Illustration by Catherine Chan
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I can remember the first scar I ever got.
It happened as I assume most children’s first scars happen. By accident. My right elbow scraped the pavement, blood rushed down my forearm and into the gravel. Now, I can barely see the scar, but it’s the memory of tumbling that I will never forget – of being okay one minute and not okay the next.
Throughout my 27 years, I’ve acquired many more scars. There are a few on my fingers from my sloppy kitchen knife skills, one on my thigh from a nasty fall while figure skating, and another on my foot, courtesy of my moody cat. However, I have one scar that is the most prominent. It’s the one stamped on my neck. The one everyone thinks is a big, fat hickey.
It was given to me eight years ago when a mysterious autoimmune disease gnawed at my body. For reasons my doctors couldn’t figure out, I was dying. After three months of persistent upper respiratory infections, weight loss and failed healing, both of my lungs collapsed. The hospital ICU team quickly realized I needed to be intubated and put on the most extreme form of life support: ECMO. Medically known as Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation, this machine can temporarily work as the heart or lungs, taking over to supply oxygen and circulate blood. In cases of cardiac arrest, heart failure or severe respiratory failure, such as the one I experienced, ECMO is a last resort.
My doctors made a choppy incision in my external jugular vein to insert a tube the size of a garden hose. Blood pumped out of my body and into ECMO’s mechanical body. There, it removed carbon dioxide and added oxygen before returning it to my circulatory system. The machine saved my life and for that, I am eternally grateful. But the scar I’m left with feels like a link I will never be able to sever – it will forever be a reminder of the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
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The scar has taken an odd shape. It appears to be the work of a young child learning to sew. It’s jagged, zigzagged and twisted. It never healed flat and remains raised, almost as though the skin refuses to forget. I’ve always been annoyed at the colour. It’s gone from dark red to murky brown, like I’ve forgotten to wipe the dirt off my neck.
My mom tells me to embrace my battle wound. To flaunt it rather than fear it. “It’s a part of you now,” she says. “It’s the thing that makes you, you.”
I was annoyed that she was right. My scars are proof of life. They are a part of my story now and I can’t unwrite the past. But overcoming insecurities is never easy.
After being discharged from my month-long stay at the hospital, I refused to wear my hair up. I didn’t want the world to see my neck. I could tell when someone was staring and I tried to avoid their curiosity altogether. If someone dared to ask what happened, I’d say, “it’s a long story,” or I’d dodge the question entirely. Avoiding the truth was much easier than facing it head-on.
But this past year, something in me has changed. Maybe it’s all the therapy I’ve paid for, or simply the act of aging, but I’ve become less obsessed with hiding and more focused on releasing. I began to think: why should I carry the tension of hiding something I’ll never be able to erase?
Just the other day, with my hair slicked back into a tight bun, a new friend asked about my ECMO scar. For the first time, I decided to tell my entire truth. In the middle of a busy coffee shop, I rambled on about my hospital experience, and to my surprise, their response was gentle and encouraging. I could see the sparkle of awe in their eyes. It was almost as though my scar had become a tiny reminder of how the body can survive despite it all.
And I don’t think there is anything more freeing than that.
Renee Alkass lives in Simcoe County, Ont.