I will cover them up so I do not have to inadvertently see them.
But others do.
I have been very careful not to show them to anyone. I have gone swimming daily since the spring, and I always wear a full-coverage one-piece swimming costume that keeps them hidden from view, concealed from strangers. No-one can see them, no-one suspects a thing.
The much expected and much dreaded family holiday started, complete with extended family time, lazy afternoons by the swimming pool and games nights.
I knew it would be too hot for my usual swimwear (and also, no-one wants a racer back and swimming shorts tan line), so I went on a hunt for the perfect bikini before I left.
I was not concerned with finding something flattering as much as I was with making sure it would cover as much of my scars as possible.
I thought I had done pretty well. All in check, except the one above my navel, which still peaks out from all the high-waisted bikini bottoms I could find, a few centimetres of raised, uneven skin.
I somehow thought that it would not matter as much, because I was with family. Family are respectful. Family would not stare like strangers would.
But they do. And worse, they know what caused the scars, and yet they still stare.
My mum in particular. And it hurts.
It hurts when her eyes will not leave my stomach. It hurts when she will not say a word about it. It hurts when she will look at my scar every time I get in or out of the pool. It hurts because she is uncomfortable with my scars and my body and makes it obvious whilst also not bringing it up.
I never used to be self-conscious much, but cancer has changed that. I did so much work over the last few months to try and get more comfortable with my situation and my cancer-survivor body, and it all got wiped in the blink of an eye. More like, in that second they refused to blink and look away. But also refused to engage and bring up the truth.
No-one has said a word about cancer. About my recovery.
I am seeing extended family, grandparents, aunts, uncles for the first time in over two years. Last they saw me, I had not even been diagnosed.
And now, it is being ignored. Swept under the carpet. If we do not ask questions, it does not exist, does it? No-one asked how I was doing. Where in my recovery I was.
But they stare, and that leaves me feeling both ashamed and lonely.
Either stare and bring it up, or avert your eyes and stay silent.
I will feel uncomfortable either way, but at least I will have someone to share that discomfort with if you say something.
We do not talk enough about the mental load associated with cancer and making people comfortable with it.
Having to take that first step. Forcing people to acknowledge the fact that it exists, when I myself am not comfortable with it. I cannot ignore it like you can. You bring it up by constantly staring at my scars, you should at least offer to take some of the load off.
It should not be up to me to ease the discomfort you make obvious, but also refuse to bring up.
At least that has given me an idea for my next few posts: mental load , loneliness and selfishness in cancer recovery.