One wound, many veils. Many veils for one wound. I have begun to find ways to heal my wound. . . also to disguise it, protect it, name it, ignore it, honor it, integrate it, transform it . . .and, I hope, accept it.
This mastectomy wound, btw, is a pleasant distraction from the ongoing saga of shingles. Exploring its veils pulls me away from the scream of nerves gone haywire. The pain is running its course.
Meanwhile, you learn to wait and to cope. You think about making more art and soup. You continue to work. You freak out and calm down. You call yourself "you" instead of "I." You try on new perspectives, play with distancing yourself from yourself.
Then you return to your cup of morning coffee, 5:20 a.m., the hum of the heater, the cat by your feet, the quiet both inside and out.
I remind myself that soon it will no longer be a wound. Soon it will be a scar. Wound to scar. Scar to . . . ?
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