Scarred

Last fall,
they found a spot
of melanoma
on my arm.
The treatment:
a plastic surgeon
carved out a section
of my skin,
to ensure the wayward cells
had all
been removed.
It is the largest (visible) scar
that I have ever received.

Am I a cancer survivor?
Technically,
yes.
But that is not a title
that I am quick to claim.
Unlike
so many loved ones,
I have not endured
the chemicals,
the radiation,
the endless hospital visits,
the slicing open
of muscles and organs,
the loss
of hair,
appetite,
energy,
the ability
to swallow food.

I am a survivor
in other ways, though. 
My abusers
never struck me
with their fists,
or forced themselves
upon me.
Yet the wounds
of their assaults
still lie
beneath my skin: 
some
slowly healing,
others
open
and raw.

It was years before
I could even say
that word:
abuse.
Naming it
began
to give me
some sense of power.
Naming it
began
to give me
some sense of peace.

It was fall
when they numbed my arm
and took a piece of me
away.
And then,
the winter came,
and the pandemic
raged on,
and I kept my arms
well-covered
for warmth.

At my last three-month checkup,
the dermatologist
reminded me
to use sunscreen
all of the time now,
even when I am in the car.
You see,
if the scar gets sunburned,
it will stay this red
forever,
instead of gradually fading
into the fuzzy
pinky-peach
background.

“Sunlight,”
I think.
Will I expose myself
to the sun?
Will I bare my arms again
and let my scar
be seen?

March 2021
Copyright Diana E. Carroll