So says the author of a new book: “The Vanishing American Adult.”
There was a time when you would’ve had to go a long way to make me think that was a true statement. For most of my life, I’ve walked around with a scar on one arm and hand, due to a fire when I was quite small. I never, ever looked at it as a positive.
Fortunately, like many things, the scar and my self-consciousness about it, have faded with time.
I now know that scars are almost always symbols of survival of one sort or another. I wish I had understood that earlier.
But enough about me.
Our Siamese cat, an elegant example of his species, recently had serious surgery. A post-surgery pain patch had to be removed quickly and unceremoniously to save his life. The narcotic was, literally, killing him. He was going down and going down fast. That chunk of elegant fur and soft pelt under the patch had to go.
Now he has a scar. A big one. A big black spot where the patch was ripped off. No fur will ever grow there again. He’s flawed. He’ll never win any beauty contests.
The thing is that he doesn’t even know about the black splotch. The scar. He’s oblivious to his flaw. He’s healthy, feels great. Life is good. He’s loved, fed, petted, kissed and appreciated.
He has a story to tell, even though he can’t. It’s a good story. One of love, a lot of pain and confusion on his part, good medical care and, ultimately, survival. We look at that big black patch and remember his ordeal. I think he knows how much we admire him. He’s sweeter and more loving than ever.
Scars, if understood, add character. They add substance. They don’t detract. They have interesting stories attached to them. You can’t say that about a whole lot of things.
Perhaps scar tissue is a good thing after all.