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Three Things Part 1
By Stephanie Kemp







I know how to do this.

To write about scars.

To feel and acknowledge -

that crackling (t)issue under my skin.

I have list after list of my scars, but there are really only three that serve as my life’s master class. They, of course, are the three I have never written about.  

They are abstract nouns.  

They are faded,
going nowhere,
mine.

But I get tired sometimes, holding them (except for one).

When I was little, before I had scars and (thought I) didn’t know anyone who did, these were the things that terrified me:


1. Divorce.

My friend, Emily invited me to sleep over and told me her parents were separating. Her dad fell in love with his bookkeeper. I obviously knew this was terrible, but less clear to me was why it was such bad news that her dad had slept with her. “Maybe they just got really tired,” I offered hopefully and embarrassingly, thinking to myself that it might be pretty fun to be a book keeper when I grow up. After trying to talk about normal second grade things, we listened to “Man on the Run” on her record player over and over and over again, still hopeful that the Beatles would get back together and because we didn’t want to hear her mom crying through the walls. It was brutal because my friend couldn’t help her mom and I couldn’t help my friend. We eventually fell asleep but I knew then that I would never be ok if my mom was ever that sad.  

Two years later (and one year after Emily had shared the great news that her parents were back together), mine told us they were getting divorced during a commercial break during the Bob Newhart show. There was no bookkeeper, but my mom was that sad, and I couldn’t help her. I told my sisters we needed to play “Man on the Run” over and over again, but the magic bubble burst when Tracy pointed out that it was “Band on the Run” (and that the Beatles were never getting back together). It also didn’t help that my dad seemed so happy, which is where most of the scar tissue resides, even though everyone got remarried and lived happily ish ever after. I wouldn’t learn for many years that grown ups just have (or must pretend they have) thicker skin, but did learn right away that love is rarely tidy.


2. Loss

My friend Shannon’s sister and husband had a still born son at full term.  
Gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was dead.

Held him.
Kissed him.
Came home from the hospital without him.

I knew I would never be ok if I had a still born baby.

On May 1, 2007, I gave birth to my son, Ben Dawson Bluming.

He was perfect.
And beautiful.
I went home without him.

And I was right - I have not spent one moment being ok since I came home that day.  But this is only because ok is no longer an option. The sadness I carry over losing him and the gratitude I feel every time I look at my two daughters makes every detail of my life vivid, vital, extreme.

More beautiful, terrifying, exhilarating,
Exhausting.
Because my children are still with me every day.
And my skin is now thick, even if sometimes I am only pretending.


3. Cancer

I met Audrey at summer camp and we were instant friends. She had a grown man’s laugh and told the best stories and we loved being together even more than we loved riding horses and swimming and painting and eating s’mores after sitting together at breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Audrey’s sister Corinna was one year older and cool. I could’ve been jealous of Corinna because Audrey loved her so much, but wasn’t because Corinna always included me in everything she and Audrey did. Corinna and Audrey (and I) could do anything.

The next summer Audrey came back to camp, but she wasn’t in there. Corinna had lost her leg to cancer during the school year and no-one knew how to be the same. Audrey didn’t smile anymore, and I wasn’t brave enough to look at Corinna’s stump, even though she was brave enough to still ride horses and gracious enough to still try to include me in everything, even though I no longer accepted.

I was only old enough to feel sad over the loss of my friend and terrified of her sister’s ghost leg  - not old enough to know how lucky Corinna was. Audrey was. Their family was.

I was also old enough to be terrified that I would get cancer in my leg for the rest of my life, until I did.

In 2011, I was diagnosed with a mixoid sarcoma that tried to hide as a lipoma.  It was so rare and so “textbook benign” that my doctor didn’t even want to remove it.

It was only removed because I pushed. “My body doesn’t make that kind of bump,” I could hear my voice say, while reliving the burning shame that I hadn’t been brave enough to  accept any of Corinna’s post amputation invitations.

When the shocking pathology report came back I was assigned a team of medical experts because my tumor was so rare. There were tons of tests.  Another surgery. Every bump on my body was removed or biopsied or both.  “This is not a cancer we want to come back,”  the team agreed, thinking it would make me feel better.

It has been ten years. I still hope, every single day, that it doesn’t come back, but live every single day like it will. And that, if god forbid it does, I will be as lucky and brave as Corinna was - as her family was.

There. I did it. I wrote down, in real words, my three things. I will see how I feel after a long walk, but I am hoping I can put them (all) down now and find something else to pick up before they circle back, which I know (and hope) they will.

They may be abstract and uncompromising,
But they are mine.
And I wouldn’t trade them for anything, which is a good thing,

Because I can’t.