By Joy Sakamoto
No one asks me about my scars
Except doctors, but that’s their job
Though sometimes, even they take them for granted
If they’ve read my chart, they know to expect them
If they haven’t, there’s a brief moment of shock
A pause
Only once has someone sucked in a breath and exhaled
Slowly
The rest let their doctor masks fall into place
Before the fabric ones come on
The questions begin
About my history
My eating habits
My weight
Past diagnoses
Past prognoses
Past labs and endless tests
No one really asks about the scars
How they can hurt when the temperature drops
How they bisect my body upwards and now sideways
We used to joke they should just install a zipper
So they could go back in whenever they want
No one asks how it feels
Every morning when I look into the mirror
Sometimes I see a warrior
Sometimes all I see is pain
But most of the time, my eyes just glaze over
It’s just another day after all
And it’s time to get dressed.
![\"\"](\"https://writeanglesblog.files.wordpress.com/2019/10/flashmemoirjoysakamoto.jpg\")
Joy’s mission is to live up to her name. Her career took a few turns — from aerospace recruiter to music journalist, executive assistant to student and sometimes radio dj. Writing has been her constant, whether on a Macbook, a leather journal, or a bar napkin using a hotel ball point. She can be contacted at shadeofcat@gmail.com.
