These are my stretch marks. I created them. I penned those words in the journal I kept last summer, right beside my notes on my mother’s health.
Visiting a hospital day after day, week after week, turns certain experiences into a routine: the kind nurses, the brief updates on her condition. You become accustomed to seeing a loved one in a fragile, otherworldly state. Yet sometimes, ordinary moments morph into extraordinary reflections.
As I entered my mother’s hospital room, I was captivated by her body, which had endured so much over the past 60 years. To say it had faced challenges would be an understatement: battles with breast cancer, kidney cancer, liver failure, and finally, a metastatic brain tumor. She hadn’t always treated her body kindly either—a history of smoking, years of drinking, an unwavering love for baked goods, and a distaste for exercise. Yet, she never wallowed in self-pity, at least not in my presence.
It had been days since our last meaningful conversation. She no longer opened her eyes or ate, but her hands were restless. She must have been scratching her belly, as her bright green shirt had slid up just below her remaining breast, revealing a round abdomen swollen with fluid.
For a split second, I felt the urge to avert my gaze, to cover her up. My mother had always been self-conscious about her appearance. The only evidence of her ever donning a two-piece bathing suit was a vintage photograph from her teenage years, showcasing her 5-foot-10-inch frame and stunning legs, likely taken just before I was born. Throughout my life, she had expressed disdain for the extra skin that stretched to accommodate three tiny humans. She preferred one-piece suits and beach cover-ups, constantly adjusting shirts that seemed too short.
But in that quiet room, with just the two of us and the silence of unplugged machines, I couldn’t look away from the thick, white, jagged lines that crisscrossed her body like claw marks on a tree. An indescribable intensity pulled me in, revealing the emotions of our 40 years together etched into her skin.
In that moment, the essence of motherhood unveiled itself to me, a poignant and beautiful testament at a time when I desperately needed to feel connected to a life that was slipping away. I saw in those marks: I am her child. I was her sleepless nights. I was her heartburn. I was her struggle to find a comfortable position in bed. I was her longing for the last four weeks to pass swiftly. And there we were — a lifetime of joy, support, struggle, laughter, and tears. Soon, she would take my marks with her.
Stretch marks are rarely welcomed. I understand that. They, along with C-section scars, sagging breasts, and a myriad of physical reminders from the journey of creation, can weigh heavily on a woman’s mind. Mothers often lament their stretch marks, yet this does not diminish the love they hold for their children. In our society, it’s common to feel the urge to hide, alter, or enhance our bodies. We are individuals beyond motherhood, and we seek to feel good about ourselves.
But what if, just for a moment, while tracing these marks that peek out from swimsuits or spill over from jeans, we consider how our children perceive them? One day, our little ones may look at our scars not with disdain or judgment but with a sense of connection, overflowing love, and gratitude etched right into our skin.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood is a tapestry of emotions and experiences, each mark telling a story of love, sacrifice, and connection. Our scars are not merely imperfections; they are reminders of the lives we nurtured and the bonds we forged.